Born in Death

  “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, then whap! 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 an INVENTORY BLOWOUT! and a RED 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. Th
e 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 look
ed relaxed, so Eve decided she wasn’t going to have to do a dance to gain admission.

  Mira spotted her from her desk. “Eve. Come right in. I’m just finishing up some paperwork.”

  “Appreciate the time.”

  “I have a little to spare today.”

  As always, Mira looked perfectly put together without being obvious about it. She was letting her sable-colored hair grow some so that it waved softly to the nape of her neck. Her suit was a monochromatic three-piece in a rich, plummy tone worn with sparkling silver chains and little glittery hoops in her ears.

  She smiled easily, a lovely face with soft blue eyes Eve knew could see right through the skull into whatever secrets the brain might hold.

  “Did you get a chance to look at the reports?”

  “I did. Have a seat. It’s a shame, isn’t it, all that youth and optimism cut off so abruptly.” She sat back. “Their lives were just beginning, really.”

  “Now they’re over,” Eve said flatly. “Why?”

  “Why is rarely straightforward, is it? On the profile,” she said in brisk, professional tones, “I agree, as you’d expect, with your conclusions and the ME’s, that you’re looking for one killer. Most likely male, between thirty-five and sixty-five. He isn’t impulsive, and wasn’t looking for thrills. He didn’t rape either victim because it wasn’t part of the business at hand. And, very likely, he doesn’t equate sex with power and control. He may be in a sexual relationship where he is accustomed to being subservient.”

  “Rape takes time,” Eve added. “He had a schedule to keep, and priorities.”

  “Agreed. But rape, or the threat of it, is often used in torture killings, as is mutilation. No sexual assault, no mutilation, no serious vandalism. He came prepared, and with a purpose. He fulfilled it, using brute force and physical—very likely emotional—torture.”

  Mira spread the crime scene photos out on her desk.