Born In Death

5

BECAUSE HER MIND WAS ON OTHER THINGS, Summerset caught Eve off guard as she came in the door.

“Do you require change-of-address forms?”

“Huh? What?” She yanked herself back to the moment, then immediately regretted it. He was in her moment, the bony, black-suited pain in her ass. “Can’t you find another place to haunt? I hear there’s one available down on East Twelfth.”

His lips thinned – if, she thought, it was possible for what passed as his lips to compress in an even tighter line. “I assumed as you no longer appear to live here, you’d need the proper forms.”

She pulled off her coat, tossed it on the newel post. “Yeah, get those forms, I’ll fill them out.” She started up the stairs. “How many M’s in Summerset anyway?”

She left him behind in the grand foyer. Roarke was probably home, she decided, but she’d wait until she was out of the hearing of those demon ears before she checked on one of the house scanners. She was tempted to go straight into the bedroom, fall flat on the bed for twenty minutes. But with the case weighing on her, she continued up to her office.

He was there, pouring wine.

“Long day for you, Lieutenant. Thought you could use this.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” Either the man was psychic or she was pretty damn predictable. “Been home long?”

“A couple of hours.”

She frowned, checked the time. “It’s later than I thought. Sorry. I should have done the call home thing, probably.”

“Couldn’t have hurt.” But he moved to her, handed her the glass. Then he took her chin in his free hand, studied her face before he touched his lips to hers. “Long, hard day.”

“I’ve had shorter and easier.”

“And from the look of you, you’re going to make it longer. Red meat?”

“Why is everyone speaking in code around here?”

He smiled, ran his fingertip along the dent in her chin. “You could use a steak. Yes, pizza would be easier to eat at your desk,” he continued, anticipating her. “Consider having a meal that requires utensils payment for not checking in.”

“I guess that’s fair.”

“We’ll have it up in the conservatory.” To avoid protest, he simply took her arm and led her to the elevator. “It’ll clear your head.”

He was probably right, and in Roarke’s world it was a simple matter to order real meat and all the trimmings, have a meal with wine, even candles, in a lush setting where the lights of the city twinkled and gleamed beyond black glass, and a cheerful fire crackled away.

There were times she wondered that she didn’t get whiplash from the culture shock.

“Nice,” she said and tried to adjust her mind, her mood.

“Tell me about the victim.”

“Victims. It can wait.”

“They’re in your head. We’ll both do better if you talk it through.”

“So, you don’t want to chat about politics, the weather, the latest celebrity gossip over dinner?”

He smiled, sat back, gestured with his glass.

She told him, going step by step through both murders, the timing, the method, the background.

“Listening to them talk to each other? It just hit. They had something. It went beyond the surface, you get me? Beyond that gooey first stage of attraction.”

“The potential they had…It’s not just one or even two people being snuffed out, but the potential of what they might have made together.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s it.” She stared through that black glass to the lights of a city that offered the very best, and the very worst. “Pisses me off.”

“You’re rarely anything but pissed at murderers.”

“That’s a given. I mean they piss me off, the vics. What the hell were they thinking?” Frustration rippled through her, into her eyes, her voice. “Why didn’t they go to the cops? They’re dead not only because somebody wanted them dead, but because they were playing at something they couldn’t possibly win.”

“Many of us don’t automatically run to the police.”

“Some of you run from them,” she said dryly. “She had that new lock installed just two days before. Tells me she’s got some concerns. She takes a knife into the bedroom with her – or I have to assume she did from my read of the scene. Tells me she was scared. But…” She stabbed viciously at a bite of steak. “At the same time she says nothing to her defenseless sister who’s coming to spend the night. She doesn’t, at the very least, hole up with her boyfriend.”

And you’re suffering some, Roarke thought, because it could have been prevented if she’d come to someone like you. “She had a sense of independence, then, and an underlying certainty she was handling and could handle the situation.”

Eve shook her head. “It’s that ‘It can’t really happen to me’ attitude. The same one that gets people to stroll around in bad neighborhoods or flip off the expense of decent security. Violence happens to the other guy. And you know what else?” she added, waving her fork. “They were into it. Wow, look what we’ve uncovered. We’re going to blow it open – and do interviews, be important.”

“Ordinary people, ordinary lives, and then something that pulls them out of that. The accounting firm has an excellent reputation.”

“But you don’t use them. I checked. Mostly because I thought what a big, complicated mess if you did.”

“I considered them once upon a time. I found Sloan too stuffy and rigid.”

“Isn’t that the definition of accountants?”

“Shame on you,” he said with a laugh. “Such a cliché. There are people, darling Eve, who enjoy and are skilled with numbers and finance who are neither stuffy nor rigid.”

“And here I figured you were the exception to the rule. No, I’m just being pissy,” she admitted. “Feel pissy. The firm’s had their lawyers tangling up the warrant all damn day. They’ve got two employees murdered and they’re blocking me from doing my job.”

“By doing theirs,” he pointed out. “Sorry, Lieutenant, but if they didn’t use their muscle, and the law, to do whatever possible to protect their clients’ privacy, they wouldn’t have the reputation they hold.”

“Somebody in there knows what Copperfield and Byson knew. They were cogs, moving into the center of the wheel, but still cogs. Somebody closer in knows.”

He cut another slice of steak. “It wouldn’t be impossible for someone with superior hacking skills to access the files on Copperfield’s office unit.”

She said nothing for a moment because she’d thought the same. She’d considered this streamlined approach. “Can’t do it.”

“Didn’t think you could. And the why is the same as why the firm is paying their lawyers to paper the PA. It’s the job. At this point, you aren’t aware of other lives on the line. You can’t justify the shortcut.”

“No, I can’t.”

“You would be, I imagine, working your way into the wheel. Copperfield’s immediate supervisor.”

“Interviewed her, ran her. I’m not crossing her off, but if she wasn’t genuinely shocked and distressed about Copperfield’s death she’s missed her calling. Doesn’t mean she isn’t aware of, potentially, part of what Copperfield discovered. Why wouldn’t Copperfield go to her supervisor, with whom she had – allegedly – a friendly relationship? Had to assume Greene, the supervisor, knew the secret. Or was afraid of that.”

“You’re so sure it was something discovered at the firm?”

“It all points there. Money laundering, tax evasion, fraud, skimming? Some legit front for something not legit.” She shrugged. “Could be all manner of things. You probably know people who use the firm.”

“I’m sure I do.”

“Something for the back pocket,” she added. “Not just a little skimming or whatever,” she continued. “Not with the level of nerves and excitement it generated, not with the violence of the murders. A big deal. Something that drew an offer of a bribe, and ended with two deaths.”

He considered topping off their wine, but it would be wasted. His dedicated cop wouldn’t indulge herself in a second glass if she was going back to work. “Are you looking at professional hits?”

“Doesn’t feel like it, doesn’t look like it. And why cover that up, if so, and not go further? Make it look like burglary. Rape, personal vendetta. But it wasn’t sloppy either. When I get him, I’m going to be surprised if these were his first kills.”

Down in her office again, she set up a board as she had at Central. With the cat ribboning between his legs, Roarke stood and watched. And studied.

“Hot-tempered and cowardly.”

She stopped, turned. “Why do you say that?”

“Her face, for one. It took several blows to do that to her face. That wouldn’t have been necessary. Would it?”

“No. Keep going.”

Roarke lifted a shoulder. “Binding her hands and feet tightly enough to leave those bruises. That’s anger, I’d think. The burns, bottoms of her feet. There’s a meanness there. And it’s cowardly to strangle her when she was bound – same with the male victim. And the use of the stunner. It just strikes me.”

“Struck me the same. But you missed one. He got some kick out of it. No point seeing their faces when he killed them otherwise. Makes it intimate. Not sexual, but intimate. And he pulled the tape off their mouths before he killed them. Took that extra step. It’s powerful to watch the life go out, to see it and hear it while you cause it. Could’ve done it a lot of other ways, but this method?”

Her eyes flattened as she looked at the pictures she’d tacked up. “You feel it, your muscles, your hands. You hear the chokes, the gasps the tape would’ve muffled. Yeah, there’s temper here, but the power’s bigger.”

She settled into work, unsurprised when the cat padded out after Roarke – who would no doubt be more attentive than she would for the next couple of hours.

She studied the data Peabody had sent to her unit. Copperfield’s neighbors were low on the list, in her opinion. Why bother with a new lock when your potential problem could just make a grab at you in the hallway, in the elevator?

As for Byson’s, they didn’t fit for her either. The source was Copperfield, not her fiancé.

International accounts, Eve thought. That had been Copperfield’s bailiwick. Smuggling was always popular. A glossy client fronting illegals, arms, people smuggling?

She replayed the conversations between the two victims, watched faces, tuned in to voices. Upset, she concluded, some shock, excitement, but not horror or real fear.

Wouldn’t there have been if what they’d found had involved loss of life?

It said white-collar crime to her. High-dollar, white-collar, and at least to their knowledge, nonviolent.

A thought occurred that had her getting up, walking to the door between her office and Roarke’s. But his was empty. Even as she frowned, he spoke from behind her.

“Looking for me?”

“Jesus, you make less noise than the damn cat.”

“Tubs of lard aren’t particularly stealthy. Come to bed.”

“I just wanted to – ”

“Twenty hours is enough.” Once again, he took her arm. “Did your warrant come through?”

“About a half hour ago. I’m just going to – ”

“Get back to it in the morning.”

“Okay, okay.” She agreed because if he could drag her off without her blocking the move, fatigue was slowing her reaction time. “I was just wondering, as a mogul and all, how many layers does one of your minions have to go through to get to you?”

“It would depend on the minion and the reason he or she wanted to get through to me.”

“But whatever, whoever, there’d be the Caro layer, right?” she asked, referring to his admin.

“Yes, in all probability.”

“Even if the minion made up a bullshit reason, Caro would know there was an appointment, a meeting.”

“Certainly.”

“And each one of those top guys at the firm would have a Caro.”

“There’s only one Caro, and she’s mine. But again, yes, they’d have an admin, and I’d assume an efficient one.”

In the bedroom, she pulled off her boots, then began to undress in a haze that told her whatever she’d had left had dropped out when she’d walked away from the work.

“Going there bright and early,” she mumbled. “Get my hands on those damn files. Asshole lawyers cost me a damn day. Like to kick their asses.”

“That’s right, darling.”

“I heard that smirk.”

She slid into bed, let him draw her in so they were close and warm. “Bought the baby shower present thing today.”

“Good.”

She had a little smirk of her own in the dark. “If Mavis goes into labor during the deal here, you have to drive her to the birth center.”

There was utter silence for a solid ten seconds. “You’re trying to give me nightmares. Very small of you.”

“Somebody told me today you take your fun where you find it.”

“Is that so? Well then.” His hand slid slickly under her nightshirt and cupped her breast. “Look what I found.”

“Sleeping here.”

“I don’t think so.” His thumb stroked over her nipple as his teeth nipped into the nape of her neck. “But go on to sleep if you must. I’ll just have my fun and ward off nightmares. Multitasking.”

As his mouth and hands were all very busy, she could state without question the man knew how to multitask. And the slow, steady simmer of arousal burned away at fatigue until she arched from the pleasure of it.

Her mind went quiet; her blood went hot.

She turned to him, reached for him, her mouth seeking his.

The taste of it, of her, seeped into him until he was drenched in her. With the long line of her pressed against him, her hands gliding, the feel of her seduced the seducer.

He wanted her skin, the rapid beat of the pulse in her throat, the firm curve of her breast. Soft and strong and warm. Her breath caught, released on a low sound of approval; her hips rose in both invitation and demand.

As she moved with him, trembled for him, the need inside him that was never quite tamed leaped free.

Yes, now, she thought. Right now.

It was flash and burn when he plunged inside her, the glorious shock of being taken. She could see his eyes, watching her, even as she flew over the crest. Over it and into a storm of speed and heat.

“With me,” she managed. “Come with me.”

When his lips crushed down on hers, and the storm reached its peak, she felt him fly with her.

Breathless, with her system starting its long slide back, she blinked up at the dark sky window over the bed. He lay over her, his weight pressing hers into the mattress, his heart drumming with hers.

She felt wonderfully sleepy again, as she imagined Galahad might if he came across an unexpected bowl of cream and gorged himself.

“Guess you never know where you’ll find the fun.”

His lips brushed her hair, then he shifted, drawing her back against him again. “I do.”

Snuggled against him, she fell asleep with a smile on her face.

When she woke, Roarke was in the sitting area of the bedroom, scanning the morning reports as was his habit. She smelled coffee, but headed in to shower first.

When she stepped out of the shower, the scent struck her again. Sniffing like a hound she turned and saw a thick mug of it sitting on the counter by the sink.

It made her smile, and go a little soft inside just as she had as she’d drifted into sleep. She took the first glorious hit of coffee naked and dripping, then left it to use the drying tube and pull on a robe.

Carrying the mug with her, she came out, went directly to him. Bending down, she gave him a kiss nearly as strong as the coffee.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I did consider joining you and getting your blood moving in a different manner, but I’m already dressed.” Still looking at Eve, Roarke shot out a finger to his left, and warned Galahad as the cat tried to belly his way toward a bowl of berries. “You look fairly well rested.”

“Sleepy sex then six solid. Not shabby.”

“Said with a smug smile, just to finish off your alliteration.”

“Hah. You’re a sharp, sexy son of a bitch. See, I finish my own alliterations.”

He had to laugh. “Now that you have, sit and have some breakfast, and I’ll tell you what I learned of your top accountants from a business associate.”

“What associate?” She lowered the coffee she’d started to drink. “When?”

“You wouldn’t know him, and shortly ago.”

“Tell me while I get dressed.”

“Eat.”

She heaved a sigh, but dropped down and scooped some of the berries into a smaller bowl. “Spill.”

“Jacob Sloan founded the firm with Carl Myers, the father of the current Carl Myers on the letterhead. Sloan has a very small handful of accounts he continues to oversee personally. He does, however, according to my source, take a very active part in the running of the firm.”

“His ball, he wants to watch where it bounces.”

“I’d say so, yes. Myers handles domestic, corporate, and individual – as did his father – more of the very top individual accounts. Robert Kraus – who was made partner about a decade ago – heads up the legal department, and oversees some of the cream of the foreign and international.”

Roarke nudged a bowl of what looked suspiciously like flakes of tree bark toward her.

“Does he, your associate, know how active any or all of them are in the day-to-day?”

“He tells me very. While they are a layered and multifaceted firm with various departments, department heads, and so forth, they hold a weekly partners’ meeting – that would be only the three of them – a daily briefing, and there are quarterly account reports and employee evals, which each partner is copied on. Very hands on.”

“And if so, difficult for one to slip something shaky by the other two.”

“It would seem, but difficult isn’t impossible or even improbable.”

“Sloan’s the top dog,” Eve muttered. “Probably the hardest for an account exec to get to, one-on-one. And the one who’d make the most sense to try to seek out if you hit on something that seemed off. At least if you believed he wasn’t in on it.”

“And if you did, or weren’t sure, a reason to try to gather as many facts and as much evidence as possible before you went to the authorities.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She ate some of the tree bark without thinking about it. “Bio data I got on Sloan is that self-made stuff. Worked his way up, took risks, beat his own drum, built his firm and rep brick by brick. One marriage – and she has some family dough and prestige – one male offspring, conservative bent. Got a second home in the Caymans.”

“Makes excellent sense, tax-wise,” Roarke said. “And a good way to shelter income. He’d know all the ins and outs there.”

“Copperfield handled foreign accounts. Might be she stumbled on something he was into. Guy founds a firm that takes on a big shine over the years, puts all that time and effort into it, he’d have a lot of pride in it – and a lot at stake.”

She pushed up. “Well, I’m going to go see what I think of him.” Leaning over, she kissed him. “If I need help interpreting some of the numbers, are you up for it?”

“I could be.”

“Good to know. Later.”

She had Peabody and McNab meet her in the lobby of the building that housed the accounting firm. As ordered, four uniforms with banker’s boxes for transporting items were already in place.

McNab wore a coat that looked as if it had been used as a canvas for fingerpainting by a hyperactive toddler.

“Couldn’t you just try to look like a cop?”

He only grinned. “We get up there, I’ll wear a really stern expression.”

“Yeah, that’ll make a difference.”

She strode across the lobby, flashed her badge and the warrant at Security. He was already wearing a stern expression, and kept it in place as he scanned IDs and paperwork.

“My orders are to have you escorted up.”

“See these?” Eve tapped both badge and warrant. “These override your orders. You want to hitch onto the elevator with us, no problem. But we’re going up now.”

He signaled quickly to another guard, then fell in step behind Eve as she crossed to the elevators. They rode up in silence. When the doors opened there were two suits, one of each gender, waiting.

“Identification and authority, please.” The woman spoke snippily, then studied the three badges and the warrant. “These appear to be in order. My associate and I will accompany you to Ms. Copperfield’s office.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Mr. Kraus is on his way. If you’ll just wait – ”

“Did you just read this?” Eve lifted the warrant again. “It doesn’t require me to wait.”

“Simply courtesy – ”

“You should have thought about courtesy before you held my investigation hostage for more than twenty-four hours.” Eve headed off in the direction she and Peabody had taken the day before.

“Privacy matters,” the woman began as she quickened her pace to match Eve’s stride.

“Yeah, so does murder. You bogged me up. Kraus wants to talk to me, he can talk while we’re getting the files and electronics.” She swung into Natalie’s office. “This warrant authorizes me to confiscate any and all data, disc, and hard copy, any and all files, notes, communications, personal property – hell, let’s cut it down. I’m authorized to take everything inside this room. Let’s load it up,” she said to Peabody and McNab.

“Our client files are highly sensitive.”

In a flash, Eve rounded on her. “You know what else is sensitive? The human body. You want to see what was done to Natalie Copperfield’s?” Eve made a move to reach into her file bag.

“No, I don’t. And we’re very distressed about what happened to Ms. Copperfield and Mr. Byson. We’re very sympathetic to their families.”

“Yeah, I slapped up against your distress and sympathy a few times yesterday.” Eve pulled open a desk drawer.

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

The man who entered was well turned-out, middle fifties in a stone-gray suit and blinding white shirt. He had a prominent nose and dark eyes in a strong face with an olive complexion. His hair was ink black, brushed back in waves that made wings out of the silver he’d either let come into his temples or had put there for effect.

She recognized him from the ID shot she’d accessed as Robert Kraus.

“Mr. Kraus.”

“I wonder if I could impose on you for a short time. If your associates could continue to deal with this business, my partners and I would like to speak with you in our conference room.”

“We’ve got Byson’s office to do next.”

He looked just a little pained, but nodded. “Understood. We’ll try not to keep you long.”

Eve turned to Peabody. “Everything. Boxed and labeled. Uniforms to transport if I’m not back before you’re done. I’ll find you.”

“First let me apologize for the delay,” Kraus began as he gestured Eve into the corridor. “Ethically and legally we’re obliged to protect our clients.”

“Ethically and legally I’m obliged to protect the rights of the victims.”

“Understood.” He walked past the bank of office elevators to a private car. “I knew both Natalie and Bick, and they had both my professional and personal respect. Kraus to sixty-five,” he said into the speaker.

“Did either of them speak with you about a potential problem, personal or professional?”

“No. But it would have been highly unusual for either of them to do so, certainly if it was personal. If there was a problem or question with one of their accounts, they would have gone to their department head, who – if necessary – would have reported to me or one of the other partners. Certainly, the partners would expect a report or memo on such a circumstance, even if it was resolved.”

“And did you receive such a report or memo?”

“No, I did not. I’m puzzled why you believe or suspect that what happened to them has anything to do with Sloan, Myers, and Kraus.”

“I haven’t told you what I believe or suspect,” Eve said evenly. “Investigating all areas of their lives, their movements, their communications, is standard and routine.”

“Of course.”

The car stopped, and once again he gestured Eve ahead of him.

Here was the power center, she realized. As was so often the case, power – like heat – rose to the top.

A wall of glass with a pale gold sheen let in the city with a gilded light that made statements of industry and wealth. Plush carpeting of deep red was bordered with dark, thick wood. There was no reception area here, no waiting alcove. Eve imagined any client worthy of this floor would never be expected to check in or cool heels.

Instead there was a seating area of lush sofas, thick tables, obviously arranged for informal or personal chats. It boasted a small, stylish bar where she assumed the tony clients could request their drink of choice.

Space and silence were the watchwords here. Office doors were few and distant, and all were dominated by an inner wall of that golden glass. Kraus escorted her over to the wall, subtly waving a hand in front of a small security eye. Glass whisked open to reveal the large conference room behind it.

With the city rising behind them, the other two partners sat at a mile-long table.

The younger, Carl Myers, rose. His black suit was softened by a thin silver chalk stripe. There was a black mourning band around the left sleeve. His hair was a wavy, medium brown brushed high off his forehead. His eyes, a soft hazel, met Eve’s directly as he came around the table and extended his hand.

“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m Carl Myers. We’re sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances.”

“I meet most people under tragic circumstances.”

“Of course.” He never missed a beat. Handsome, fit, he gestured toward the head of the table where Jacob Sloan sat. “Please, have a seat. Is there anything we can get for you?”

“No, thanks.”

“Jacob Sloan, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Roarke’s cop.”

It was a term she was used to now, even when it was said with a hint of derision. Still, she tapped the badge she’d hooked on her belt. “This makes me the NYPSD’s cop.”

He acknowledged that with a faint lift of silver eyebrows. He struck her as honed, face and body, as though he whittled himself down to sheer power. His eyes were stone gray, his suit stark black. Like his face, his body, his hands were thin but with a look of steely strength.

He didn’t offer one to Eve.

“You, as a representative of the police department, are infringing on the rights of our clients.”

“Somebody really infringed the hell out of the rights of Natalie Copperfield and Bick Byson.”

His mouth tightened, but his eyes never wavered. “This firm takes both of those difficult circumstances very seriously. The death of two of our employees – ”

“Murder,” Eve corrected.

“As you say,” he agreed with a nod. “The murder of two of our employees is shocking and tragic, and we will cooperate with your investigation to the letter of the law.”

“Not much choice there, Mr. Sloan. How about the spirit of it?”

“Please, let me get you some coffee,” Myers began.

“I don’t want any coffee.”

“The spirit of the law is subjective, isn’t it?” Sloan continued. “Your concept of it may very well veer from mine, and certainly is bound to veer from our clients’ – who expect, who demand, that we protect their privacy. The circumstances of this terrible thing will reverberate throughout this firm. The concern that sensitive financial data will be viewed by eyes not cleared by this firm to do so will distress our clients. I’m sure as the wife of a powerful, influential, and wealthy man, you understand that.”

“First, I’m not here as anyone’s wife but as the primary investigator of a double murder. Second, the distress of your clients, whoever they may be, isn’t a priority for me.”

“You’re a sarcastic, difficult woman.”

“Having a couple of dead bodies on my hands that were beaten, tortured, and strangled just doesn’t bring out my sunny side.”

“Lieutenant.” Myers spread his hands. “We understand completely that you have a responsibility to fulfill. As we do. And believe me, everyone here wants those responsible for what happened to Natalie and Bick caught and punished. Our concerns on a secondary front are for our clients who trust and depend on us. There are people – competitors, if you will – business adversaries, ex-spouses, the media, who would go to considerable lengths to learn the contents of the files you’re confiscating today.”

“Are you insinuating I’d be open to a bribe by one of these parties to pass on that information?”

“No, no, not at all. But others who lack your integrity may be tempted.”

“Any and all who’ll have access to the information in those files will be hand-picked by me or my commander. You want reassurance that the data will remain secure, you have it. On my word. Unless such information is determined to be the motive behind or connected to the murders of Copperfield and Byson. That’s the best you get.”

She waited a beat. “Since we’re all here, let’s clear up some business. I’ll need your whereabouts for the night of the murders. Midnight to four A.M.”

Sloan laid his hands on the table in front of him. “You consider us suspects?”

“I’m a cynical so-and-so. Your whereabouts, Mr. Sloan.”

He drew breath through his nose, expelled it. “Until approximately twelve-thirty, my wife and I were entertaining our grandson and his friend. At that time, they left our home and my wife and I retired. I remained home with my wife until the following morning when I left for the office. At seven-thirty.”

“Names, please? Grandson and his friend.”

“His name is mine. He was named for me. His friend is Rochelle DeLay.”

“Thank you. Mr. Myers?”

“I was entertaining out-of-town clients – Mr. and Mrs. Helbringer from Frankfurt, their son and daughter-in-law – until sometime after one A.M. We were at the Rainbow Room.” He smiled wanly. “And, naturally, I have the receipts. My wife and I returned home, went to bed just before two, I believe. I left for work the next day about eight-thirty.”

“And how can I contact your clients?”

“Oh, God.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I suppose you must. They’re staying at the Palace. Your husband’s, I believe.”

“Small world. And Mr. Kraus.”

“Also entertaining clients with my wife, in my home. Madeline Bullock, and her son Winfield Chase, of the Bullock Foundation. They were our guests for a couple of days while they were in New York. We had dinner and played cards. Until about midnight, I believe.”

“I’ll need to contact them.”

“They’re traveling. I believe they’re making a stop or two on their way back to London, where the Foundation is based.”

So, she’d track them down.

“Mr. Kraus has stated that neither of the victims approached him with any questions or any problems pertaining to their jobs, or their personal lives. Did they approach either of you?”

“No.” Sloan said it flatly.

“I spoke with Bick a few days before this happened,” Myers began. “Regarding the execution of a trust fund for a client’s new grandchild. He never mentioned a problem.”

“Thank you. It may be necessary for me to speak with all of you again, and will certainly be necessary for me to interview the supervisors and associates of the victims in this matter.”

“Gentlemen, would you excuse us.” Sloan lifted a hand. “I’d like a word with Lieutenant Dallas in private.”

“Jacob,” Kraus began.

“I don’t need legal counsel, for God’s sake, Robert. Leave us alone.”

When they were, Sloan pushed away from the table, walked to the wall of glass. “I liked that girl.”

“Excuse me?”

“Natalie. I liked her. Fresh, bright, had a spark in her. She was friendly with my grandson. Friendly,” Sloan repeated as he turned. “They worked in the same department. Her department head was about to put her up for promotion. She would have gotten it. I spoke with her parents this morning. You think there’s no compassion here? No sympathy? There’s more.”

Those thin hands fisted. “There’s rage. This firm is a home to me. I built it. Someone came into my home and killed two of my people. I want you to find the bastard. But if, in the course of your investigation, confidential data regarding clients of this firm leaks, I’ll have your job.”

“Then we understand each other, Mr. Sloan. As long as you understand that if, during the course of my investigation, I learn that you had any part – directly, indirectly – in those murders, I’ll have you in a cage.”

He crossed to her, and this time, held out his hand. “Then we have a perfect understanding.”