Calculated in Death (16 page)

She followed the line of thinking, but wasn’t quite convinced. Still, she nodded. “Okay, we’ll bump him down for now, too.”

“As for Pope,” Roarke continued. “Sometimes things are exactly what they seem. The man does his job reasonably well according to my information. He lives comfortably, but not ostentatiously. He yields power and authority to his half brother. His older and more domineering half brother. He’s well liked by those who work with and under him, though he’s certainly considered a lightweight. If he wanted more, he could have more simply by asserting himself, but that falls outside his comfort zone. It’s difficult for me to see him orchestrating something illegal through his mother’s company—his devotion to her is well known—and ordering or condoning the murder of the auditor. A mother herself.”

“Okay, I couldn’t really see him either. We could both be wrong and he’ll turn out to be some criminal mastermind, but it doesn’t play for me. Pretending to be a schlub all the time would be too damn much work, and for what?”

“Schlub?”

“Yeah, he comes off as one. Alexander despises him.”

“Yes, and that’s an open secret on the business world’s grapevine.”

“If something’s open,” she pointed out, “it’s not a secret.”

“True enough. It’s a poorly kept secret.”

“Okay, so we’ve got the why nots. Let’s hear your why.”

“I want coffee.”

“Me, too,” she realized, then huffed out a breath when he cocked an eyebrow.

“I’m the expert on this one,” he reminded her.

“Yeah, yeah.” She grabbed up the dishes on her way to the kitchen to deal with the coffee.

“You know,” he said from behind her, “we could have a droid take care of that—clearing the dishes, serving the coffee.”

“I see enough of Summerset.”

“Amusing.”

“I thought so.” She shoved the dishes in the washer. “Why would we need a droid looming around up here?” Especially since they almost always gave her the mild creeps. “It only takes a minute to deal with.”

“Agreed. A lot of people at a certain level of privilege wouldn’t think of doing something so simple for themselves as clearing a table or making their own coffee. Maybe taking care of a few small, basic tasks helps keep a person from sliding too deep into any of those seven deadly.”

She handed Roarke his coffee, picked up her own, leaned back on the short counter. “You’re betting Alexander doesn’t load his own dishwasher.”

“I’m betting he’s rarely, if ever, spent any appreciable time in his own kitchen. Pride’s as hungry as greed in some, and he’s proud of his status, his wealth, his position. He employs five full-time domestic staff, three part-time, and subsidizes them with three domestic droids.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Ask the right question of the right person,” Roarke said simply. “In contrast, Pope has two part-time domestics, no droids. Alexander also keeps two shuttle pilots on twenty-four-hour call, which is showy and wasteful. He insists on certain perks any time he meets with a hospital board—petty things. A certain type of bottled water, for instance, and a seat at table’s head. His wife often flies her favorite designer into New York from Milan. And he keeps a mistress.”

“Mistress?” Eve shoved off the counter. “I didn’t find a mistress. Where did you get a mistress?”

“I don’t currently have one as my wife is so often armed. Alexander is rumored to have one, long term, very discreet.”

“I need to find her, talk to her.”

“Rumor has it, again, she’s someone he’s known for years, and his father deemed inappropriate. My best guess would be a woman named Larrina Chambers, a widow, billed as a close family friend. I haven’t had time to confirm or eliminate,” he warned, “so rumor is all it is. The point is, as mistresses go, Alexander is a staunch Conservative, one who often bangs the political drum, and likes to trot out his family as examples of those values, those idealogies.”

“The wife has to know. You said long term. So the wife knows. Exposure there wouldn’t do more than embarrass him. It wouldn’t hurt his bottom line, would it?”

“Business-wise? I can’t see how. He’d been seen as something of a hypocrite, but that’s personal. Still, pride again.”

Pride, she thought. One of those seven deadly again. “So maybe part of it is payments to or gifts to the mistress, or housing, travel, what have you. And how he’s pulling that money from the business. An audit would show that.”

“It would.”

“Murder over that?” She shook her head. “People kill for less than nothing, but Jesus, it doesn’t feel like enough for this. Not enough for other people to be involved and invested.”

“I agree. There must be enough money at stake to spread around, and I’m wondering if that, too, may be long term. Or planned to be. Even before murder, it’s a lot to risk unless the rewards are fat enough.”

“So, it goes back to the books, the audit. Okay. You should focus on Alexander and Pope, see what you can dig up. And you were going to do that anyway.”

“I was, yes.” He smiled at her. “I’ll leave the rest to you.”

“You talked a good case.”

“I’m flattered, Lieutenant. If I’m right, will I get a promotion?”

“If you’re right I’ll fix dinner
and
clear the dishes. Not pizza,” she added at his long look.

“Acceptable. How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s fine. A little sore,” she admitted.

He moved to her, brushed his lips over her shoulder, then drew her in. And just held her.

“I’ve done my share of cheating, of stealing. For survival, and for the fun.”

She knew it. She knew him. “How many innocent mothers of two have you killed?”

“None so far.” He drew her back. “I won’t apologize for cheating and stealing or regret those days are done. Because here I am with you, and there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.”

“Naked on a tropical beach?”

“Well, now that you mention it.” When she laughed, he touched her lips with his. “But no, not even there. Just right here, right now.”

“It’s a good place.”

“And we can see about that tropical beach after the holidays, which are coming right along.”

“I can’t think about the holidays.” The idea had panic rising up in her belly. “I don’t even want to think about this premiere deal everybody’s all jazzy about.”

“We’ll have some fun with it. Try not to get any more bruises between now and then. Your dress shows a lot of skin.”

“See? One more thing to worry about? I’m going to look for a mistress.”

“I’ll look for corporate misdeeds. And we’re already having fun.”

She poured more coffee, and since Roarke settled at her desk, once again took the auxiliary station. She noted Galahad had come in at some point and now stretched out like overfed roadkill on her sleep chair. And all around the office Roarke had designed for her to resemble her old apartment, her old comfort zone, the big, beautiful house stood quiet.

No, she thought, there wasn’t anywhere else she’d rather be, right here and now.

She wrote up her notes first, reviewed, fiddled, then shot them off to Peabody. After reading her partner’s notes, she took a few minutes, feet up, eyes on the board to consider everything Roarke had said.

Young-Sachs too lazy, Biden too proud, Pope too self-effacing (and potentially just too honest).

Highlight on Sterling Alexander.

Maybe, she thought. Just maybe. And if so, the probability ran high that folded in Jake Ingersol and Chaz Parzarri. Smaller possibility, but still possibly, Robinson Newton, playing fast and loose with one of his partner’s clients.

She looked forward to her first face-to-face with Parzarri. That could turn the tide here. Kick him when he’s down, she decided. Hurting, weakened after a serious accident.

Maybe try to convince him it wasn’t an accident, though she’d vetted the report. A trio of just-out-of-college guys, drunk, celebrating a minor win at the casino, plowed straight into the cab transporting Parzarri and Arnold from their own casino trip back to their convention hotel.

Everybody involved did some hospital time, and she’d found nothing on the three drunk idiots to lead her to conclude they’d been hired to bash up a couple of auditors and themselves.

Just an accident, the luck of the draw, and an innocent woman was dead.

Yeah, she thought, yeah, she could use that, all that to try to crack Parzarri.

Meanwhile, she’d take a look at Alexander’s mistress.

The first thing she noted regarding Larrina Chambers was her age. At fifty-seven the woman didn’t qualify as a young, gold-digger bimbo. Next, she noted Chambers and her dead husband had opened an eatery in New Jersey twenty-two years before that had blossomed into a national chain over the following decade, and took the woman out of gold-digger status. As she’d copped a scholarship to MIT at the age of eighteen, and had earned her master’s in business at twenty-five, bimbo didn’t likely apply.

Eve’s suspicious mind nudged her to research how the husband met his demise, then had to set the idea of foul play aside. Neal Chambers died during a sudden squall off the coast of Australia when his sailboat was swamped. At the time, the widow was in New York, helping her mother recover from minor surgery. The investigation into the drowning—Chambers and four others, crew and passengers—had been thorough. She couldn’t find any holes, or indeed any motive.

As she poked, prodded, dug, she found no evidence Larrina Chambers was, as the term went, being kept. She had very deep pockets of her own. But she found considerable that indicated Larrina and Alexander were connected, and over the just shy of nine years since the husband’s death, had very likely rekindled the spark that had flickered during their early twenties.

Might be worth a conversation, Eve mused, and wrote up some notes.

Alexander, Ingersol, and Parzarri, she thought again, and began to slowly, methodically dig deeper into each man’s life.

HE WAS ONTO SOMETHING. ROARKE FELT IT
shift and slide, very much like a lock under the pick.

He’d already found three off-shore or off-planet accounts for Alexander—two of them absolutely legal if not wholly, technically, ethical.

He wouldn’t quibble with wholly, technically ethical as Eve might. They had a different threshold there. Even the one—technically again—illegal wouldn’t equal serious damage or problems. Fines, a naughty-boy finger wag and a bit of hot water for his money manager.

And the manager could, very likely, lure more clients with the incident.

But those accounts had been playfully easy to find, especially for someone who knew where and how to look for such things.

Which caused him to believe there would be more, not so playfully easy to find, and not at all legal.

He’d find them, Roarke thought. People had patterns and tells, habits and rhythms. It was simply a matter of finding them, using them.

But there was more, he felt that, too.

He remembered the sensation, from ago as he thought of it, of popping a lock and finding more than expected. That frisson of heat and energy in the fingertips.

Exciting, he recalled, in an almost mystical way no one but another thief would recognize or truly understand.

But ago was then, and this was now. He found nearly the same heat and excitement from tapping into the vault of secrets and misdeeds, to work with his cop.

Thinking of her, he glanced over. Ah well, he thought, she was done. She didn’t know it yet, but he knew the signs. Her body had begun its droop, her eyes were going a little glassy. Left to her own devices she’d have worked until her head just dropped down on her desk.

When he checked the time, he noted it was nearly half-one. No wonder.

Even as he watched her sliding, the cat butted its head against his shin.

“All right, I see, don’t I? It’s off to bed for all of us.”

Considering her injuries, she needed that bed, a reasonable night’s sleep in it. So he programmed what he could of his work in progress to auto, copied and saved the rest before he rose to go to her.

“I’m calling time.”

“Huh? I’m . . . just taking a harder look at Ingersol.” She scratched her fingers in her hair as if to wake up her brain. “Nothing works with Newton in this, with him crossing into Ingersol’s client base. I mean, it would be pretty clever, but that’s predisposing you’d get caught and have the patsy waiting.”

“And people like these rarely if ever believe they’ll be caught.”

“They just don’t. So, anyway. You said once to look at insurance. Ingersol’s got heavy coverage, mostly on art. Way over the listed value.”

“Which could mean he fudged the value initially so as not to raise flags on where he got the money to buy it. Or he’ll make a claim and skin the insurance company.”

“I didn’t see any claims here, but—”

“You can look more tomorrow. We need some sleep.”

“It’s not that late,” she began, then looked at the time. “Oh. I guess it is.”

“Tomorrow.” He drew her to her feet, felt her body tense. “You’re feeling that fall you took.”

“A little stiff, that’s all.” But she didn’t argue when he leaned down, manually saved her work.

“I’ve a couple of lines to tug,” he told her as he led her out of the room. “And I’ll have a better grip on them tomorrow.”

“What lines?”

“Some tucked-away accounts—two legal, one questionable. Some transactions that bear a closer look. I expect the auditor in his pocket, if indeed he’s in the pocket, would have tidied it all up. And so I expect I’ll find more that hasn’t yet been cleaned. He’s listed travel expenses, business expenses, and the locations weigh heavily toward places that have large gambling draws and generous tax codes.”

“It’s a way to launder money.”

“A time-honored method for a reason,” Roarke said as they entered the bedroom.

While she readied for bed, he brought out a med-pad. “You’ll sleep better for it,” he said before she could object. “And for the blocker you’ll take. A good night’s sleep will put you back in tune to catch the bad guys. Let’s see the back door.”

She rolled her eyes, but she turned so he could study her ass.

“You’re still carrying Africa, but it’s eroding at the edges.”

“Great. We’re destroying the Dark Continent.”

He laughed, gently applied the pack to her shoulder, then gave Africa a soft pat. “Hopefully its land mass will have further eroded by morning.”

“With or without Africa, I’m going to push Parzarri in the morning.” She slid into bed. “Those accounts you found, that’s something to push on. Oh, Larrina Chambers isn’t what you’d call a mistress,” she added, relaxing as Roarke lay beside her. “She’s got plenty of her own. They’re connected, I’m damn sure, but it’s not a being kept kind of deal. I don’t know if I’ll be able to work her. I have to think about it.”

As her voice had already thickened, he began to rub her back, lightly, lightly, to lull her under. “The wife’s gotta know. You can’t hook up like that for what looks like about six or seven years without the wife figuring it out. Unless she’s another idiot.

“I’m not an idiot.”

Smiling, Roarke continued to stroke. “I’ll keep that in mind when I decide to have a long-term affair.”

“Yeah, you do that. They’ll never find your body,” she murmured, then dropped into sleep.

His smiled warmed, and feeling well loved, he dropped off with her.

•   •   •

S
he woke to see Roarke in his usual spot, already dressed and with the numbers and codes scrolling on screen as he worked on a tablet.

She sat up carefully. Stiff, a little sore as predicted, but no twinges or grinding. Good sign.

“How is it?” he asked her.

“Pretty okay.” Her shoulder didn’t grind, but it did groan a little when she rolled it. A hot shower, she decided, would take care of it.

He circled his finger as he had the night before, and as she had the night before, she rolled her eyes and turned. “More like South America now,” he decided. “An improvement.”

But he didn’t like the sickly yellow bruising across her chest.

“When I find that fucker, he’s going to have a continent on his ass.”

“Go for Asia,” Roarke suggested. “It’s bigger.”

“An Asian ass-kicking. I can do that.”

He thought she’d have to beat him to it, but didn’t mention it.

She angled around to take a look at her butt in the mirror. Better. A lot better. “I dreamed about flying babies. You can’t catch them all.”

“That’s . . . unfortunate.”

“I’ll say. They’d hit the ground and
pow
.” She threw her hands up in the air. “All this stuff came gushing out.”

“Really, Eve, you’ll put me off breakfast.”

“Not guts and stuff. It was like little weird toys and shiny candy. Like they were those piñata things people bust up for what’s inside.”

He lowered the tablet to study her. “You have such a busy, fascinating brain.”

“And the vic’s there, too, sitting on one of those benches on the High Line. She keeps saying two and two makes four. Over and over. I mean I get it, numbers don’t lie, numbers add up, but she’s sitting there, chanting that and working on one of those ancient adding things.”

“An abacus?”

“What’s an abacus? Oh, right, one of those—” Standing naked but for the pack on her shoulder, her hair in tufts, she slid her fingers through the air. “No, it was one of those—” Now she tapped her two index fingers in the air, then swiped her hand.

“An adding machine.”

“Yeah. I’m trying to catch all those flying babies and she’s tapping away, muttering basic math. It was distracting. I probably missed a few because she wouldn’t give it a rest. Anyway, weird.”

Weird indeed, he thought as she went into the bathroom, but not a nightmare.

He rose, got a fresh med pack, the wand, programmed coffee. After a brief consideration, he opted for cheese and spinach omelets. Enough cheese and she wouldn’t bitch about the spinach. He thought she could use the protein and the iron.

When she came out, wrapped in a robe, he had the food and the first-aid tools set out. She eyed them both suspiciously.

“What’s in those eggs?”

“Eat them and find out. I’ve been playing with some of the data my auto-search spit out. It’s interesting.”

“What have you got?”

“Eat and find out.”

She sat, but went for the coffee first. “Does two and two make four?”

“I think not in this case. There’s a payment here of just over two hundred thousand to IOC. A search for IOC turns up several companies and organizations including a porn site billed as the Intense Orgasm Companion, which deals in vids, toys, enhancements, real-time vid or VR sex with a licensed companion, contacts to LCs who are affiliated with the site and will make house calls. And so on.”

Sex, she thought, never failed to sell.

“I don’t think Alexander funneled two hundred K out of his company for porn.”

“I tend to agree. I lean toward Investment Opportunity Corporation, a smallish outfit based in Miami, but claiming national coverage. They buy and sell properties—primarily commercial, but also residential. Developed or zoned for development.”

“Isn’t that basically what Alexander and Pope already does?”

“It is, so it’s odd—not illegal—but odd they’d pay out six figures, under the label of operating expenses, to another company. IOC is also connected, if you follow the dots carefully, to yet another company. Real and Exclusive Properties. This one’s based in the Caymans, claims global coverage. It caters to, according to its site, investors looking for exclusive properties, as individuals or groups. One of their services is analyzing clients and properties and matching them up.”

“What, like a dating site?”

He grinned at her. “I suppose so. They have a few properties on their site, and some testimonials from satisfied clients. They suggest direct contact for further information, and of course, exclusive property investments.”

“And you smell fraud?”

“Well, it fairly stinks of it, darling. This sort of thing is ripe for fraud.”

She thought she could see it, more or less, but wanted clarity. “How?”

“The basic con here would be to lure the client, and the money, in. Then make some reasonable payoffs as you would in any hustle to prime that pump for more. I suspect some of the land doesn’t exist, or is well overestimated in value thanks to payoffs or grifters on the payroll who can spin the con.”

“How do they get away with it? If they skin clients, there’d be noise.”

“You’d keep it fairly small, the dollar amounts. Keep it under the radar of the Security and Exchange Commission or its global alternative. Deposit in several accounts, again, keeping those deposits under the radar. Run the con, shut down, take the money, launder if necessary, then set up elsewhere. Different name, different look, different place. Same basic con. That’s the simplest.”

“Okay.” Yeah, she could follow it. “Alexander gets his share—the elephant’s share—”

“Lion’s share, as you perfectly well know.”

“Elephants are the biggest, and he takes the biggest.”

“Your logic is . . . unarguable.”

“See? So, he’s the elephant, then he has to wash the money, then bury it, or just bury it.”

“He has another easy system for laundry with the real estate. Arrange to purchase a property below market value, giving the difference in cash to the seller. He saves on taxes. Then you resell at market a few months later and make a legitimate profit. The money’s now clean.”

“He’s in the perfect position for that.”

“He is. Now, there are plenty of other ways, more complex, and more profitable to pump up the profits. Set up a loan company, for instance, which I expect to find. The client takes out the loan to purchase the property. Then you diddle with the loan, make some on that, the property turns out, when legitimately assessed, to be worth a fraction of that loan. If you keep it small, a few thousand here and there so the IRS doesn’t take note, you can draw cash out of those loan accounts—wash it, and it appears clean. If and when the client defaults on the loan as he’s in deeper than the value, you also have the land.”

She listened as she ate. “It seems like a hell of a lot of work. And it seems like you could make the money just doing it legitimately.”

“That doesn’t factor in the thrill, the greed—there’d be skimming and circling around the tax codes—and the enjoyment some have from screwing over others.”

“Get rich quick is usually a scam and always for suckers.”

“And there’s never a shortage of suckers,” Roarke pointed out. “I expect the bulk of the clientele falls into two categories. The naive, novice investor, and the overconfident who believes he can con the cons.”

“Did you ever run this sort of thing?”

“I’ve enjoyed the feel and scent of freshly laundered money.” He smiled as he topped off their coffee. “Lieutenant. But not the real estate scams. I could have,” he considered. “But I liked the game on its level playing field. And I’m good at it. I liked to steal. It’s hard to apologize, even to a cop, for having an aptitude and affection for the illegal. I stole to survive at first, but there’s no question I developed a taste for it. But the con? Not as much. And now.”