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“You got your big three,” Eve began, and tapped names. “Sloan, Myers, Kraus. Under Sloan you’ve got the son, then the grandson. Connect Copperfield to Jake Sloan, putting them both under Cara Greene. Under Copperfield, you’ve got the assistant, Sarajane Bloomdale. Rochelle DeLay connects to Jake Sloan, to Copperfield, and also to Byson, who comes over here, under the big three, and under Myra Lovitz, with another connect to Lilah Grove.”
“You need a bigger board.”
“Maybe. Then you’ve got your alibis. Myers and Kraus with clients.”
“And all checked out,” Peabody added.
“Jacob Sloan’s got his grandkid and the girlfriend, his wife. Doubling that back as Sloan alibiing the grandson. Handy.”
“Yet feasible.”
“Randall Sloan has clients covering his ass for the time in question.”
“Also checked. And none of the alibis were Copperfield’s clients.”
“Nope. However, the Bullock Foundation is represented in the legal world by Stuben, Robbins, Cavendish, and Mull, who were Copperfield’s. And one of the accounts—according to Greene when I contacted her this morning—Copperfield copped within the last year.”
“Aha!” Peabody hunched her shoulders at Eve’s beady stare. “I just wanted to say it.”
“The British law firm has a New York branch, which is also handy. Byson connects there, as he represented the number crunching for Lordes Cavendish McDermott—”
“Sounds like an opera singer.”
“Socialite and widow of Miles McDermott, really rich dude. Meanwhile, other under-the-surface connections. Randall Sloan is alibied by Sasha Zinka and Lola Warfield. Zinka has a sister living in Prague, who, along with two partners, owns and runs a five-diamond hotel. And whose number crunching is done by…”
“Sloan, Myers, and Kraus. I did Copperfield’s. I don’t remember a Zinka. It would’ve clicked.”
“Sister’s name is Kerlinko, Anna. And the hotel group was Copperfield’s. Also copped within this last year.”
“Either a lot of coincidence or a lot of connections.”
“I like connections. Pull the data on these companies, and the New York–based staff for now. I’ve got a quick consult with Mira, then we’re in the field.”
Heading out, Eve stopped to scowl at a vending machine. She and Vending currently had a cold war in progress. But she wanted a damn Pepsi. In fact, if she took a tube with her to Mira’s, the doctor wouldn’t insist on pushing into her hands that flower tea she always brewed.
Eve jingled the loose credits in her pockets. She wasn’t going to just key in her code. That wasn’t just asking for trouble, it was begging for it.
She took out the credits she needed, was about to risk the annoyance and disappointment by plugging them in herself, when a couple of uniforms came her way, quick-stepping a skinny guy in restraints between them.
The skinny guy was squawking like a parrot on Zeus about harassment, constitutional rights, and someone named Shirley.
“Hey.” She held up a hand, then held out the credits. With her free hand she stabbed a finger at the parrot. “You. Zip it.”
Even with the illegals in his system whirling his eyes around in his head, the mope must have caught the tone of her voice. He went down to whimpers.
“Use this, gimme Pepsi.”
“Sure, Lieutenant.”
Because the uniform didn’t blink at the request, Eve assumed her cold war was known throughout the department.
“What he do?” she asked with a nod toward the now sniveling parrot.
“Pushed a woman down a couple flights of stairs at his flop. She didn’t bounce.”
“Slipped. She slipped. I wasn’t even there. I hardly knew her. Cops tossed me down on the street. I’m gonna sue.”
“Three eyewits,” the uniform said dryly as he handed Eve her tube. “Fled the scene. Took a little spill during pursuit.”
