Chapter 13

BETTER, EVE THOUGHT, WHEN SHE SWITCHED to work mode. She wouldn’t want to go hand-to-hand with a Zeused-up chemi-head, but she could if she had to.

And she was pretty sure, considering the circumstances, she could talk Roarke into pizza and brainstorming at her desk.

In her office she went for caffeine—cold-style in a tube of Pepsi—while he had another glass of wine. And for comfort in one of her oldest T-shirts, a pair of navy flannel pants, and thick socks.

If work didn’t beckon, it was just the sort of thing she’d put on to curl up with Roarke and watch one of his old vids.

But work beckoned.

“So I thought I could bounce some things off you while—”

“Didn’t we just do that in the tub?”

“Perv.” She gestured with her icy tube toward her board. “I’m getting a more rounded picture of some of the players, from your POV. A business guy’s POV. Maybe, using that same POV I can get some more hypotheticals, run more probabilities.”

“We can do that.”

“Great. We can bounce and eat. Let’s keep it simple, just grab some pizza.”

“We can’t do that. I’d say the evening calls for something a bit more nutritious after the day you had.”

“I’m not that hungry.” She felt her cheesy pie slipping out of reach.“I feel okay. Plus, pizza gets a bad nutrition rap.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” With that, he left her for the kitchen.

Probably in there programming gruel or broth, she thought, with a little bitterness. And she felt stuck as he’d taken care of her, and was—as usual—willing to devote a large portion of his evening to her work.

So she’d choke down the stupid gruel.

She went to her board, did some additions, some rearranging.

She couldn’t see, not really, the difference between her top suspects. On the surface, sure, plenty of differences, but she didn’t get them.

She pulled out her pocket ’link when it signaled, noted Peabody on the display. “Yeah?”

“Hey, I’m sending you my notes from the interviews with the exes. I don’t know how much light they shed, but I can tell you I got an earful from Biden’s last ex. Can you spell bitter?”

She glanced over as Roarke brought something out from the kitchen—thought of pizza vs. gruel. “Yeah, I can.”

“Whitestone’s last serious relationship’s mostly sad, a little resentful. It’s the ‘Spent more time at work and with his friends than with me’ routine. Ingersol doesn’t really have a genuine ex. More like several women he sees or stops seeing off and on. The upshot there is fun guy, but commitment phobic.”

“I’ll look at it,” she said as Roarke went out, came in again.

“I didn’t hit up Newton’s fiancée, figuring she’s only going to tell me the good, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try for some juice on him. I tried a couple of her friends.”

“That’s a good angle.”

“I thought it would be—and if happy, in love, suited, perfect for each other, adorable, and so on are what we’re after, it was a great angle. Just no dish in that area.”

“No dish is still information.”

“Okay, I really tagged you to see how you were. Are you okay?”

“I’m good.”

“There’s a vid of the catch—well, a couple of them all over the Internet, all over the screen.”

“So I hear.”

“It was a really sweet catch, and too damn bad none of the people doing the vid got a decent capture of the suspect we were chasing.”

“We’ll have EDD see if they can finesse anything there. Meanwhile the two auditors in Vegas are being transported back, and straight to Stuben Health and Wellness. Meet me at the ambulance bay, eight hundred.”

“I’ll be there. Maybe you can get checked out while we’re there.”

“I’m fine, Peabody.” And to dispense with any more fussing, she cut her partner off.

She wandered over to see what Roarke had set on the table.

Some sort of stir-fry, she noted. Some sort of healthy deal, his dinner version of oatmeal.

It wasn’t gruel, but...

“That’s a lot of vegetables.”

“It is, yes, and if you eat them like a good girl...” He lifted the silver lid on another plate, revealed a small pizza, with pepperoni arranged into a smiley face.

She tried to give him a stony stare, but the laugh won out. “You think you’re cute, don’t you, pal?”

“Adorable.”

“In this case, you can have adorable. Ow!” She managed the stony stare when he slapped her hand away from the pizza.

“Vegetables first.”

Now the stony stare came naturally. “I’ve pummeled men for less.”

“Want to give it a go?” he offered, and forked up a bite of his stir-fry.

“I might, except the smiley pizza earns points.” She tried the stir-fry, discovered it wasn’t half bad. In fact, not bad at all with whatever sauce he’d programmed. It actually had a nice little bite to it. “So greed,” she began, “and envy, and in a sense gluttony. Maybe lust, too, and for some of them, definitely sloth. What’s left?”

“Of the seven deadly sins? I believe wrath and pride.”

“Okay, they can squeeze in there, too. The biggest that show in this group are the greed and envy. They’re deadly sins because they lead to others, right? They’re roots.”

“That would be one way of looking at it.”

“You’ve got some of them—well, everybody does—but they work for you. Not sloth. You’re not lazy, and to acquire, because acquisitions feels like another root here, you work. Physically, mentally. You think, plan, put time in. More than a lot of people who could easily coast put in. That’s the lust part.”

“I thought we had the lust part in the tub.”

“Lust for business.” She pointed her fork at him. “I get that lust from Whitestone, too. A lust for what he does, a desire to get up in the morning and do it again. It’s what builds success.”

“Well, that and a talent for doing what you do. You can want it, be driven to do it, but if you’re not skilled, all the lust in the world won’t bring you success.”

“Good point. In the case of my four top suspects, the lust doesn’t seem to me to root from what they do, but from the results and benefits of what others have done before, or are doing.”

“Lust for gain, which toggles back to greed.”

“Yeah. What is this, exactly?”

Roarke glanced at the bok choy on her fork. “Tasty.”

Because it wasn’t not tasty, she couldn’t formulate a reasonable argument. “Anyway, if you’re doing what you’re doing for the result, for the benefits, with no real lust or skill or basic appreciation for what generates the benefits, you’re going to look for ways to do less of what generates while pumping up the benefits.”

“Passing the work off to others, and/or cheating.”

“Others built something, figured it out, had to be good at it, and you’re plopped into the big leather chair and expected to keep it all going, and add to it. Maybe that’s privilege, sure, but that’s also pressure.”

“Remind me of that when we have children. It’s important to give them enough for a foundation, and not enough they can do nothing.”

She sure as hell wasn’t going to think about that now.

“On the other end of that, Alva Moonie’s family appears to have instilled work ethic and responsibility. So after her wild phase, she likes what she does and wants to do it well. It’s not money that corrupts, necessarily. It’s—”

“Greed. Once again.”

“I figure.” She ate in silence a moment, considering. “That covers them all, except—possibly—Pope. He’s either the mouse he appears or he’s really good at pretending to be one. We need to look for private accounts, hidden accounts and property. These types are bound to have some.”

“I’ve already started a search on that, but now that you’ve narrowed in, I’ll do the same and focus more keenly on the top of your list.”

She nodded, pleased she’d finished the stir-fry and could now reach for a slice. “You know how to think like a cop.” At his silent rebuke, she smiled. “To avoid and outwit cops, if we’re sticking with roots. And you’ve served as expert consultant, civilian, plenty. You’re also the biggest of the business big shots. You know how to think in business, in big-shot style. I can get a feel for it, apply it to the case, but my POV on running a company is largely colored by what I see you do, and that’s not what I’m seeing here. At least in my limited view.”

“You’ve investigated and closed countless cases that fall into areas you’re not familiar with.”

“Absolutely. But I don’t always have the most expert of expert consultants eating a slice of my pizza.”

“Who said it was all yours?” He toasted her with it, took a bite. “That would fall into the category of greed, and gluttony.”

“Smart-ass. Anyway, I keep going over the board, my notes, the tones, the shades, and I feel like I’m missing something. Some, I don’t know, nuance that would narrow it down. You’ll find the motive in the files, in the numbers and the books and the tax codes and all that bullshit. But you’re going to find, I’m betting, plenty of little slick deals and shoving through loopholes that aren’t quite big enough and require greased palms. Like that.”

“I have already, a bit here and there. Not enough, to my way of thinking, to justify murder or panic. Some adjustments, some penalties and interest, a fine or two—and some of those would be forgiven with a smart tax or corporate attorney making a case for misinterpretation or clerical error.”

“Harder for me to judge that part. Even if I could find it. You asked me before who was I leaning toward. I’m going to ask you the same thing.”

He shook his head, sat back with his wine. “I’m not a cop, not a trained investigator. Moreover, I haven’t spoken with any of your suspects, and am far from finished analyzing the financial data.”

She peeled off a piece of pepperoni, popped it in her mouth. “You’ve got a gut, same as me. You know business, business leaders the way I never will. You understand that world because you live in it. I’m just asking if you were me, which one would you give the hardest look?”

It surprised him how much he wanted to backpedal. He was used to watching her pick her way through the people, the evidence, the timing, the reasons, used to enjoying the way her mind and instincts played together on her hunt.

“And if I’m wrong? If I lead you in the wrong direction?”

“Direction’s what I want, right or wrong. It’s up to me to figure out what to do, how to do it. And up to me to take the direction or not. You’re the expert here. I’m consulting you. I want your opinion.”

“All right then. Sterling Alexander.”

“Why?”

“Start with elimination.” He rose, and as she so often did, circled her board. “Young-Sachs. Use your deadly sins here as a springboard. He’s got more sloth than greed or lust. He’d prefer to do nothing at all, and has an admin who knows more than he does about his company. That’s laziness and carelessness. No one should know more than you do about your own. And if he wanted more, he’d just ask his mother. He’s got no reason to cheat or steal, and hasn’t enough ambition to do either. And he’s just not smart enough.”

“I liked him.”

“Did you?”

“I mean I liked him for it because I didn’t like him otherwise. And that’s been part of the problem. They all gave me a buzz, one way or the other.”

“Very possibly you get a buzz because your instincts tell you none of them are thoroughly clean. They’ve all got pockets where they tuck some dirty little secrets.”

“Maybe. Young-Sachs flaunting his illegals use and his complete lack of competence as CFO. He’s using the company to get access to illegals. I know it. Then there’s Biden going out of his way to insult and offend, and I’m betting finding ways, maybe just little ones now, to dip into the till. And Pope so damn accommodating, so willing to take his half brother’s disdain. But what you’re saying makes sense.”

“So your instincts tell you all of them are wrong in some way.”

“Yeah, that’s been a problem.”

She rose now as well, joined him at the board. “So, elimination. Keep going.”

“All right. How do you massage your books—and it has to be in the books—if you don’t understand how they work in the first place? Young-Sachs is dim and incompetent. Greedy, sure, but more lazy.”

“Okay, let’s bump him down for now. Take another.”

“All right then, staying with the same company we’ll take Tyler Biden. He’s a loose cannon. Quick temper, and has difficulty instilling loyalty in his employees. He’s got an idiot as the CFO.”

“Yeah, which made me think it would make it easier for him to screw around the numbers.”

“Agreed, but his CFO has, by all appearances, a very bright admin, who’s also sleeping with the CFO. And if you’re any judge, she’s in love with him, or at least emotionally attached. More difficult to persuade said admin into covering something up that would, should it come out, blowback on her lover. And on her as it would be well known through the company that she’s doing her boss’s job.”

“That’s a good point, but—”

“Not finished,” Roarke said, getting into the spirit of it now. “He’s an ambitious, angry man, who’d know that many believe, perhaps rightfully, he only has his position with the company due to nepotism. He has a lot to prove. He enjoys the money, the status, yes, but he wants respect. Whoever’s doing this, or involved, would have to align several others, as you said, in order to pull it off. And they’d know he couldn’t make it on level ground. That would be important to him.”

She followed the line of thinking, but wasn’t quite convinced. Still, she nodded. “Okay, we’ll bump him down for now, too.”

“As for Pope,” Roarke continued. “Sometimes things are exactly what they seem. The man does his job reasonably well according to my information. He lives comfortably, but not ostentatiously. He yields power and authority to his half brother. His older and more domineering half brother. He’s well liked by those who work with and under him, though he’s certainly considered a lightweight. If he wanted more, he could have more simply by asserting himself, but that falls outside his comfort zone. It’s difficult for me to see him orchestrating something illegal through his mother’s company—his devotion to her is well known—and ordering or condoning the murder of the auditor. A mother herself.”

“Okay, I couldn’t really see him either. We could both be wrong and he’ll turn out to be some criminal mastermind, but it doesn’t play for me. Pretending to be a schlub all the time would be too damn much work, and for what?”

“Schlub?”

“Yeah, he comes off as one. Alexander despises him.”

“Yes, and that’s an open secret on the business world’s grapevine.”

“If something’s open,” she pointed out, “it’s not a secret.”

“True enough. It’s a poorly kept secret.”

“Okay, so we’ve got the why nots. Let’s hear your why.”

“I want coffee.”

“Me, too,” she realized, then huffed out a breath when he cocked an eyebrow.

“I’m the expert on this one,” he reminded her.

“Yeah, yeah.” She grabbed up the dishes on her way to the kitchen to deal with the coffee.

“You know,” he said from behind her, “we could have a droid take care of that—clearing the dishes, serving the coffee.”

“I see enough of Summerset.”

“Amusing.”

“I thought so.” She shoved the dishes in the washer. “Why would we need a droid looming around up here?” Especially since they almost always gave her the mild creeps. “It only takes a minute to deal with.”

“Agreed. A lot of people at a certain level of privilege wouldn’t think of doing something so simple for themselves as clearing a table or making their own coffee. Maybe taking care of a few small, basic tasks helps keep a person from sliding too deep into any of those seven deadly.”

She handed Roarke his coffee, picked up her own, leaned back on the short counter. “You’re betting Alexander doesn’t load his own dishwasher.”

“I’m betting he’s rarely, if ever, spent any appreciable time in his own kitchen. Pride’s as hungry as greed in some, and he’s proud of his status, his wealth, his position. He employs five full-time domestic staff, three part-time, and subsidizes them with three domestic droids.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Ask the right question of the right person,” Roarke said simply. “In contrast, Pope has two part-time domestics, no droids. Alexander also keeps two shuttle pilots on twenty-four-hour call, which is showy and wasteful. He insists on certain perks any time he meets with a hospital board—petty things. A certain type of bottled water, for instance, and a seat at table’s head. His wife often flies her favorite designer into New York from Milan. And he keeps a mistress.”

“Mistress?” Eve shoved off the counter. “I didn’t find a mistress. Where did you get a mistress?”

“I don’t currently have one as my wife is so often armed. Alexander is rumored to have one, long term, very discreet.”

“I need to find her, talk to her.”

“Rumor has it, again, she’s someone he’s known for years, and his father deemed inappropriate. My best guess would be a woman named Larrina Chambers, a widow, billed as a close family friend. I haven’t had time to confirm or eliminate,” he warned, “so rumor is all it is. The point is, as mistresses go, Alexander is a staunch Conservative, one who often bangs the political drum, and likes to trot out his family as examples of those values, those idealogies.”

“The wife has to know. You said long term. So the wife knows. Exposure there wouldn’t do more than embarrass him. It wouldn’t hurt his bottom line, would it?”

“Business-wise? I can’t see how. He’d been seen as something of a hypocrite, but that’s personal. Still, pride again.”

Pride, she thought. One of those seven deadly again. “So maybe part of it is payments to or gifts to the mistress, or housing, travel, what have you. And how he’s pulling that money from the business. An audit would show that.”

“It would.”

“Murder over that?” She shook her head. “People kill for less than nothing, but Jesus, it doesn’t feel like enough for this. Not enough for other people to be involved and invested.”

“I agree. There must be enough money at stake to spread around, and I’m wondering if that, too, may be long term. Or planned to be. Even before murder, it’s a lot to risk unless the rewards are fat enough.”

“So, it goes back to the books, the audit. Okay. You should focus on Alexander and Pope, see what you can dig up. And you were going to do that anyway.”

“I was, yes.” He smiled at her. “I’ll leave the rest to you.”

“You talked a good case.”

“I’m flattered, Lieutenant. If I’m right, will I get a promotion?”

“If you’re right I’ll fix dinner and clear the dishes. Not pizza,” she added at his long look.

“Acceptable. How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s fine. A little sore,” she admitted.

He moved to her, brushed his lips over her shoulder, then drew her in. And just held her.

“I’ve done my share of cheating, of stealing. For survival, and for the fun.”

She knew it. She knew him. “How many innocent mothers of two have you killed?”

“None so far.” He drew her back. “I won’t apologize for cheating and stealing or regret those days are done. Because here I am with you, and there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.”

“Naked on a tropical beach?”

“Well, now that you mention it.” When she laughed, he touched her lips with his. “But no, not even there. Just right here, right now.”

“It’s a good place.”

“And we can see about that tropical beach after the holidays, which are coming right along.”

“I can’t think about the holidays.” The idea had panic rising up in her belly. “I don’t even want to think about this premiere deal everybody’s all jazzy about.”

“We’ll have some fun with it. Try not to get any more bruises between now and then. Your dress shows a lot of skin.”

“See? One more thing to worry about? I’m going to look for a mistress.”

“I’ll look for corporate misdeeds. And we’re already having fun.”

She poured more coffee, and since Roarke settled at her desk, once again took the auxiliary station. She noted Galahad had come in at some point and now stretched out like overfed roadkill on her sleep chair. And all around the office Roarke had designed for her to resemble her old apartment, her old comfort zone, the big, beautiful house stood quiet.

No, she thought, there wasn’t anywhere else she’d rather be, right here and now.

She wrote up her notes first, reviewed, fiddled, then shot them off to Peabody. After reading her partner’s notes, she took a few minutes, feet up, eyes on the board to consider everything Roarke had said.

Young-Sachs too lazy, Biden too proud, Pope too self-effacing (and potentially just too honest).

Highlight on Sterling Alexander.

Maybe, she thought. Just maybe. And if so, the probability ran high that folded in Jake Ingersol and Chaz Parzarri. Smaller possibility, but still possibly, Robinson Newton, playing fast and loose with one of his partner’s clients.

She looked forward to her first face-to-face with Parzarri. That could turn the tide here. Kick him when he’s down, she decided. Hurting, weakened after a serious accident.

Maybe try to convince him it wasn’t an accident, though she’d vetted the report. A trio of just-out-of-college guys, drunk, celebrating a minor win at the casino, plowed straight into the cab transporting Parzarri and Arnold from their own casino trip back to their convention hotel.

Everybody involved did some hospital time, and she’d found nothing on the three drunk idiots to lead her to conclude they’d been hired to bash up a couple of auditors and themselves.

Just an accident, the luck of the draw, and an innocent woman was dead.

Yeah, she thought, yeah, she could use that, all that to try to crack Parzarri.

Meanwhile, she’d take a look at Alexander’s mistress.

The first thing she noted regarding Larrina Chambers was her age. At fifty-seven the woman didn’t qualify as a young, gold-digger bimbo. Next, she noted Chambers and her dead husband had opened an eatery in New Jersey twenty-two years before that had blossomed into a national chain over the following decade, and took the woman out of gold-digger status. As she’d copped a scholarship to MIT at the age of eighteen, and had earned her master’s in business at twenty-five, bimbo didn’t likely apply.

Eve’s suspicious mind nudged her to research how the husband met his demise, then had to set the idea of foul play aside. Neal Chambers died during a sudden squall off the coast of Australia when his sailboat was swamped. At the time, the widow was in New York, helping her mother recover from minor surgery. The investigation into the drowning—Chambers and four others, crew and passengers—had been thorough. She couldn’t find any holes, or indeed any motive.

As she poked, prodded, dug, she found no evidence Larrina Chambers was, as the term went, being kept. She had very deep pockets of her own. But she found considerable that indicated Larrina and Alexander were connected, and over the just shy of nine years since the husband’s death, had very likely rekindled the spark that had flickered during their early twenties.

Might be worth a conversation, Eve mused, and wrote up some notes.

Alexander, Ingersol, and Parzarri, she thought again, and began to slowly, methodically dig deeper into each man’s life.