Rinaldi closed her eyes, murmured something in Italian. “I thank the Blessed Mother. I thank her for hearing this prayer. I was to ask you if I could speak with them, but you will speak with them. Will you ask, if I can help them, they tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Rinaldi looked at Peabody. “I will stay, when I must leave, with a friend I have. I must decide what to do, to stay or go home, but I must know about Angelo first. I must know he is safe. Galla would want me to.”
“We’d like your friend’s contact information.”
“Yes. Yes, however I can help. I will give you the same for Sofia, Angelo’s nanny. She loves Angelo, and is broken in her heart as I am.”
“That’s helpful. I’ll take that information and walk you out.”
“Detective Peabody will also give you our contacts,” Eve added. “If you remember anything, think of anything, let us know.”
Eve went back to her office. Time, she thought, to pull in APA Reo. She wanted Tween in the box.
“Reo. I’m heading to court, Dallas.”
“Last time I checked you could walk and talk.”
Reo pushed back her blond cloud of hair. “I do have that skill. Modesto, stabbing in Washington Square Park. You caught it. So?”
“The husband hired a pro.”
“And you know this because?”
“Because I have that skill. The pro’s identified by an eyewit as Cobbe, Lorcan—look him up.”
“I don’t have that detail.”
“Now you do.”
“Name of wit?”
“Roarke.”
That put a small hitch in Reo’s purposeful stride. “That’s complicating matters. How does Roarke know a paid killer?”
“He knew him when they were kids in Dublin.”
“Friends? Associates?”
“Neither. You can say the opposite.”
“Slightly less complicated.”
“Quick version,” Eve said, and gave the highlights as horns beeped, ad blimps blasted.
“He made sure Roarke saw him—interesting.”
“I have information Tween shelled out over a million euros to the same account, two payments. One two weeks ago, one last night about forty minutes after TOD. I’ve just interviewed the housekeeper—whom Tween fired, along with the boy’s nanny, this morning. I’ll write that up and get it to you, but I’m telling you there’s enough to bring him in.”
“Bring him in then. If you want me in on it, I’m in court until two. Make it after two. Let’s hold the warrant until you work him some, or at least until you talk to the family, and until you see what weight Whitney can lend to getting more data. I’ll talk to my boss, you talk to yours.”
“Done.” Eve checked the time. “Right about now. I’ll pull him in by fourteen-thirty. A man who can spend a million to kill his wife can spend a lot on lawyers.”
With a smile, Reo fluffed her hair as she walked up the courthouse steps. “It’s handy we’re both so damn good. Gotta go.”
Satisfied, Eve clicked off, swiveled to look at Tween on her board. “End of day, asshole.” And rose when Peabody walked in.
“Write up the interview,” Eve told her. “I’ve got Reo coming in this afternoon, and we’ll time bringing Tween in so she’ll be here.”
“How stupid to fire the housekeeper and nanny like that?”
“Arrogant more than stupid, but it amounts to the same. Contact the nanny, see if you can get her to come in, make a statement.”
“On it. McNab reports texts between Modesto and Stowe on her ’link. Two from each day before yesterday—asking for the meet, agreeing, confirming place and time.”
“Excellent. He got his hands on her ’link, or he hacked into it back when she had the affair. Put it in the book. I’m with Whitney.”
“Good luck there.”
Eve took the glides up, took the time to think through her approach. She’d break Tween. Breaking the weak, greedy, arrogant didn’t pose much of a real challenge. And she could—would—twist him into flipping on Cobbe.
But if Cobbe didn’t prove to be a total idiot—and she had to believe he had some smarts to slip and slide through international investigations—whatever Tween knew wouldn’t finish the job.
Taking down Cobbe was priority. She’d take all the help she could get to put him away.
Her ’link signaled, showing Galla Modesto’s father on the display.
“Dallas. Thank you for getting back to me, Mr. Modesto.”
By the time she’d arranged the meeting with the victim’s family, she’d arrived at Whitney’s outer office. His admin gave her the go-ahead. She knocked, opened the door, and went in.
Commander Whitney sat at his desk, a big-shouldered man, dark-complected, dark-eyed, with close-cropped hair threaded with gray.
Behind him the city he served and protected spread, its towers shining in the sun.
He ordered his wall screen off, then turned his attention to her.
“Lieutenant.”
“Commander, thanks for making the time.”
“I had back-to-back meetings so haven’t read your initial report. Stabbing in Washington Square Park. What don’t I know?”
“Galla Modesto, wine heiress.”
“Modesto Wine and Spirits?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “Continue.”
“I have strong circumstantial Modesto’s husband, Jorge Tween, hired a professional to kill his wife due to, at least in part, a previous affair. He lied during the notification interview, and not very well. He has a shadow account, and has withdrawn two payments. The first two weeks ago for half a million euros, the second forty minutes after the victim’s TOD for that amount and change. Both were transferred to a numbered account in Andorra.”
She paused. “I expect to have the details on the Andorra account shortly, and have engaged Roarke as expert consultant, civilian, to get those details.”
“That’s a considerable outlay for eliminating an unfaithful wife.”
“A rich unfaithful wife. She’s worth many times what he is, Commander. They had a child, age four, and he will now be sole parent and guardian. This morning he dismissed the live-in housekeeper and nanny. Peabody’s writing up the statement by the housekeeper, who came in on her own this morning.”
“And the lover?”
“Marlon Stowe, an artist. Though Modesto ended their affair, she agreed to meet him in the park last night. He’d done a painting for her, a kind of partner to one she bought when they first met. He came forward last night, told me about the affair. He rang true, Commander, and has no history of violence on record. Added to it, he doesn’t have the means to hire a hit.”
“And you’re sure it was a hit?”
“A hundred percent. Lorcan Cobbe, identified by an eyewitness and through security footage—”
Whitney held up a finger. “I know that name. How do I know that name?”
“Most alphabet agencies on the planet know that name, sir. He’s suspected of multiple hits in multiple countries. He works primarily in Europe, is an Irish citizen. Roarke—”