Born in Death (10 page)

“Good security?”

“Damn good. I don’t think anyone could have wandered in after hours without it showing up on discs. And nothing has. He deleted the files during working hours. Maybe got the passcodes and deleted from another station inside the building, maybe got into her office while her assistant was busy elsewhere. With the delay getting the warrant to confiscate, there was time. The killer or an accessory is inside the firm.”

He sipped a little wine. “Did your first victim gain any new accounts in the last few weeks?”

“Thought of that, and no. Nothing new in the last couple that I can see, so there’s no way to narrow it down from that route. If she flagged anything hinky, that’s gone. Maybe one of the accounts suddenly didn’t jibe, and she took a closer look. Could be the client recently started doing the shadowy stuff. Or she just happened to stumble across something because they’d gotten sloppy. Happens. But she didn’t discuss a problem with an account to any of the higher-ups or with her assistant. Not that any of them is copping to, at any rate.”

“Just the fiancé.” Roarke nodded. “Because she trusted him completely.”

“I get that. But I don’t believe she didn’t at least mention something to one of the partners or her supervisor, her department head. She was meticulous. You’ll see what I mean when you look at her files.”

“I’ll take your word on that for now.”

Eve set down her glass. “I thought we’d squared this, and you’d step onto the team—at least when you had time for it.”

“For now,” he repeated, “I’d rather wait to look at the files. By meticulous, you mean she kept everything in excellent order.”

Eve struggled back her annoyance. “That, yeah, but she was meticulous in the way she kept her office space, her apartment, her closet. She never had a single work eval that wasn’t glowing. She had a good relationship with her department head, and apparently with everyone she worked with. She was tight pals with the grandson of one of the partners.”

“Romantic link?”

“No. It comes off as pals. Good, platonic pals. Grandson has a girlfriend, and the four of them hung. But she doesn’t mention there’s this problem to her pal.”

“Blood’s thicker?”

“Maybe, maybe.” She pushed away from the little table where they’d eaten. “It’s inconsistent with her type, her pathology. She was a team player, and she was a rule keeper. She took this to one of them, Roarke, and the one she took it to was the wrong choice.”

“She must have dealt with some clients directly.”

“In the office, or in theirs—New York–based. Some travel, too, sure. But nothing out of the ordinary I’ve found. No last-minute appointments worked in, according to her assistant. No last-minute travel to meet with a client or their representatives. If you look at her office, on the surface, it’s straight business as usual. Taking the home units without making it look like a bungled burglary was a mistake.”

“I don’t know.” He considered it. “Simpler, as you said, to take the units than to stay there and fiddle with them. Especially since the killer had a second job to do. It could simply be confidence. Go ahead and look at her office files, I’ve taken care of that. Covered the tracks.”

“Nobody ever covers them all the way. Okay, okay, present company excepted,” she added when he lifted an eyebrow. “If he was as good as you, and as—let’s say—meticulous—he’d have found a better way to do Copperfield and Byson.”

“Such as?”

“Arrange a meet, take them out together outside their apartments. You make it look like a mugging or a thrill kill. Rape the woman, or him, or both. Send the investigators mixed signals. I figure I’m looking for someone focused on the task—eliminate the threat, remove the evidence. That’s straight-line thinking, leaving out the flourishes.”

“Perhaps the only way he could take lives was to block out all but the target. Reach the goal, don’t consider the enormity of the action to get there.”

“I don’t think so, or not completely. Yeah, okay, reaching the goal. But if he’d needed to distance himself emotionally from the action, he wouldn’t use strangulation. It’s intimate. And it was face-to-face.”

Narrowing her eyes, she brought the crime scenes, the bodies, back into her mind. “He experienced the killings. You don’t want an active part in it? You got the tape right there. You slap it over their mouths, over their nose, and you walk away. You don’t have to see them suffer and die. But he looked right into their eyes as they did.

“And this isn’t what I need you for,” she snapped. “I can get into his head. Or I can get a profile from Mira, talk it through with her. I need a numbers man. I need a business man. Big business, big risks, big benefits. I need you to look at the data, analyze it in a way I can’t.”

“And I will. But tonight I’d prefer the generalities. I can take a look at her client list, give you a take on what I know that might not show on records or bios.”

“Why tonight?”

He considered again. Easier to evade, but she’d been straight with him and deserved the same. “I’m going to have my lawyers draft a con tract of sorts which will prohibit me from using any of the data I may be privy to during the course of this investigation.”

“No.”

“It covers our respective asses. It will also prohibit you, or any member of the team, from revealing the name of the organization, corporation or company whose data I analyze. I can, quite easily, work with the figures only.”

Frustration nearly blew out of the top of her head. “This is a crock. Your word’s good enough.”

“For you, and thank you for it. But it’s simple enough to do, and it’s logical. It’s very likely I’m in competition, or certainly will be at some point, with some or all of the clients on your victims’ list. And at some point, while I can promise you I wouldn’t use the data you’ve put in my hands—”

“I don’t want your damn promise!” she exploded.

Her fury over it was like a warm, comforting kiss. “Then none of that between us. But, let’s be practical. It could appear, or be argued that I have or will use it. It still could, come to that, but this shows good intent at least.”

“It’s insulting to you.”

“Not if I offer it—more, insist on it. Which is exactly what I’m doing.” He knew how to calculate the odds, he thought. How to manipulate them. And how to win. “I won’t look at any of the data unless you agree to this provision. We can argue about it if you like, but that’s my line. I’ll have it taken care of, then we’ll move forward.”

“Fine. Fine. If that’s the way you want it.” She had to fight back the urge to kick something again.

“It is. I’m happy to look at the client list.”

She moved to her desk, pulled out a hard copy from her file bag. “Look it over, think it over. I’ve got some runs to do meanwhile.”

And some sulking, he imagined. “I’ll be in my office, then.”

She did sulk, but she worked while she was at it.

She did probabilities and was satisfied that the computer agreed—at 93.4 percent—that someone inside the firm was connected to the double murder.

She studied her notes, Peabody’s reports, the lab’s, the ME’s, the crime-scene records. And put up a second murder board.

New lock on the door, she reminded herself. Kitchen knife in the bedroom. But Natalie hadn’t been afraid enough to bunk with her boyfriend, or hole up in a hotel. Not afraid enough to tell her sister not to come and stay with her.

“Knew the killer,” Eve said aloud. “Or the go-between. Nervous, excited, cautious, but not seriously afraid for her life. Knife in the bedroom. Girl thing.”

She paced in front of the board as she thought. Any serious attacker could probably have disarmed a woman of Copperfield’s build. But she’s alone, starts wigging just a little. Takes the knife like she could use it if she had to.

“Not a stupid woman, but seriously naive,” Eve added. “Gonna handle this deal herself, with her guy. A little excitement in their lives. But who else did she tell?”

When her ’link beeped, she turned, answered it absently. “Dallas.”

“Hey, I know it’s late but I got this brainstorm.” Peabody’s brows drew together on the display screen. “Are you still working?”

“Who did she tell?”

“Who, what?”

Obviously, Eve thought as she pulled her mind away from the murder board, Peabody wasn’t still working. “What brainstorm?”

“About the shower?”

“Oh, Christ on a plastic crutch.”

“Look, it’s the day after tomorrow.”

“No, it’s not. It’s on Saturday.”

“And tomorrow being Friday, Saturday follows. At least in my pretty little world.”

“Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

“So anyway, I’ve got the theme going, and picked up some stuff on my way home. I thought if I came by there tomorrow night, stayed over, we could put it all together in the morning.”

“What does that mean, putting it all together?”

“Well, the decorations, and these flower things I ordered, and, well…stuff. Plus I got this idea about the rocker system you bought her and how we can use it as a focal point, but disguise it like a throne until—”

“Please, in the name of God, don’t tell me any more.”

“So it chills with you if me and McNab bunk there tomorrow night?”

“Sure, bring the family, all your friends, strangers you find on the street. All are welcome here.”

“Uptown! Catch you in the morning.”

She clicked off, then sat on the edge of her desk staring at nothing in particular. Baby showers and double murders. Was she the only one who could see they didn’t mix? She wasn’t equipped for the first. It wasn’t in her makeup.

But she’d tried, hadn’t she? She’d called the caterer, and she’d let Mavis invite a horde of people—many of whom would be stranger than alien mutants. And still, it wasn’t enough.

“Why do I have to decorate?” she demanded when Roarke stepped to the doorway.

“You don’t. In fact, I sincerely wish you wouldn’t. I like our home as it is.”

“See? Me, too.” She threw out her arms. “Why does it have to get tricked out for a baby shower?”

“Oh. That. Well…I have no idea. I really choose to remain ignorant in this particular area of societal customs.”

“Peabody said we have to have a theme.”

He looked momentarily baffled. “A song?”

“I don’t know.” Confused, Eve covered her eyes with her hands. “And there’s going to be a throne.”

“For the baby?”

“I don’t know.” Now she pulled at her hair. “I can’t think about it. It throws me off. I was thinking about murder, and I was fine. Now I’m thinking about themes and thrones, and I feel a little sick.”

Eve took a huge breath. “Who did she tell?”

“Peabody? I thought she just told you.”

“No, God, not Peabody. Natalie Copperfield. Who did she trust or respect or feel obliged to report to if she found something off? Which of her clients did she believe, while they might do something illegal, unethical, might offer a bribe, wouldn’t cause her real physical harm? Because there’s no way she’d have let her sister come over, talked about pancake breakfasts, if she believed there might be actual danger.”

“First, I’d say who she told would depend on the level of the illegality she uncovered. It’s not impossible she went directly to the client or their representative. But more likely that she showed the data to a superior.”

“Back where I started, running rings. No way to pin down who she might have told other than the boyfriend.”

“As for her client list, there are some high-end companies here. Any or all of them has very likely had some slippery moments. You can’t operate large companies without some slippage. Then you pay lawyers to slide you out of it, or you pay fines, settle suits out of court. But I don’t know of any major scandal involving those on her lists. And I haven’t heard anything murmuring on the wind about illegal practices. I can tune myself to that wind a little closer for you.”

“That’d be good.”

She frowned at the board again. “Wait. What if the client isn’t the problem? What if someone inside the firm did something like Whitney suggested you could do.”

Roarke cocked his head, nodded. “Fed one client private data on another. Interesting.”

“You could demand a percentage, a kickback, even a monthly retainer for information given. One client’s got a deal coming up. You just access the files on any competitors your firm might also represent. Pass along some inside data for a fee. Maybe she sees something, like one client consistently nipping out another, or others in competitive areas. She questions the percentages of that, pokes around.”

“It would explain her reason for not telling a superior—if she didn’t do so.”

“Can’t tell someone over her head if she’s not sure who’s part of the unethical practice. I can do an analysis of comparative operations over the last twelve months, check out the clients who most consistently pump out above the rest of the field.”

“I can do that for you.”

“Yeah?” That seriously brightened Eve’s day. “You’d probably see it faster if there’s anything to see. I can take a closer look at the financials—incomes, outlays of the partners.”

“They’d know how to hide income. They’re accountants.”

“Gotta start somewhere.”

9

IN THE MORNING WITH A SKY THAT LOOKED LIKE soured milk, Eve sat bleary-eyed over her second cup of coffee. It wasn’t the hours, she thought. It was the figures.

Roarke plopped an omelette down in front of her. “You need it.”

She glanced at it, then looked over at him as he sat. “Are my eyes bleeding? They feel like they’re bleeding.”

“Not so far.”

“I don’t know how you do it, day after day.” She made the mistake of looking toward the wall screen where he had the morning stock reports running. And slapped a hand over her aching eyes. “Have mercy.”

He chuckled, but switched to the morning media. “Had enough of numbers, darling?”

“I saw them in my sleep. Dancing. Some were singing. I think some might have had teeth. I’d rather lie bare-assed naked on the sidewalk and be trampled by tourists from South Dakota than be an accountant. And you.” She stabbed her fork in his direction. “You love them. The fives and twenties and the profit margins, overheads, the trading fees and tax-free fuckwhats.”

“I love little more than a tax-free fuckwhat.”

“How does anybody keep track of money anyway, when it’s zinging around all over the place? This guy puts it here for five minutes into pork asses, thenwhap! he kicks the asses and slaps it into gizmos, then shuffles some of that into peanut brittle.”

“It’s never wise to put all your eggs into one pork’s ass.”

“Whatever.” She had to struggle back a yawn. “Those accountant guys rake it in and spread it around.”

“Money’s a bit like manure. You can’t get anything to grow if you don’t spread it around.”

“I couldn’t find anything off, but then I think my brain fried in hour two. Lifestyles jibe with the incomes, incomes jibe with the business fees and profits, investments and blah-de-blah. If any of them are pulling some in on the side, they’ve got it buried.”

“I’ll see if I can scrape off any of the dirt there. Meanwhile, I’ve got a couple of clients that have shown fairly consistent upswings and profits over the last two years. Could be good management,” he added as he ate. “Good luck. Or good information.”

“With New York branches?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Gives me someone to harass and intimidate. Makes up for the long night with numbers.” She ate with more enthusiasm. “Roarke. Say you were doing something off the books, under the table, or in the gray area of law and ethics.”

“Me?” He gave a good imitation of insulted shock. “What a thing to imply.”

“Yeah, right. But if you were, and one of your employees tapped in. How would you handle it?”

“Denial. Complete and utter denial, and while I was denying, I’d be busy covering up anything potentially damaging, crunching numbers, altering data. Depending on how matters shook out, I’d give the employee a raise or transfer them.”

“In other words, there are lots of ways around this, if it’s a money deal. Killing two people is extreme, brings more heat. Now you’ve got cops digging.”

“A strong and foolish reaction, yes. Someone took it personally, when it’s simply business.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

Since it was something she wanted to run past Mira, Eve copied the files to the profiler’s office unit, and contacted Mira’s obsessively protective admin for an appointment.

On the way downtown, an ad blimp cruised overhead blasting the news of anINVENTORY BLOWOUT! and aRED DOT EXTRAVAGANZA! at Aladdin’s Cave at Union Square.

She wondered about people who got juiced up about blowouts and extravaganzas at places called Aladdin’s Cave. What were they after, cut-rate lamps with genies? Overstocked flying carpets?

It was too early for bargain hunters or for any but the most determined tourists. New Yorkers clipped along the sidewalks, heading to or from work, to breakfast meetings. By-the-day domestics huddled in the chill waiting for their buses to rumble up to take them to the apartments or townhouses they’d spend their days cleaning.

More, she knew, would be jammed under the streets, zoning while the subway thundered along the rails.

On corners, glide-cart operators were set up to hawk their hideous excuse for coffee and tooth-chipping bagels to the early commuters. Steam poured off the grills to accommodate those hungry enough or just crazy enough to eat the fake egg pouches the carts fried up.

A few enterprising street hawkers were spreading their designer rip-offs and gray market wares on tables and blankets. Scarves and hats and gloves would be the hot sellers, she thought, on a day with the bitter wind cutting at the bone, and the sky just waiting to dump snow.

Which it did, along with nasty little bits of ice, minutes before she turned into the garage at Central.

In her office, she got another cup of coffee, put her feet up on her desk, and stared at the murder board.

Personal, she thought again.

Jake Sloan had personal relationships with both vics.

Lilah Grove attempted to develop one with the male vic.

Cara Greene, first vic’s department head, purportedly had friendly personal relationship with both vics.

All three generations of Sloans had a personal interest in Copperfield.

And all of the above had considerable investment in the firm, its success, and its reputation.

Eve angled her head, shifted her thoughts. So what connection within the firm do or did any or all of those people have?

She plugged in the data Roarke had given her and began to look for one.

While she was working, Roarke was walking into Commander Whitney’s office. Whitney rose, offered a hand.

“I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice,” Roarke began.

“It’s not a problem. Can I offer you coffee?”

“No. I won’t keep you long.” Roarke opened his briefcase, took out a file. He’d kept his lawyers busy through the night. “I understand there’s some concern regarding the Copperfield/Byson investigation, and the ethics of my relationship with the primary.”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“All right. What you have there,” Roarke continued in the same cool tones, “is a document my attorneys have drafted that binds me from utilizing any of the data I may come across through the primary in the course of her investigation.”

Whitney flicked a glance down at the file, then shifted his eyes back to Roarke’s. “I see.”

“It also stipulates that should I be given access to any of that data, I’ll be given it blind. Figures only, without names or organizations. The document is quite detailed, and the penalties, should I break any of the stipulations therein, are quite stiff. Naturally, you’ll want your legal department to vet it, and should there be any changes or additions requested, those changes and/or additions can be discussed with my legal reps until the document suits all parties.”

“I’ll see that it’s done.”

“All right, then.” Roarke got to his feet. “Of course, legalities and documents don’t take into account the fact I may lie and cheat my way around the stipulations, and use my wife and two brutally murdered people for my own financial gain. But I would hope this department, and this office, understands—clearly understands—the primary in this investigation would never allow it.”

Roarke waited a beat. “I’d like to hear you say you don’t question the lieutenant’s integrity. In fact, I bloody well insist on it.”

“Lieutenant Dallas’s integrity is not at issue for me. And is not in question.”

“Just mine, then?”

“Officially, this department and this office must insure the privacy of the citizens of New York—that information generated or uncovered during the course of an investigation is not utilized for harm, for personal gain, or in any illegal capacity.”

“I thought you knew me better than that,” Roarke shot back, barely able to hold on to the slippery edge of his fury. “At least well enough to be sure I’d do nothing to reflect poorly on my wife, to put her reputation or her career on the line.”

“I do.” Whitney nodded. “I know you well enough to be absolutely sure of that. So, unofficially, all this is bullshit.” Whitney flicked his fingers at the file sharply enough to scoot it over the surface of his desk. “Bureaucratic, political, ass-kissing bullshit that infuriates me nearly as much as you. I can offer you my personal apology for it.”

“You should have offered her one.”

Now Whitney raised his brows. “Lieutenant Dallas isn’t a civilian, and is under my command. She knows the departmental line. I don’t apologize for informing a subordinate of a potential problem within an investigation. Nor would she, I expect, in my place.”

“She intends to bring me in, officially as expert consultant, civilian.”

“She would, wouldn’t she?” Whitney sat back, frowned. “Thumb her nose at anyone who’d question her integrity or yours. Still…” Now he tapped his fingers, thinking it through. “That would also put you under the department’s aegis throughout the investigation, which goes some way of covering us. And your document, which I’d assume is as complicated as it is detailed, should take care of the rest.

“Some media spinning if we need it.”

“That can be handled,” Roarke told him.

“I’ve no doubt about it. I’ll have this vetted by Legal, and run it through with Chief Tibble.”

“Then I’ll let you get to it.”

Whitney rose. “When you speak to the lieutenant, tell her I have every confidence this case will be closed in a timely fashion.”

And that, Roarke thought, was as close to an apology as Eve would get. “I’ll do that.”

When Peabody poked her head into Eve’s office, Eve was pinning names to the back side of her board. “Baxter and I have been through the lot,” she told Eve. “Nothing pops out of line, and Copperfield and Byson didn’t share any clients.”

“You gotta go under it,” Eve said half to herself. “Forget the numbers for now, look at names. Look at people. Numbers make you crazy anyway.”

“I kind of like them.” Peabody moved in, squeezing around the desk to view the back of the board.

“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.”

“Who’s got it?”

“Carmichael’s primary.”

Satisfied Eve nodded. “Thanks.”

The squawking renewed as she walked off to take the glides to Mira’s sector.

She supposed Mira’s area would be considered more civilized than hers. You weren’t likely to see junked-up suspects being hauled around. Here there was quiet, easy colors, and a lot of closed doors.

Mira’s was open, and the admin guarding the perimeter looked relaxed, so Eve decided she wasn’t going to have to do a dance to gain admission.