Born In Death

16

EVE SHIFTED TANDY ASIDE WHILE ROARKE INPUT data into her unit, and ordered it on-screen. It seemed like a lot of numbers to her, in a lot of columns in a complicated and overly detailed spread sheet.

He, apparently, saw a great deal more.

“Two accounts were questionable for me,” he began. “The first, McNab and I agree, has gaps, little voids. A precise, methodical accountant such as Copperfield wouldn’t have these voids in one of her files.”

“Tampered with?”

“Again, McNab and I agree.”

“Yeah.” McNab nodded. “I might not get the financial mumbo, but I know when a file’s been diddled with. At least some of that diddling corresponds with the dates you gave me when Copperfield first talked to Byson about finding something, when her assistant claimed she’d logged on after hours. Some of it goes back farther.”

“Someone very carefully removed and/or doctored her work,” Roarke continued. “Someone, in my opinion, with a good working knowledge of accounting.”

“Inside job. What’s the file number?”

When he gave it to her, Eve looked up the corresponding file name. “Well, well, well, it’s our old friends Stubens, Robbins, Cavendish, and Mull.”

“Interesting.”

“You said it was a law firm.” Grinning, McNab pointed at Roarke. “Blinders on, but you slammed it.”

“Billable hours.” Roarke used a laser pointer to highlight columns from his blind copy still displayed on-screen. “Retainers, partners’ percentages. Odds were.”

“But do we have them on anything?” Eve asked. “Illegal practices, finances, taxes?”

Roarke shook his head. “You have the gaps, and when they’re filled in you may. But the numbers jibe, and nothing on the surface appears off.”

“But it is,” Eve complained. “It is off.”

“On the second account I’ve brought up, something certainly is.” He switched displays. “The bottom lines add up precisely,” he continued. “And the account would, I believe, hold up under most standard audits. But what I found, and what I suspect your victim found, were areas of income and outlay that were carefully manipulated in order to add up. On their own, they simply don’t. There are fees – here.”

He used the laser pointer to highlight a section. “These fees repeat – not in amounts, but in precise percentages of coordinating areas of income – and simply don’t jibe. Always forty-five percent of the take, if you will, and with the corresponding amounts, that same percentage appears first under an area of nonprofit contributions, making it exempt from taxes. Which, in the way this is manipulated, makes that fee exempt.”

“Tax fraud,” Eve said.

“Certainly, but that’s only one piece of the pie. The income itself is split into parts, juggled into subaccounts, with expenses attached to, and deducted from it. The income, minus this, is then tumbled back into the main. It’s then disbursed – the sum of it – in a way that, since I have to guess, I assume is through some sort of charitable trust. The client received a hefty write-off, straight from the top, which you see here. Annually.

“The amounts vary, year to year, but the setup remains constant.”

“How much are they washing?”

“Between six and eight million a year, for the time frame I’ve been working with. But it’s more than that. There are simpler ways to evade tax, and to launder money. I’d have to say this particular client has income that is perhaps not strictly legal. It’s an operation,” he told Eve. “Slickly run and profitable, and with these fees and expenses, I’d say a number of people have a piece of it.”

“Copperfield would have found this?”

“If she was looking. Or if she had a question and dug back to find the answer to it before she took over the account. Once you start to peel at the layers, they lift off systematically, simply because the setup is very systematic.”

“I don’t get it.” She shook her head. “I don’t mean the numbers, it’s a given I don’t get them. But I don’t get why. If this is an operation like you say, why didn’t they just keep a second set of books?”

“Greed’s a powerful incentive. There are hefty tax breaks under this system not only for the questionable income, but for all of it. But you have to report the income, the outlay, to get them.”

She nodded. “What’s the blind number on this file?”

“024- 93.”

She went back to her desk, called it up. “Sisters Three. A restaurant chain. London, Paris, Rome, New York, Chicago.”

“A restaurant?” Roarke frowned. “No, that’s not right. These aren’t the accounts of a restaurant.”

She rechecked. “That’s how it comes out.”

“That may be, but these aren’t the files and accounts for a restaurant.”

“Roarke, I’m looking at the file, the file Copperfield marked ‘Sisters Three’…And none of the names in the account are listed anywhere but on the label.”

“She switched files.”

“Labels. Discs. Now why would she do that? And who did she switch it with?”

Eve began to scroll down the file, scanning her computer screen. “Madeline Bullock. Son of a bitch. These are the accounting files for the Bullock Foundation. They weren’t her client.”

“Cavendish, etc., was,” Roarke recalled. “And they represent the Bullock Foundation.”

“She accessed the foundation’s files,” Eve murmured. “Labeled it under another account. Nobody would bother going into that file on her unit if they were looking for what she had on the law firm, and through them the foundation. Kraus, Robert Kraus. He headed this account, and was – allegedly – entertaining Bullock and her son the night Copperfield and Byson were killed. If you need an alibi, why not pick the client whose books you’re cooking?”

She paced around her desk. “Copperfield sees something in the law firm’s accounts that doesn’t balance for her. Something that connects to the Bullock Foundation – both clients of her firm. Wouldn’t she go to one of the big bosses on thisand the foundation’s accountant? She goes to Kraus, expresses some concern, asks some questions. Maybe he brushes her off, or says he’ll look into it. But she’s curious and she’s precise. Something doesn’t add up so she wants to fix it. She takes a look on her own. Sees what you see,” she said to Roarke.

“Makes a copy.” He nodded. “She couldn’t be sure she could go back to Kraus, because she’d asked herself why he hadn’t seen what she’d seen. Who can she talk to about this?”

“Her fiancé. But since she’s come in with questions, Kraus is careful. And he’s going to see she’s accessed, made copies. Time to panic a little. So you threaten, you bribe.”

“And set up a double murder, alibied by two people with a vested interest. Two people who are the face of one of the most prestigious and philanthropic charitable foundations in the world.”

“And who are now accessories to murder, times two. I think I want to have a chat with Bob. Peabody, with me.”

“Ah, Dallas, always happy to be with you, but I think in this case, you should take your number cruncher. No way I can talk the talk.”

Eve pursed her lips, studied Roarke. “She’s got a point. You up for it?”

“Should be fun.”

“And a big sigh of relief from the math-impaired,” Peabody stated. “McNab and I can work the Tandy Willowby case while you’re talking to Kraus.”

“Good. You’re on Mavis duty. Let’s move,” she said to Roarke.

They didn’t find Kraus at home, but his wife interrupted her Sunday bridge game to tell them he was playing golf at The Inner Circle in Brooklyn.

She was a comfortable-looking woman, spiffed up for the bridge party in baby-blue cashmere.

“This is about that sweet girl and her darling young man, isn’t it? It’s just horrible. I spent such a lovely little while chatting with her at the company holiday party last December. I hope you find whatever vicious person did this.”

“I will. You were here that night, entertaining, I understand.”

“Oh, yes. We had Madeline and Win as our guests. Dinner, some cards. And all that while – ”

“You played late?”

“Until nearly midnight, as I recall. I was ready to drop. Actually thought I was coming down with something, I was that tired. But after a good night’s sleep, I was fine. We had a lovely brunch the next morning.”

“Give your wife a little something to help her sleep,” Eve theorized as they drove to Brooklyn. “Plenty of time to get to Copperfield’s, take care of her. Get to Byson’s, do him, get home. Catch a few z’s, then have a lovely brunch.”

“What did he do with the computers and discs?” Roarke asked.

“Yeah, there’s that. Hauled them home. Probably has an office there the wife doesn’t fool with. Or he rented a place to hold them until he could properly dispose of them. Only one little hitch with that particular theory though.”

“Which is?”

“Robert Kraus has never had a driver’s license or owned a car. Whoever did this had to have private transportation. So he worked with an accomplice.”

“Bullock or Chase?”

“Maybe. Likely. Or someone else in the firm. Cavendish or his keeper. It spreads out, the way I see it. One or more people in the accounting firm had to know what was going on. One or more people in the foundation. One or more in the law firm. You said it was an operation. I’m going with that. Where does the money come from? The funds they’re laundering, funneling, juggling? What’s the source?”

“It’s listed as donations, charitable trusts, privatized income. I couldn’t dig deeper without specific names and companies.”

“The fees, the percentages. They’d likely be kickbacks, or hush money to the accountant, the lawyer. We’ll need to follow that, because it landed somewhere.”

The Inner Circle was an indoor golf course and driving range where aficionados of the sport could play a round, practice their putting, and have a friendly drink. For added fees, there were tony locker rooms with sports channels cued into wall screens, efficient attendants, shower facilities, and the services of a masseur or masseuse. The wet area included whirlpools, saunas, a lap pool, steam room.

They found Kraus in a party of four, on the ninth hole.

“A few minutes of your time,” Eve told him.

“Now?” His brows drew together under a tweed golf cap. “I’m in the middle of a round, with clients.”

“You’ll have to catch up later. Or I could walk along with you,” Eve said obligingly, “and we can discuss the discrepancies in the Bullock Foundation’s account in front of your clients.”

“Discrepancies? That’s ridiculous.” But he glanced at the woman and two men at his tee. “A moment.” He moved to them, hands spreading in apology. His face was full of annoyance as he walked back to Eve. “Now what’s this about?”

“It’s about a multimillion-dollar motive for murder. Natalie Copperfield came to you regarding questionable accounts in the Stuben and Company file.”

“Stuben? She did not. You asked me if she discussed anything of the sort regarding a client with me, and I told you she hadn’t.”

“The questionable accounts relate to the Bullock Foundation, which is your client. And your alibi for the murders.”

He flushed, glanced around. “Would you mind keeping your voice down?”

Eve merely shrugged and hooked her thumbs in her coat pockets. “If you have a problem with someone overhearing this conversation, we can take it back to Central.”

Looking thoroughly put out, he gestured for them to follow. “We’ll take this to the clubhouse.” Kraus strode off the ninth green toward an open patio under simulated sunlight, and after swiping a key card in a slot, gestured them to an umbrellaed table.

“I don’t know what you think you’ve come across,” he began.

“The laundering of funds through charitable trusts,” Roarke began. “The disbursement of funds claimed as tax exempt to subaccounts, which is then funneled back into the trust and redisbursed. It’s a clever circle, washing considerable income annually.”

“The Bullock Foundation is above reproach, as is our firm. What you’re saying is impossible.”

“Natalie Copperfield accessed the Bullock accounts.”

“I don’t understand you, and obviously you don’t understand how we run our business. Natalie wasn’t cleared for that data.”

“But you were. They’re yours. Her killer got her home unit, her discs. Got to her office unit and deleted files. But he couldn’t delete all of them, certainly not files that were on record as her clients. She changed the label on the file. The Bullock data was still there.”

“Why would she do such a thing?”

Eve leaned forward. “We’re going to get you cold for money laundering, for tax fraud. You’re going to want to talk to me now, if you want any kind of help with two counts, murder one.”

“I didn’t kill anyone. My God, are you insane?” His hand trembled a little as he pulled off his cap. “I’ve never doctored an account. It’s ludicrous.”

“Your wife states you played cards on the night of the murders until after midnight. And she was extremely tired. She went to bed, giving you more than enough time to get to Natalie Copperfield’s apartment. To break in, to restrain her, torture her, kill her, and take her data unit.”

He wasn’t just pale now, he was gray. “No.”

“From there, to travel to Bick Byson’s loft, struggle with him, stun him, restrain and question him before you killed him and took his data unit. Have you disposed of them already?”

“I’ve never hurt another human being in my life. I never left the house that night. My God, my God, what is happening?”

“So you let Bullock or Chase do the dirty work?”

“This is absurd. Of course not.”

“I’m going to get a warrant for your other files, Mr. Kraus. What you did with one, you did with others.”

“You can get a warrant for whatever you like. You’ll find nothing because I’ve done nothing. You’re mistaken about the Bullock accounts. Natalie must have been mistaken, because there can’t be anything wrong with them. Randall – ”

Eve pounced. “What does Randall Sloan have to do with it?”

Kraus rubbed his hands over his face, then signaled to the waiter he’d initially waved away. “Scotch, straight up. A double. My God, my God.”

“What does Randall Sloan have to do with the Bullock account?”

“It’s his account. It’s my name of record, but it’s his account.”

“Why don’t you explain to me how that works?”

“He brought them into the firm, years ago. I had just come on as a junior partner. But his father wouldn’t allow him to head the account. There’d been some question of Randall’s reliability, his – ah – skills and work ethic. He’s better suited in public relations. But he brought the account in, and I was new. He came to me, asked me… It wasn’t precisely asking.”

Kraus took the glass the waiter brought him, downed a quick swallow. “I felt pressured, and to be honest, I thought it was unfair that he wasn’t given the account. So I agreed to keep my name on it, and he would do the actual business. I’d check the bottom line, of course, every quarter. And if there was any problem, any question, I’d take over. But the client was satisfied.”

“I bet they were,” Eve replied.

“She didn’t come to me. I swear to you, Natalie didn’t come to me about any problems, any questions.”

“Who knew that Sloan was doing the books for Bullock?”

“I didn’t think anyone did. He told me it was just a matter of pride, and I believed him. But he’d never hurt Natalie. She was almost like a daughter to him. This has to be some horrible mistake.”

“Does Madeline Bullock normally stay at your home when she and her son come to New York?”

“No. But Madeline was talking to my wife and mentioned that she loved our home, how welcoming it was, how peaceful. One thing led to another, and they agreed to stay with us. I need to see those records. I’m entitled to see them. I’m sure there’s just some misunderstanding.”

“Tell me about Randall Sloan’s lifestyle.”

“Please don’t ask me to speak behind the back of an associate. A friend. The son of my partner.”

Eve said nothing, just waited.

Kraus drank the rest of his scotch, signaled for another. “He gambles. Or he did. And poorly. There were rumors that some time ago – before I came to the firm – he skimmed a bit from one or two clients, and his father had to replace the funds. But he went into a program, for the gambling. There’s been no hint of anything improper for years. His father… Jacob’s a hard man, integrity is a god. His son smeared that. Randall will never be a partner. He accepts it. He prefers the work he does, in any case, to the administration, the accounting.”

“Yet he pressured you into giving him, under the table, we’ll say, a major account.”

“He brought them in,” Kraus repeated, and Eve nodded.

“Yeah, that’s interesting, isn’t it?”

“You believe him,” Roarke said when they left Kraus sitting under the umbrella in the pseudosunlight with his head in his hands.

“Yeah. You?”

“I do, yes. The outsider, the last man in, so to speak, doing a favor for the big man’s son. It’s reasonable. And clever of Sloan and the Bullock people not to use each other for alibis.”

“You got a dupe, you use the dupe. You drive,” she told him, and gave him Randall Sloan’s address. “Looks like I’m tagging London again.”

She put in a transmission to Madeline Bullock’s home in London and got what she thought of as a Summerset clone. Not quite as bony in the face, she decided, but just as dour.

“Ms. Bullock is traveling.”

“Where?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“If Scotland Yard knocked on your door in the next thirty minutes, could you say then?”

He actually sniffed. “I could not.”

“Okay. Say the house burns down. How would you reach Ms. Bullock to tell her the bad news?”

“On her private number, on her pocket ’link.”

“Why don’t you give me that?”

“Lieutenant, I am under no obligation to provide foreign authorities with Ms. Bullock’s private business.”

“Got me there. But even in the colonies we have our ways of getting information.” She clicked off. “Do they go to school for that?” she demanded of Roarke. “Is there a Tight-Ass University? Did Summerset graduate cum laude?”

“First in his class. Do you want to drive while I find the number you need?”

“I somehow managed to fumble my way through such pesky chores before I met you.” She started the search, then stopped. Sat back. “You know what? I’ve got a better.” She got Feeney at home.

He was wearing a baggy and faded New York Liberties Arena Ball jersey with a ball cap pulled over his explosion of ginger hair. “There’s a costume party at your house and I didn’t get invited?”

“Game, two o’clock.”

“You look ridiculous.”

He pokered up. “My grandson gave me this jersey. You tag me on a Sunday to critique my wardrobe?”

“Need a quick one. I’m looking for a pocket ’link number, private, and its current location.”

“Game,” he repeated, “two o’clock.”

“Murder. Twenty-four/seven. It’ll be quick. I just need the number and the area. The fricking country. Madeline Bullock. It may be registered to her, or to the Bullock Foundation. Probably her as it’s a personal ’link. London home base.”

“Right, right, right,” he said. And hung up on her.

“I could have done that for you,” Roarke pointed out.

“You’re driving.” And she contacted Peabody. “Take another look at Randall Sloan. Finances, travel, property, real estate. He’s a gambler, so look at it with an eye to that.”

“You got a scent?”

“Yeah, I’m following it now. Mavis?”

“She conked. Been out about a half-hour.”

“Good. If I can track down Randall Sloan, I’m bringing him in for questioning. I’ll let you know.”

“Dallas, I’ve got that list of agencies and counselors from England. All European-based.”

She shifted gears, focused on Tandy. “Give them to the investigating officers, Rome and Middlesex. Meanwhile, run them yourself, zero in on any that have offices in both countries. Especially those that have multiple locations in Europe. And shoot them to my PPC while you’re at it.”

“Got that. Good luck.”

Eve rubbed her eyes, blinked them open.

“Why don’t you get a little sleep before we get to Sloan’s?”

She shook her head, wished she’d thought to bring a vat of coffee with her. “No way of knowing if she’s still alive. If it’s the baby they want, if they just went in there and took it out. She’d be, what, like a vessel.” Eve turned to Roarke. “When she gives up what she’s holding, she’s expendable.”

“You can’t do any more than you’re doing, Eve.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be enough. If she’s alive, she has to be out of her mind with fear. Not just for herself, but the baby. You’re carrying that… potential inside you, it’s the whole focus of your world, I guess. You’re creating it, protecting it, bringing it – you know – forth. Through all the discomfort, inconvenience, pain, and blood and fear, it’s vital. Its health, its safety, that’s paramount. I see that in Mavis, the way she looks, holds herself, holds it.

“I don’t know if I’ve got that in me to give.”

“You have to be joking. Darling Eve, you give all that, and more, to complete strangers.”

“It’s the job.”

“It’s you.”

“You know how fucked up I am about kids, parents, the whole ball of it.”

He took her hand as he drove, brought it to his lips. “I know the two of us have strange, dark places inside us, and we might need some time for a little more light to seep in before we’re ready to add to the family we’ve already made.”

“Okay, good. More light. I’m for it.”

“Then I think we should have five or six.”

“Five or six what? What?” She thought… for a moment she thought her heart actually stopped. The buzz in her ears was so thick she barely heard his laugh. “That’s not funny.”

“It certainly was, especially from my point of view. You couldn’t see your face.”

“You know, one day, perhaps in our lifetime, medical science will find a way to implant an embryo into a man, incubating it there while said man waddles around looking like he swallowed and is unable to digest a pot-bellied pig. Then we’ll see what’s funny.”

“One of the many things I love you for is your delightful imagination.”

“Remember that when I put your name on the implant list. Why don’t people stay home on Sunday?” she wondered, bitterly, as she cued into the traffic. “What’s wrong with home? What kind of transpo did Bullock and her son take out of New York?”

“Another thing I love you for is the many and varied channels of your mind. No doubt private, given the depth of the Bullock wells.”

“Foundation shuttle. They came, ostensibly anyway, on foundation business. If they’re still traveling, they’ve probably made use of the same shuttle.”

“Where were they when you originally verified Kraus’s alibi?”

“I don’t know. Peabody did the verify, and she had to contact a foundation number and get a callback. It wasn’t pertinent at the time. But I can track that shuttle if I have to. Have to hack my way through international law and relations, and I hate that, but I’ve got enough to hold them for questioning. And I think the British government’s going to be very interested in their accounts.”

“They may take a hit there,” Roarke agreed. “But if they’re smart, and their legal representatives will be, they can dump that on Randall Sloan personally, and the firm.”

“I can tangle that, seeing as their legal reps fall under the same shadow. I’m going to have to turn this over to Global. After I talk to Randall Sloan.”

Randall Sloan lived in a trim and elegant old brownstone on the edge of Tribeca. From the sidewalk, Eve could see that the third floor had been converted into a solarium so that it was topped with curved, pale blue glass.

“He has a current driver’s license,” Eve said. “And keeps a vehicle four blocks from here in a private garage. Means, motive.”

“Opportunity is dicier, isn’t it, given that he has an alibi. Or do you think his dinner companions for that evening are covering for him?”

“Didn’t feel like it, but we’ll go back over that. He may have been a tool. Tools don’t always get dirty. If he didn’t do the murders himself, he knew about them.” She started up the three steps that led to the main entrance. “Alarm’s on green,” she pointed out.

As she lifted her hand to press the buzzer, she noticed there was more, and engaged her recorder.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Roarke, Expert Civilian Consultant, at the residence of Sloan, Randall. Upon arrival I’ve found the security system disengaged and the front door unlatched.”

Automatically, she drew her weapon. She buzzed, and called out, “Randall Sloan, this is Lieutenant Dallas with the police. I have a civilian consultant with me. Please acknowledge.”

She waited, ears cocked for any sound. “Mr. Sloan, I repeat, this is the police. Your residence is unsecured.” When there was no response, she circled around the line she had to walk, and eased the door open.

“Nothing in plain sight,” she stated. “He could have gone rabbit. I need a warrant.”

“Door’s open.”

“Yeah, and I could go in, check it out. I can argue probable cause, but without authorization I risk giving his lawyers something to whine about. I can get a warrant quick enough.”

She started to call in when someone hailed her from behind.

Turning, she saw Jake Sloan and Rochelle DeLay walking toward the house, hand-in-hand, faces rosy from the cold.

“Lieutenant, Jake and Rochelle, remember?”

“Yes. This is Roarke.”

“I recognize you.” As he came up the first step, Jake shot out a hand. “Good to meet you, and so you know, any time you’re looking for a young, hard-working accountant, I’m available.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“This is Rochelle.”

“Nice to meet you both.”

“You come to see Dad? He keeping you waiting in the cold?” Jake nodded toward the door. “It’s open.”

“We found it that way,” Eve told him.

“Really? That’s weird.” He moved by them and inside to give a shout. “Hey, Dad! You’ve got company. Come on in,” he said to Eve and Roarke. “We’re swinging by to get him for a Sunday deal at Grandpa’s.” Jake pulled off his watch cap, stuffed it messily in his coat pocket. “You want to have a seat? He must be upstairs.”

Eve had slipped her weapon into her pocket when he’d called out to her from the street, and kept her hand on it now. “Mind if I come with you?”

“Well…”

“Door was open, Jake, security off. It’s the cop in me.”

“Sure. Okay. He probably just opened it to look out for us. We’re running a little late. He forgot to engage it again. That’s all.”

But she could see she’d put worry in him as he turned to the stairs. “Dad? Hey, Dad. I’m coming up, and I’m bringing the law.” He tried a smile as he said it, but when there was no answer, it faded.

Her senses caught something all too familiar. “You want to stay behind me?” she said it casually, and shifted in front to take the lead. “Which is his bedroom?”

“Second on the right. Listen, Lieutenant – ”

Eve eased the bedroom door open with a knuckle.

Randall Sloan wasn’t going to make Sunday brunch, she thought, restraining Jake as he tried to rush into the room.

An elaborate chrome chandelier dripped from the vaulted ceiling. Randall Sloan hung from the rope that had been tightly looped around its gleaming post.