Page 70 of Calculated in Death

“Right. Where was I? Oh yeah. The Young-Biden team likes gambling. Win some, lose some—and I say that as if winning and or losing more than I make in a year at the tables or on a horse is no big deal. They, Alexander, and Ingersol, travel a lot. Bunches, to really frosty places, including some I’ve never heard of. Newton does some traveling, and likes sports betting—minor league stuff on the betting. Just friendly amounts. Whitestone travels mostly for business, but does it up right. He also likes to scuba, and he’s taking some trips with that at the center.”

“They all live within their considerable means, or so it appears,” Eve said as they got off on her level of the garage. “And live according to what we’d call their privileged or semi-privileged lifestyle. And that lifestyle includes spouses, fiancées, lovers, exes, LCs—and, you bet your ass, sidepieces.”

“You don’t really think that mouse bait Pope has a sidepiece.”

“That type can surprise you and bang like a drum.”

“Have you ever been banged by mouse bait?”

“No.” Their footsteps echoed. Somewhere on a higher level, someone gunned an engine. “But Mavis dated this guy for a while back in the day who looked like one of those garden gnomes. She said he went at it like a rabid mink. Don’t trust appearances.”

“That’s true.” Peabody jumped in the car. “Take McNab. He’s adorable, but he’s got that skinny frame. But he can go like a turbo thruster.”

“Jesus, Peabody, I don’t want to hear about McNab’s thrusting abilities.”

“They’re exceptional. Just the other night, he—”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t.” Eve slapped a hand at the corner of her eye when it twitched, then bared her teeth at Peabody’s muffled chuckle.

“You did that on purpose.”

“I just wanted to see if it still worked.”

“It’ll always work. Just like my boot will always fit up your ass.”

“They’re nice boots,” Peabody said cheerfully. “But Angie at Your Space liked mine.”

“You must be proud. We’re going to start with exes,” Eve continued before Peabody could brag on her boots—again. “Young-Sachs has one who runs a fancy boutique in the Meat Packing District.”

“How do you know?”

“You’re not the only one who can troll for gossip.”

•••

The fancy boutique offered screens scrolling a constant shift of outfits highlighting one feature. The leopard knee boots with the short black dress, the short black dress with silver heels and a complicated silver scarf, the silver scarf with jeans, a red top, and a vest.

Little beams of light spotlighted each piece at its place on rack or shelf as they appeared on screen.

It made Eve mildly dizzy.

Compact and curvy, Brandy Dyson stood on heeled boots and moved like a lightning bolt until Eve managed to corner her.

“Sorry.” With a bright smile and lashes so thick and heavy Eve wondered how she managed to keep her eyes open, Brandy pulled a small blue bottle from the jeweled holster on her belt, took a gulp. “Energy drink—legal. You wanted to ask me something about Carter. Is he in trouble?”

“Should he be?”

Brandy laughed. “That’s a loaded question to ask an ex. Being a dick isn’t illegal, right? If it were, half the guys I’ve dated would be doing time.”

“What kind of a dick is Carter Young-Sachs?”

“And that’s a strange question for a cop to ask, but the selfish, self-absorbed, lying, cheating kind.”

Understanding where Eve was heading, Peabody put on her just-us-girls tone. “Maybe you could give us an anecdote or example.”

“Standing me up on my damn birthday, without so much as a text, and claiming later he’d been called into an emergency meeting—when what he did was zip off to Capri with another woman. That was the last time he lied and cheated on me. Not the first, but sometimes it takes awhile to cut through the sparkle and see the dark.”

“That’s harsh,” Peabody said. “Your birthday.”