Born in Death (23 page)

Madeline sat back, pressed her fingers to her brow. “I’m sorry, this is such a shock. I knew the man nearly a decade. We were friends.”

“How close friends were you?”

Hot color streaked Madeline’s cheeks as she dropped her hands into her lap. “I realize you must ask questions at such a time, but I find the implication in that question in very poor taste.”

“Cops have very poor taste. Were you and he involved on a personal level?”

“Certainly not in the way you mean. We enjoyed each other’s company.”

“I’m told he persuaded you to bring your business to his father’s firm.”

“He did. Years ago. I found the firm’s reputation, ethics, and service more than satisfactory.”

“Robert Kraus was listed as your accountant.”

“That’s correct.”

“Yet Randall Sloan kept your books, the books for the foundation.”

“No, you’re mistaken. Robert does.”

“Randall Sloan oversaw the finances of the Bullock Foundation from day one, until his death.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Oh, God! Win! Sloan is dead.”

Winfield Chase stopped short in his stride across the room. He had the look of his mother, the same strong build, same strong face, same glacier eyes. Then he moved quickly to take the hand she’d thrown out toward him.

“Randall? How did this happen? Has there been an accident?”

“His body was found today, hanging from a rope in his bedroom,” Eve said.

“He hanged himself? Why would he do such a thing?” Winfield demanded.

“I didn’t say he hanged himself.”

“You said…” Winfield checked himself as he stroked his mother’s hand. “You said he was found hanged, I assumed…” He widened his eyes. “Are you telling us he wasmurdered ?”

She had to give him credit for the fancy British play on the word. It made it sound as if Randall should have been wearing a smoking jacket while he choked to death.

“I didn’t say that either. The matter is under investigation. And as the investigator I’ll ask you both where you were on Friday between the hours of six and tenP .M.”

“This is insulting! How dare you question my mother in this manner.” His fingers linked with Madeline’s now, and her free hand moved to rest on his thigh. “Do you know who she is?”

“Bullock, Madeline. Formerly Chase, born Madeline Catherine Forrester.” Their body language had something curling in her gut, but she kept her eyes steady. “And in case you don’t know who I am, it’s Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Until the cause of death is determined by the Medical Examiner, this matter is being treated as an unattended, suspicious death. Answer the question.”

“Mother, I’m going to ring our solicitor.”

“Go ahead,” Eve invited. “You’ll need one if you’re afraid to tell me your whereabouts on Friday.”

“Calm down, Win. Calm down. This is all so upsetting. We were home all evening. Win and I discussed plans for our spring gala, a fund-raiser the foundation is hosting in April in Madrid. We dined about eight, I believe, then listened to music and played cards. I suppose we retired about eleven. Does that sound right to you, Win?”

He looked down his nose at Eve. “We had lamb cutlets for dinner, preceded by a smoked tomato soup.”

“Yummy. Have either of you ever been to Randall Sloan’s New York residence?”

“Of course.” Madeline kept a firm hold on her son’s hand. “He often entertained.”

“On this trip?”

“No. As I explained before, we were looking for quiet evenings.”

“Right. Do you do any driving in the city, Mr. Chase?”

“In New York.” He gave her a look of mild distaste. “Why would I?”

“Couldn’t say. Well, thanks for your time.” Eve got to her feet. “Oh, your accounts, as overseen by Sloan, Myers, and Kraus will be turned over to the U.S. and British tax authorities—and, I imagine, those same agencies in several other countries.”

“That’s outrageous!” Winfield might have lunged forward, but his mother surged to her feet and kept the reins on him.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded.

“There are a number of questions regarding those accounts. Me, I’m a murder cop. What do I know? I’m sure the proper agencies will find the answers.”

“If there are any questions regarding the foundation accounts, they’ll be answered by Sloan, Myers, and Kraus. Robert Kraus…” Madeline paused, laid her free hand on her breast again. “But, no, you said it was Randall who, in actuality, kept the accounts for us. That alone is an outrageous breach of trust. Has he embezzled? Dear God, we trusted them, trusted him.”

She leaned into Chase, and his arm draped around her shoulders. “Was he using us?” Madeline demanded. “Is that why he killed himself?”

“That would be tidy, wouldn’t it? Thanks for your time.”

And that, Eve thought, would give them plenty to think about.

She was grinning darkly when she slid into the car.

“I don’t believe we’ll be invited to the spring gala in Madrid,” Roarke commented.

“Breaks my heart. You get a load of them? They’re like one of those Brit drawing room vids you like—the old-time ones? She thinks on her feet, I’ll give her that. She never figured we’d come knocking on the door, but she was ready for us when we did. He, on the other hand, needs direction, and a short leash. Got a temper, he does.”

“He killed them.”

“Bet your righteous ass he did. Question me, will you? Threaten me? Oh yeah, he did them all, then he came home and told Mommy all about it. Bet they’re pissed off to realize three murders haven’t covered up the accounts after all.”

“They’ll push it onto Randall Sloan.”

“They’ll try. I’ll let the Feds and Global worry about that end. Murder in the First, three counts. Conspiracy to commit, accessory before and after. I’m going to roll them up in a ball on this.”

“I might ask how?”

“He left his DNA on Byson’s fist. So science is going to get him. And my canny investigative skills are putting together enough to get a warrant to compel him to give us a sample of that DNA. Peabody and McNab get lucky, Sloan will have something incriminating on them at his place. I get that one,Win, into Interview, I’ll piss it out of him. Without his mother holding him back, he’ll come at me, and he’ll spew. I can see it in him.”

“They could take off for England, for anywhere, tonight.”

“Could. Won’t. Flight makes them look suspicious. She’s got too much control for that. What they have to play is shocked and outraged. Their pal, their handily dead pal, deceived and abused them. He used their lauded foundation for his own gain. Shame and horror! She’s working that out right now, and she’s calling Cavendish—or one of the contacts on that in England—to give him the lowdown, have them start injunctions, restraining orders, anything they can pull out of the hat.

“Gotta get Cavendish in the box, too. I’ll sweat it out of him inside thirty minutes. He hasn’t got the spine. He’ll flip on them. He knows about the murders, and he’ll flip for a deal that keeps him out of a cage on accessory.”

Roarke stopped at a light, studied her. “Pretty damn wound up, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, I am. It’s falling for me, piece by piece. I’m going to get started on that warrant on Chase, and one for Cavendish.” She dug out her ’link. “I can have them both in the box by morning.”

She interrupted both an APA and her commander’s Sunday night, put them on conference on the dash ’link and was still running the case through when Roarke drove through the gates.

“I need the mandatory DNA sample on Chase,” Eve argued.

Dressed in something slinky, APA Cher Reo scowled on-screen. “Allegedly questionable accounting practices, allegedly overseen by a man who wasnot the accountant of record, and who has left a suicide note confessing to the murders before hanging himself.”

“The ME isn’t going to rule self-termination.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“I fuckingam sure.” Eve winced. “Excuse me, Commander.”

Whitney only sighed. “If the lieutenant ‘fucking’ is sure, Reo, we should push for this. If Chase is clean, the worst that happens is he’s insulted and complains to his embassy, has his lawyers screw with us.”

“I’ll find a judge who agrees with you,” Reo said. “The same’s going to go on Cavendish. It’s shaky, Dallas.”

“I’ll make it solid. I want them both in by eight-hundred tomorrow. Thank you, Commander. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.”

“How about me?” Reo demanded.

“You, too.”

“Nice work.” Roarke leaned over to kiss her. “I’d give you a warrant.”

“Bet you would. They’ll lawyer up the gonads, but it’s not going to help them. I’m going to nail them, Roarke. For Natalie, for Bick, and for that asshole Randall Sloan. And by the time I’ve finished, the Feds and Global will have to pick up the pieces to add time for tax fraud and money laundering and whatever the hell else they want to stick to them.”

She hooked an arm around his waist as they climbed the steps to the front door. “Really needed you on this one, ace.”

“Pay me.”

Her laugh turned to a sneer as she stepped into the house and saw Summerset. “Can’t you ever be somewhere that’s not here?”

He ignored her, spoke directly to Roarke. “The soother calmed Mavis enough that she’s sleeping. I’ve put her and Leonardo in the blue guest room on the third level. It’s quiet, and she needs to rest.” Now he aimed those dark eyes toward Eve. “She’s been much too active and upset today.”

“Yeah, blame me.”

“Whoever kidnapped Tandy Willowby is to blame,” Roarke said. “And we all want Mavis to get as much rest and care as she needs.”

“Of course.” Summerset cleared his throat. “I’m concerned.” He looked at Eve again with what might have been an apology in those same dark eyes. “I’m concerned.”

If a broomstick with legs could have affection for anyone, Eve knew Summerset had it for Mavis. “I can’t keep her down unless I tie her down. All I can do is find Tandy Willowby.”

“Lieutenant,” Summerset said as she started up the steps, “I can make you an energy booster, one that contains no chemicals as you dislike them.”

“You could make me a booster, and I’d consume it into my body?” She gave a snort. “Do I look like I’ve recently lost my mind?”

She kept going, and glanced back at Roarke. “I’m not taking any witch’s brew he concocts, so forget it.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were thinking it. I’m getting coffee, and tagging Peabody. If Mavis is down for the count tonight, I can go over there myself, relieve her and McNab. I have to update Baxter. He’ll want in on the interviews tomorrow.”

“Eve, Christ Jesus, you need sleep.”

“I thought you were saying nothing.”

“Bloody goddamn shagging hell.”

It was as far as he got when her ’link signaled. “I guess you’d better hold that Irish thought. Dallas.”

“Check it out,” Peabody sang, and turned her ’link so Eve saw the dark mouth of a safe.

“Hot diggity damn!”

“It’s the second we found. Nearly gave up, but my guy here is stubborn.” A very tired-eyed Peabody made kissy noises.

“Cut that out.”

“Aw, he earned it. First safe was in the library. False front, nothing any burglar with a working brain couldn’t have found and popped. Cleaned out. We were very sad, figuring whoever killed Sloan got to it first.”

“I bet that’s just what he did, too. Figures he cleaned up anything incriminating Sloan had tucked away.”

“But McNab said, ‘Screw that, She-Body’—speaking to me. How you said the vic has some brains, so why wouldn’t he have another hole, and a deeper one. If not here, somewhere else, but we’re here, so we’ll keep right on looking and looking and—”

“You’re babbling.”

“Sorry. My brain went to sleep an hour ago. The rest of me hasn’t figured it out yet. Anyway, we found this one in the kitchen. It’s built into the pantry—where, I might add, the guy had prime consumable goodies. We didn’t eat anything. It was hard and painful, but we resisted. And in this nice little safe—which took my Scottish stud thirty-five minutes to crack—we found cash. Two hundred and fifty large—some jewelry. And…a shitpot load of discs. They’re labeled, Dallas, and some of that shitpot is Bullock Foundation records.”

“Motherload. Bag it all, log it all, bring it all.”

Eve turned to Roarke with a toothy grin. “Got the bastards.” The grin faded when she saw the tall glass of murky green liquid in his hand. “Where’d you get that?”

“From the faeries.”

“I don’t want faerie juice.” She planted her feet, lifted her fists into a boxer’s stance. “And if you try to pour that into me, you’re going to bleed.”

“Oh, dear, I’m terrified. Threatened with bodily harm by a woman who can barely stand upright. Half for me,” he said as she snarled. “Half for you.”

“Damn it.” She couldn’t punch him if he was going to be reasonable. “You first.”

With his eyes on hers he lifted the glass, drank half of the contents. Then cocked his head, held the glass out.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “Your turn.”

She made a face he thought a recalcitrant twelve-year-old would have been proud of, but she snatched the glass, squeezed her eyes shut, and gulped the rest down. “There. Happy now?”

“I’ll be happier when we’re dancing naked under the tropical sun, but this will do.”

“Okay.” She rubbed her gritty eyes. “Let’s start tying this up.”

19

WHEN SHE CONTACTED BAXTER, HE WAS NEARLY at her gates. “Figured I could give you what I got, you give me yours. In person. I got Trueheart with me. Ought to be something the kid can do.”

There was always something, Eve thought, and began to cobble together her notes. Trueheart could play drone and write her report. Despite the months working with Baxter, Trueheart was still fresh as daisies in May and eager as a puppy gamboling through them. He wouldn’t squawk about drone work.

“More cops,” Roarke said. “More coffee, then.”

“Dancing naked, tropical sun, near future.”

“I don’t suppose we could take fifteen minutes in the holo-room to practice.” He set coffee at her elbow.

“We’ve been practicing every chance we get the last couple years. I think we’re ready to go pro. Where’s the money they’re washing coming from?”

“I thought you were going to let the Feds and Global worry about that?”

“Yeah, but it bugs me.” She rose to walk to the board, to study the photos of Bullock and Chase. In her mind she saw the way they’d stood together, the way they’d touched each other. “They’re not just mother and son.”

When Roarke said nothing, she turned to look at him. Nodded. “You saw it, too.”

“I suppose you and I may be more attuned to that kind of thing than most. I saw…we’ll say…the intimacy between them.”

“That’s too clean a word for it, but to my mind, so’s incest. It just doesn’t get to the base of it. She runs it, runs him.” It made something curdle inside her. “She’s the spider when she should have been shielding him from the bad stuff. Instead, she uses him and twists him…and this isn’t about me.”

He crossed to her, laid his hands on her shoulders, his lips on her hair. “How can you stop it from resonating with you, just as what may be happening to Tandy does with me?”

Eve reached up until her hand covered his. “He’d have been the one to do the killing. You could see that in him, the violence under the polish. But she’d be the one pushing the buttons. And maybe I’m reading too much into it.”

“If you are, I’m reading the same page.”

“Well.” She drew a breath, lowered her hand. “If we’re right, it’s something I’ll use when I’ve got them in Interview. But for now…What’s the source of the money? Illegals, weapons? It just doesn’t feel right. Mob money. I don’t know. They don’t give that off. Lots of other ways,” she mused. “Lots of ways to make money off the books, but it seems to me—it feels to me,” she corrected, “like it would be something they’re into. Or enjoy. Or believe in. They’re self-satisfied fuckers.”

“A perfect description.”

“You get me.” She nodded. “Prissy and righteous and full of themselves. I can’t see them hooking up with organized crime, because she likes to run the show. Wish I could walk through this with Mira, get a profile.”

“It sounds like you have one of your own.”

“She wears diamonds around the house. He’s wearing a suit on a Sunday night when they’re hanging at home. They have this image, even when no one’s around to see it. That’s what they’ve created and nurtured, even when they’re coupling in the dark. And the sex, that’s another level of the unity, the being above the rest.Do you know who she is? Smuggling maybe—it’s got that thin sheen of class and romance.”

“Why thank you, darling.”

She rolled her eyes at him. Trust him to remind her that that was how he’d earned a good portion of his fortune in his youth. “Jewelry, art, fine wines. That kind of thing might be it. Maybe some subtle blackmail.”

“The discs Peabody and McNab are bringing in should tell you, at least some of it.”

“Yeah. Probably encoded. Pain in the ass. A lot of their houses, other property, are in the foundation’s name.” Restless, she paced in front of the board. “But that’s just a way big wheels loop the loopholes in tax laws. And I’m betting a lot of the jewelry, the art, the high-dollar items were bought with cash.”

Then she jerked a thumb at the data she had on-screen. “And you look at him. Hitting onto fifty, no marriages, no cohabs, still lives with his mother. Works with his mother. Travels with his mother. They don’t feel they have to bother with a cover over what goes on between them. He didn’t say: ‘Do you know whowe are,’ but whoshe is. She’s the power. She’s the control.”

Eve pushed that avenue aside as she heard cop feet heading toward the office.

It was always a surprise to see Trueheart out of uniform. They walked in looking, to Eve’s mind, like the leads in a buddy vid. The slick-looking veteran cop and his young studly apprentice.

“Coffee.” Baxter said it like a prayer. “Hook me up, kid. Dallas, Roarke.”

“What’s the word on the vehicle?” Eve demanded.

“Dump the discs every twenty-four, so the night in question’s long gone. No logs.”

“You brought me squat?”

“Would I bring you squat?” He took the coffee from Trueheart, sat, stretched out his legs. “Private garage, with monthly rates that cost more than the rent on my apartment and the kid’s here combined. Key card and passcode to get in. Place holds a half-dozen vehicles, and let me tell you, they were all flash. Vic’s is a sinewy all-terrain. Four-seater. Loaded.”

“That’s fascinating, Baxter.”

“Gets that way. We’re looking it over—had to call the manager in, and he’s the one gave us squat. But while we’re there, this guy whose ride is this classic Sunstorm—Triple X model, jet charger, six on the floor. Black and shiny as the mouth of hell, silvered glass roof. You know the model?” he asked Roarke. “First run in 2035?”

“I do indeed. A very fine machine.”

“I nearly wept when he drove it in.”

“It was a sweet ride,” Trueheart agreed, then flushed a little when Eve flicked him a glance.

“Sounds like you boys had tons of fun playing with the toys. But what does that give me?”

“In the course of the conversation, the Sunstorm’s owner—one Derrick Newman—stated that while he’d never actually met Sloan, he had admired his vehicle, and was considering purchasing one like it for hard weather and off-roading.”

“Maybe he can get a deal on it seeing as the owner’s dead.”

“While he’d never met Sloan,” Baxter repeated, “he had noticed that the all-terrain was, always and habitually, backed into its slot. It was parked in that manner a week ago Wednesday at approximately sevenP .M. when Newman retrieved his own vehicle to pick up his current squeeze and drive to Oyster Bay for a rehearsal dinner for his brother’s wedding—which was the following Saturday. He returned his vehicle to the garage at just after three on Thursday morning as the current squeeze did not deign to put out that evening. At which time he noticed, with some curiosity, that the all-terrain was front-in.”

Eve pursed her lips. “That may not be squat.”

“It ain’t. When Newman mentioned Sloan’s parking habit, the manager corroborated. Sloan’s rented that space for three years, and has never parked front-in. Until a week ago Wednesday night or early Thursday morning.”

“I want that vehicle impounded. I want the sweepers going over it molecule by molecule.”

“Thought you would. I made the call while we were there. It’s on its way in now.”

“Good work.”

“Feel like I’ve done something, anyway,” Baxter said with a shrug. “I’ve been talking to Palma every day. She wants to come in, pack up her sister’s things as soon as the scene’s cleared.”

“Working on that.” Eve filled him in, nodded toward Peabody and McNab, who came in as she was wrapping up.

“Bagged, tagged, logged, delivered.” Peabody yawned as she and McNab dumped evidence bags on Eve’s desk. “Money smells pretty. ’Specially lots of it.”

“Get her coffee,” Eve ordered.

“Have this first.” Roarke held out another booster he’d already poured.

“Looks yucky,” Peabody said and pouted at it.

“I made it just for you.”

“Aww.” With stars in her heavy eyes, she gulped it down. “Is yucky.”

“Yes, I know. You, too, Ian.”

“Energy booster? I kinda like them.” He drank his without complaint while Trueheart passed around more coffee.

“Now, if everyone’s refreshed.” Eve unsealed the evidence bags marked with Peabody’s initials that contained the Bullock Foundation discs. “We’ll start with last year, work back.”

She plugged the first disc into her computer. “Display data, screen one.”

Not encoded she thought, and would have done a little happy dance if she’d had the energy. “Roarke? Translation?”

“Monthly accounts,” he verified. “I’d say Randall Sloan’s personal copy. It’s spelled out quite clearly here, unlike the files registered with the firm. You see his monthly fee.” Roarke picked up a laser, pointed. “And Madeline Bullock’s, Winfield Chase’s commissions—as they’re listed. Also deductions for legal fees, Cavendish, in New York. The London law firm takes a cut through monthly retainer, and billable hours.”

“Which means, in English.”

“The way these accounts were done, officially, the funneling and turnovers are more clearly documented here. And very, very illegal. The tax hounds will be wiping drool off their faces for years.”

“I’m looking at income here,” Eve said, scrolling through. “Primarily through individuals. Fees out of that to other individuals, and some institutions. Hospitals, medicals…food, lodging, transpo.

“Samuel and Reece Russo, a quarter million paid.”

“That’s an installment,” Roarke explained. “One of four.”

“A million for Sam and Reece, and a like amount from a Maryanna Clover. More of the same—you got, what, four—no, that’s five installment payments here from individuals, just in the first quarter of last year. What are they paying for?”

“The expenses attached to that income might tell the tale.” Roarke ordered the expenditures on-screen. “The Russos’ fee has a ten-thousand-euro payment, per installment, to a Sybil Hopson, a two-thousand-euro payment as monthly retainer to a Leticia Brownburn, M.D., with a lump payment of ten thousand in October of last year. Another, listed as donation to Sunday’s Child. Legal fees come to…twelve thousand for this transaction—as paid by the foundation.”

“So for a million, in what they’re finagling as primarily tax-free income, they expend under a hundred thousand. Good return,” Eve decided. “What’s Sunday’s Child?”

“Child placement agency,” the half-asleep Peabody muttered. “London-based.”

Eve spun around. “What?”

“Huh? What?” Peabody pushed up from her slouch in the chair, blinked rapidly. “Sorry. I must’ve zoned out.”

“Sunday’s Child.”

“Oh, we switched to the kidnapping. It’s one of the agencies on the list. London-based, with offices in Florence, Rome, Oxford, Milan, ah, Berlin. Places. Sorry, I’ll need to review my notes.”

“This agency is on the list in Tandy’s file, and appears as a major beneficiary of the Bullock Foundation?” She looked at Baxter. “Coincidence is hooey, right?”

“Words to live by. Christ, Dallas, are we dovetailing here?”

“Trueheart, run Leticia Brownburn, M.D., London. I want to know if she’s associated with Sunday’s Child. Roarke, I need you to go through these files as quickly as you can, see if we’ve got a pattern. If there are other like agencies, birthing centers.”

Movement was quick. Since every unit in the two offices was being used, Eve pulled out her PPC. “Data run on Russo, Samuel, and Russo, Reece,” she began and read off the identification numbers Sloan had listed on the file.

Working…Russo, Samuel, DOB: 5 August, 2018, married to Russo, Reece, nee Bickle, 10 May, 2050. Residence: London, England; Sardinia, Italy; Geneva, Switzerland; Nevis. One child, male, DOB: 15 September, 2059, through private adoption.

“That’s enough, hold run. Begin data run on Hopson, Sybil,” she ordered and read off the identification number.

Working…Hopson, Sybil, DOB: 3 March, 2040. Parents—

“Skip that. Residence and offspring.”

Resides Oxford University. Student. No offspring. One registered pregnancy, through term with live birth, male, 15 September, 2059. Placed through private adoption.

“Placement agency used for both Russo and Hopson.”

Working…Sunday’s Child, London.

“It’s not illegal, Dallas.” Baxter stood beside her. “I don’t know the ins and outs of private adoptions or surrogacy in Europe, but they could slide with this here.”

“Payments are too high,” Eve disagreed. “This girl sold her kid, and selling human beings is illegal, globally.”

“You can call the fee educational incentive, expense reimbursement. They’d go through some shit, but they’d probably scrape it off.”

“Maybe. But they hid the money, doctored the accounts so they fell well under the acceptable limit, left the bulk of the income unreported. And if this is what it looks like, they are, in essence, running a baby-selling operation at a big, fat profit. They won’t look good on the media reports when this hits. More, they killed three people to keep this buried.”

“This is what Palma’s sister stumbled onto,” Baxter murmured.

“I doubt she knew exactly what it entailed, but she dug around and got a strong clue. Baxter, there are other missing women like Tandy, and at least one who was killed, along with the fetus. It’s going to come back to this.” She nodded toward the screen. “Right back to this.”

“Grabbing women off the damn street? Stealing their kids?”

“Something like that. If these women contacted Sunday’s Child, maybe even started proceedings. Fees collected by the foundation.”

It was more than pieces now. The picture was full and complete in front of her. “Then, say the woman changes her mind, takes off. These women relocated, so maybe they felt threatened, or were afraid they’d be pressured, legally pursued. They’re snatched close to term. There’s a reason for that.”

“Shorter wait time for the product,” he said grimly.

“When the product’s delivered, the woman’s no longer needed, and is disposed of. Keeps those expenses way down. Work with Roarke, find me someone who paid the baby fee where the expenses don’t follow the rest of the pack.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Trueheart.”

“Lieutenant, Brownburn is on the board of Sunday’s Child, and the OB in residence.”

“Peabody, is there a branch of the agency in New York?”