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“And he’s an asshole.”
“What sort? There are so many kinds,” Roarke pointed out.
“That’s so true. Misogyny, which is just a fancy word for a man who treats women like props or lesser conveniences. He was nervous when we talked to him, but snotty, too. I don’t think he cared for being interrogated by a couple of ‘girls.’”
“Well now, he’ll rue the day.”
“Which is fancy talk for I’ll kick his ass in the box if I can get him there. Which leads me to looking for money. Most of it’s the wife’s. So a guy like that has a rich wife, I just bet he’s got some hidden away so he never ends up naked in the street. And if he’s got some hidden away, just maybe we can find withdrawals that may indicate he was paying Ziegler to be quiet about something. Or that he has a skirt or skirts on the side for those rough patches. Hotel rooms or gifts, or a little love nest. Something.”
“Well now. You didn’t like him at all.”
“Not even a little.”
“I’m happy to look. What did you say he did?”
“Public relations. Something he’s apparently pretty good at. So he’s high on my list. Along with him, I have a female writer type who was one of the vic’s clients, who he slipped the drug to, who has no alibi for the time in question. And a former boxer, current gym owner and trainer who hated the vic, and had good reason to want some payback.
“There are others,” she added, “which is the problem. We have no shortage of people who might have given Ziegler a good whack, with what could be argued as cause.”
“You could give me an early Christmas gift,” Roarke suggested. “Provide me a list, and I’ll comb over all the financials.”
“You really would consider that a gift.”
“Stealing was such bloody fun.” He leaned back, gesturing with his glass before savoring more wine. “The thrill of sliding through the dark, into places meant to be locked and barred to me. Places with such beauty—the sort a Dublin street rat could never hope to see, much less touch. And never hold, never keep. Beyond the need for survival that started it with lifting locks or pinching purses, it became a world of possibility, as much an art as the paintings or jewelry I might have nicked.”
“Did nick,” she corrected.
“Did indeed,” he said with the wistful affection of memory. “And beyond the light fingers and slipping into the dark, there was the technology that so appealed to me.”
“A geek thief.”
“As you like. More slipping, more sliding, more lifting. More worlds of possibilities. Now the stealing’s off the table, isn’t it?”
“It is—you took it off yourself.”
“Without a single regret from where I’m sitting now, looking at the only world of possibilities I need for a lifetime.”
“Is that like saying there aren’t enough stars?”
Curious, he smiled at her. “It could be. But the point is, darling Eve, survival through possibilities, and those possibilities became a kind of game or indulgence as I’d learned to make my own through business. Legitimately. A man can put aside games and indulgences for bigger prizes.”
He lifted her hand, kissed her fingers. “It doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy a bit of the slipping and sliding, if the lifting is in a good and righteous cause. You give me that, by trusting me, and sharing what you are with me. I’ve a medal that sits beside yours, floating in glass, given me by a man who stands as your father. A man I respect more than most. I have that as well because you gave me other possibilities, opened other worlds to me that were once barred and locked.”
“You opened them yourself. You earned them yourself.”
“I’d never have looked toward them at all without you. It doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy poking my fingers into bits of business some would say I have no business in.
“I’ll find the accounts,” he promised her, “as I agree they’re there to be found. And consider the time well spent.”
She brought her hand to his cheek. “Then Merry Christmas. Oh, wait. Shit. Don’t wear a tux.”
“I had thought to change into black tie for a bit of cyber stealth, but I can stay as I am if you like.”
“No, tomorrow. Feeney’s wife’s been on him about wearing one, and he’s standing firm—but if you wear one, she’ll dog him on it. So don’t.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good. Then it’s simple. What am I wearing?”
