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Chapter 14

HE WAS ONTO SOMETHING. ROARKE FELT IT shift and slide, very much like a lock under the pick.

He’d already found three off-shore or off-planet accounts for Alexander—two of them absolutely legal if not wholly, technically, ethical.

He wouldn’t quibble with wholly, technically ethical as Eve might. They had a different threshold there. Even the one—technically again—illegal wouldn’t equal serious damage or problems. Fines, a naughty-boy finger wag and a bit of hot water for his money manager.

And the manager could, very likely, lure more clients with the incident.

But those accounts had been playfully easy to find, especially for someone who knew where and how to look for such things.

Which caused him to believe there would be more, not so playfully easy to find, and not at all legal.

He’d find them, Roarke thought. People had patterns and tells, habits and rhythms. It was simply a matter of finding them, using them.

But there was more, he felt that, too.

He remembered the sensation, from ago as he thought of it, of popping a lock and finding more than expected. That frisson of heat and energy in the fingertips.

Exciting, he recalled, in an almost mystical way no one but another thief would recognize or truly understand.

But ago was then, and this was now. He found nearly the same heat and excitement from tapping into the vault of secrets and misdeeds, to work with his cop.

Thinking of her, he glanced over. Ah well, he thought, she was done. She didn’t know it yet, but he knew the signs. Her body had begun its droop, her eyes were going a little glassy. Left to her own devices she’d have worked until her head just dropped down on her desk.

When he checked the time, he noted it was nearly half-one. No wonder.

Even as he watched her sliding, the cat butted its head against his shin.

“All right, I see, don’t I? It’s off to bed for all of us.”

Considering her injuries, she needed that bed, a reasonable night’s sleep in it. So he programmed what he could of his work in progress to auto, copied and saved the rest before he rose to go to her.

“I’m calling time.”

“Huh? I’m... just taking a harder look at Ingersol.” She scratched her fingers in her hair as if to wake up her brain. “Nothing works with Newton in this, with him crossing into Ingersol’s client base. I mean, it would be pretty clever, but that’s predisposing you’d get caught and have the patsy waiting.”

“And people like these rarely if ever believe they’ll be caught.”

“They just don’t. So, anyway. You said once to look at insurance. Ingersol’s got heavy coverage, mostly on art. Way over the listed value.”

“Which could mean he fudged the value initially so as not to raise flags on where he got the money to buy it. Or he’ll make a claim and skin the insurance company.”

“I didn’t see any claims here, but—”

“You can look more tomorrow. We need some sleep.”

“It’s not that late,” she began, then looked at the time. “Oh. I guess it is.”

“Tomorrow.” He drew her to her feet, felt her body tense. “You’re feeling that fall you took.”

“A little stiff, that’s all.” But she didn’t argue when he leaned down, manually saved her work.

“I’ve a couple of lines to tug,” he told her as he led her out of the room. “And I’ll have a better grip on them tomorrow.”

“What lines?”

“Some tucked-away accounts—two legal, one questionable. Some transactions that bear a closer look. I expect the auditor in his pocket, if indeed he’s in the pocket, would have tidied it all up. And so I expect I’ll find more that hasn’t yet been cleaned. He’s listed travel expenses, business expenses, and the locations weigh heavily toward places that have large gambling draws and generous tax codes.”

“It’s a way to launder money.”

“A time-honored method for a reason,” Roarke said as they entered the bedroom.

While she readied for bed, he brought out a med-pad. “You’ll sleep better for it,” he said before she could object. “And for the blocker you’ll take. A good night’s sleep will put you back in tune to catch the bad guys. Let’s see the back door.”

She rolled her eyes, but she turned so he could study her ass.

“You’re still carrying Africa, but it’s eroding at the edges.”

“Great. We’re destroying the Dark Continent.”

He laughed, gently applied the pack to her shoulder, then gave Africa a soft pat. “Hopefully its land mass will have further eroded by morning.”

“With or without Africa, I’m going to push Parzarri in the morning.” She slid into bed. “Those accounts you found, that’s something to push on. Oh, Larrina Chambers isn’t what you’d call a mistress,” she added, relaxing as Roarke lay beside her. “She’s got plenty of her own. They’re connected, I’m damn sure, but it’s not a being kept kind of deal. I don’t know if I’ll be able to work her. I have to think about it.”

As her voice had already thickened, he began to rub her back, lightly, lightly, to lull her under. “The wife’s gotta know. You can’t hook up like that for what looks like about six or seven years without the wife figuring it out. Unless she’s another idiot.

“I’m not an idiot.”

Smiling, Roarke continued to stroke. “I’ll keep that in mind when I decide to have a long-term affair.”

“Yeah, you do that. They’ll never find your body,” she murmured, then dropped into sleep.

His smiled warmed, and feeling well loved, he dropped off with her.

···

She woke to see Roarke in his usual spot, already dressed and with the numbers and codes scrolling on screen as he worked on a tablet.

She sat up carefully. Stiff, a little sore as predicted, but no twinges or grinding. Good sign.

“How is it?” he asked her.

“Pretty okay.” Her shoulder didn’t grind, but it did groan a little when she rolled it. A hot shower, she decided, would take care of it.

He circled his finger as he had the night before, and as she had the night before, she rolled her eyes and turned. “More like South America now,” he decided. “An improvement.”

But he didn’t like the sickly yellow bruising across her chest.

“When I find that fucker, he’s going to have a continent on his ass.”

“Go for Asia,” Roarke suggested. “It’s bigger.”

“An Asian ass-kicking. I can do that.”

He thought she’d have to beat him to it, but didn’t mention it.

She angled around to take a look at her butt in the mirror. Better. A lot better. “I dreamed about flying babies. You can’t catch them all.”

“That’s... unfortunate.”

“I’ll say. They’d hit the ground and pow.” She threw her hands up in the air. “All this stuff came gushing out.”

“Really, Eve, you’ll put me off breakfast.”

“Not guts and stuff. It was like little weird toys and shiny candy. Like they were those pi?ata things people bust up for what’s inside.”

He lowered the tablet to study her. “You have such a busy, fascinating brain.”

“And the vic’s there, too, sitting on one of those benches on the High Line. She keeps saying two and two makes four. Over and over. I mean I get it, numbers don’t lie, numbers add up, but she’s sitting there, chanting that and working on one of those ancient adding things.”

“An abacus?”

“What’s an abacus? Oh, right, one of those—” Standing naked but for the pack on her shoulder, her hair in tufts, she slid her fingers through the air. “No, it was one of those—” Now she tapped her two index fingers in the air, then swiped her hand.

“An adding machine.”

“Yeah. I’m trying to catch all those flying babies and she’s tapping away, muttering basic math. It was distracting. I probably missed a few because she wouldn’t give it a rest. Anyway, weird.”

Weird indeed, he thought as she went into the bathroom, but not a nightmare.

He rose, got a fresh med pack, the wand, programmed coffee. After a brief consideration, he opted for cheese and spinach omelets. Enough cheese and she wouldn’t bitch about the spinach. He thought she could use the protein and the iron.

When she came out, wrapped in a robe, he had the food and the first-aid tools set out. She eyed them both suspiciously.

“What’s in those eggs?”

“Eat them and find out. I’ve been playing with some of the data my auto-search spit out. It’s interesting.”

“What have you got?”

“Eat and find out.”

She sat, but went for the coffee first. “Does two and two make four?”

“I think not in this case. There’s a payment here of just over two hundred thousand to IOC. A search for IOC turns up several companies and organizations including a porn site billed as the Intense Orgasm Companion, which deals in vids, toys, enhancements, real-time vid or VR sex with a licensed companion, contacts to LCs who are affiliated with the site and will make house calls. And so on.”

Sex, she thought, never failed to sell.

“I don’t think Alexander funneled two hundred K out of his company for porn.”

“I tend to agree. I lean toward Investment Opportunity Corporation, a smallish outfit based in Miami, but claiming national coverage. They buy and sell properties—primarily commercial, but also residential. Developed or zoned for development.”

“Isn’t that basically what Alexander and Pope already does?”

“It is, so it’s odd—not illegal—but odd they’d pay out six figures, under the label of operating expenses, to another company. IOC is also connected, if you follow the dots carefully, to yet another company. Real and Exclusive Properties. This one’s based in the Caymans, claims global coverage. It caters to, according to its site, investors looking for exclusive properties, as individuals or groups. One of their services is analyzing clients and properties and matching them up.”

“What, like a dating site?”

He grinned at her. “I suppose so. They have a few properties on their site, and some testimonials from satisfied clients. They suggest direct contact for further information, and of course, exclusive property investments.”

“And you smell fraud?”

“Well, it fairly stinks of it, darling. This sort of thing is ripe for fraud.”

She thought she could see it, more or less, but wanted clarity. “How?”

“The basic con here would be to lure the client, and the money, in. Then make some reasonable payoffs as you would in any hustle to prime that pump for more. I suspect some of the land doesn’t exist, or is well overestimated in value thanks to payoffs or grifters on the payroll who can spin the con.”

“How do they get away with it? If they skin clients, there’d be noise.”

“You’d keep it fairly small, the dollar amounts. Keep it under the radar of the Security and Exchange Commission or its global alternative. Deposit in several accounts, again, keeping those deposits under the radar. Run the con, shut down, take the money, launder if necessary, then set up elsewhere. Different name, different look, different place. Same basic con. That’s the simplest.”

“Okay.” Yeah, she could follow it. “Alexander gets his share—the elephant’s share—”

“Lion’s share, as you perfectly well know.”

“Elephants are the biggest, and he takes the biggest.”

“Your logic is... unarguable.”

“See? So, he’s the elephant, then he has to wash the money, then bury it, or just bury it.”

“He has another easy system for laundry with the real estate. Arrange to purchase a property below market value, giving the difference in cash to the seller. He saves on taxes. Then you resell at market a few months later and make a legitimate profit. The money’s now clean.”

“He’s in the perfect position for that.”

“He is. Now, there are plenty of other ways, more complex, and more profitable to pump up the profits. Set up a loan company, for instance, which I expect to find. The client takes out the loan to purchase the property. Then you diddle with the loan, make some on that, the property turns out, when legitimately assessed, to be worth a fraction of that loan. If you keep it small, a few thousand here and there so the IRS doesn’t take note, you can draw cash out of those loan accounts—wash it, and it appears clean. If and when the client defaults on the loan as he’s in deeper than the value, you also have the land.”

She listened as she ate. “It seems like a hell of a lot of work. And it seems like you could make the money just doing it legitimately.”

“That doesn’t factor in the thrill, the greed—there’d be skimming and circling around the tax codes—and the enjoyment some have from screwing over others.”

“Get rich quick is usually a scam and always for suckers.”

“And there’s never a shortage of suckers,” Roarke pointed out. “I expect the bulk of the clientele falls into two categories. The naive, novice investor, and the overconfident who believes he can con the cons.”

“Did you ever run this sort of thing?”

“I’ve enjoyed the feel and scent of freshly laundered money.” He smiled as he topped off their coffee. “Lieutenant. But not the real estate scams. I could have,” he considered. “But I liked the game on its level playing field. And I’m good at it. I liked to steal. It’s hard to apologize, even to a cop, for having an aptitude and affection for the illegal. I stole to survive at first, but there’s no question I developed a taste for it. But the con? Not as much. And now.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I enjoy putting my talents to your use. Which I’ll do today. I have some of my own to see to, but I believe I can do that from home. Then I’ll see what I see with all this two and two makes four.”

“I may break Parzarri down. He’s hurt, and I could use some of this if I have to for pressure.”

“You’ve got enough to bring Alexander in on the fraud. What I have already paints a picture.”

“Maybe, but I don’t want him on fraud. It’s a good lever, but I want him on murder. I want them all. Conspiracy to murder, murder for hire. If I push on the fraud straight off, he could cover and the feds are going to come swooping down on me. They won’t care about Dickenson as much as busting up a big-ass land fraud operation with a hefty side of money laundering and tax evasion. I’d rather he thinks he’s getting away with that end, keep him worried about me on murder.”

“He could try for you again.”

“He could. He’s probably stupid enough. I have my magic coat. Don’t worry,” she said because she knew he did. “He couldn’t take me before, and I have to admit I wasn’t expecting it. Now I am. His trigger has to be on his payroll somewhere. I don’t think he’s quite stupid enough to have tagged Thugs ‘R’ Us.”

“They do sell an inferior product.”

“I couldn’t find the fucker on a search through employees, but he’s there. I’m going to pass it to Feeney for a matchup. I’m still betting former cop or military. He’ll pop sooner or later. But the auditor’s priority.”

She rose to dress.

“If I manage to get my own done, and solidify any of yours, I’ll come in to Central to fill you in.”

“Okay with me, but you might want to tag me first. I may be out in the field.”

“I’ll find you.”

When she strapped on her weapon harness, pulled a jacket over it, he stretched out on the sofa with his tablet, and the pudgy cat sprawled over his feet.

If you didn’t know better, she thought, you’d see a man completely at his leisure.

Then again, the way he approached the work, that wasn’t far off.

“Is that how you work?”

“For the next twenty minutes.” He looked up at her, smiled, crooked his finger.

She leaned down, easing in for a kiss.

“I meant to tell you, I’ve arranged an after-premiere party at Around the Park.”

Her eyes went to slits. “You waited to tell me until I’m damn near out the door so I couldn’t complain.”

“Isn’t it a testament to our relationship, how well we know and understand each other?”

“I’ll give you a testament,” she muttered, and started out.

“Mind the exploding babies,” he called after her, and heard her laugh.

···

Chaz Parzarri felt fine and good. But then he’d flown on the private shuttle, compliments of the insurance company of the shitheads who’d busted him up, and the cab company for their substandard safety features. And he’d flown on the really good drugs the in-flight nurse kept pumping.

They said he’d be laid up a couple more weeks, and he’d need a couple weeks of PT after that—but he was fine and good with that, too. As long as the drugs kept coming.

He had work to do. He could do that from the hospital in the private suite, also courtesy of the insurance companies. The audit wouldn’t take long, and being willing to do it earned him points with his supervisor and with Alexander.

The accident, now that he didn’t hurt like fuck every time he blinked an eyeball, had actually worked out for him. He’d get a big-ass settlement, paid time off, piles of sympathy and attention. In fact, he planned to run some numbers for himself. A big enough settlement, and he might just retire, go live the good life in Hawaii the way he’d intended to do in another six-point-four years.

When he’d first come out of it, he’d been scared. Really piss-pants scared. That maybe he’d die, or maybe they’d find irreversible brain damage with all the tests they’d run. When he stopped being scared of that—or mostly—he’d been scared about the audit. He’d barely started on it before the convention.

Okay, maybe he’d procrastinated some, but there’d been plenty of time. Should have been plenty. And he had the framework for the adjustments, the doctored figures, the clean monthly files he’d kept carefully buried on his home unit.

A couple of days to implement, run an analysis, do a recheck, and boom! Done, clear, and a fat fee wired to his holding account, then wired—by himself—to his numbered, anonymous, and tax-free account in Switzerland.

Still all good, he told himself. Just a few days later to finish it all, and still comfortably ahead of the deadline.

He hadn’t been able to contact Alexander. They hadn’t allowed him a ’link in his room, but then again, he’d been barely able to talk until yesterday. He’d take care of that as soon as he was tucked into his medical suite.

Jim Arnold hobbled over on his skin cast. “How ya doing, partner?”

“Cruising, partner.”

As Jim sat, stuck out his casted leg, he winced a bit. “I can’t wait to get back, get home. The Vegas doc said they’ll probably let me go home after they check me over. Maybe keep me one night, but then spring me. I’m sorry you weren’t as lucky.”

“Yeah.” Parzarri put on a grim face, though he liked the idea of a few days in the hospital, people fussing over him, bringing him food. “I guess I used up my luck at the blackjack table.”

“You were rolling. I wanted to tell you Sly just texted. He’ll meet us at the hospital. I told him he didn’t have to do that, but he texted back he wanted to see us for himself. You know Sly. We’re going to land in a minute. Look, my wife’s meeting me at transpo, but I can ride in with you if you want.”

“Forget it. Go ahead with the wife. Hell, you already stayed on an extra day until they let me travel.”

“Can’t leave a buddy behind. We’ve been through the war together now, partner.”

“You bet.” Parzarri lifted his hand for a high five.

He drifted in and out, comfortable and secure on his gurney as the shuttle made its landing.

Good old New York, he thought. Would he miss it when he settled down with palm trees and ocean views?

He didn’t think so.

Maybe he’d buy a little tiki bar, get somebody else to run it. It would be fun to own a bar, hang out, watch all the half-naked women sipping mai tais or whatever.

Maybe he’d learn how to surf.

Smiling to himself, he kept cruising as they rolled him out of the shuttle, fixed the gate to slide him out. He felt the sudden, wicked cold—closed his eyes and envisioned balmy breezes, sun-washed sand and surf.

“I’ll be right behind you, Chaz.” He opened his eyes briefly, gave Jim a thumbs-up, then saw his associate’s pale face light up. “Hi, honey!” And his Vegas compatriot hobbled away and into the arms of his wife.

“Happy reunion,” Parzarri mumbled as they lifted him into the back of an ambulance. Warm again, he let out a sigh. He heard voices—the in-flight nurse giving a report to the MTs, Jim’s wife babbling, Jim’s happy-I’m-home laugh.

Then the ambulance shifted a little with the weight as the MT levered himself inside, slammed the double doors. With a rumble, they began to move.

“Don’t forget the good drugs.” Parzarri smiled, looked up at the ceiling and thought of women in tiny, tiny bikinis with skin gold from the sun, wet from the sea. “Aloha.”

He felt so warm, his body so heavy. He turned his head, with effort when he felt the straps clamp around his wrists. “What’s that for?”

“Keeps you where you are.”

Puzzled, Parzarri turned his head again, stared into a familiar face. “Hey. What’re you doing? Your boss order security for me?”

“That’s right.”

“’Preciate it.”

“He wants to know if you talked to anybody.”

“Huh?”

The man reached up, turned the clamp on the IV. “Mr. Alexander wants to know if you talked to anybody about the audit, about anything.”

“Jesus, I was in a coma half the time, getting poked and prodded and imaged the rest. Who’m I gonna talk to? I need those drugs, man. It’s starting to hurt.”

“Mr. Alexander wants to know if you have any documents or files.”

“’Course I do. I’m the accountant. I’ve got everything I need to finish the audit. I can do it from the hospital once I get the files and my notebook. He can send Jake for them. He’d know what I need.”

“Mr. Alexander wants to know if you have any documents or files, or any information on his business in any other location?”

“What the fuck? Turn the drip back on, will you? Come on, man.” The pain shot through him like lava when the fist rammed into his healing ribs. As he drew in his breath to scream, the driver hit the sirens, drowned him out.

“Answer the question. Do you have any documents or files or any information on Mr. Alexander’s business in any other location?”

“No! God! Why would I? I’ll take care of it, like always. I’ll do my job.”

“Mr. Alexander says you’re terminated.”

With that he clamped his big hand over Parzarri’s mouth, pinched his nose closed. While the sirens screamed, the lights flashed, Parzarri’s body bucked from the lack of air, from the pain. His eyes wheeled like a terrified horse’s.

Blood vessels burst in the whites of his eyes, so it seemed he shed bloody tears. His fingers clawed at the gurney, at the air as his hands strained against the straps.

His bladder voided, and those reddened eyes rolled back, and fixed.

Removing his hand, the big man pounded a fist on the ceiling. The driver cut the sirens, the lights, and drove onto the broken ground of an underpass. Both men got out, the big one hefting the Pullman Parzarri had taken to Vegas and back. He tossed it in the trunk of the waiting car before getting into the passenger seat.

He liked sitting in the big, roomy car, he thought, being driven around like he was somebody. And now that he’d done it—twice—he liked to kill even better.

···

Eve stood inside the ambulance bay where she’d been directed. According to the log, Parzarri was being transported via ambulance while Arnold, ambulatory, was on his way in, driven by his wife.

“How do you want to play it?” Peabody asked her.

“I want a look at him for myself, see what kind of shape he’s in. We’ll let him get to his room, interview him there. I want to read him his rights straight off, not only to cover it all, but to scare him a little. You should look grim.”

“No good cop?”

“I don’t think we need good cop.”

In her pink boots, Peabody did a little heel-toe dance. “Yay!”

“We need to talk to Arnold, too. We can get him out of the way while they’re fooling around with Parzarri.” She stopped when she spotted Sylvester Gibbons.

“Lieutenant Dallas. Detective. I didn’t expect to see you here so quickly.”

“We need to speak with your last two employees.”

“Of course. Sure. Ah...” He let out a breath, rubbed his face with one hand. “Can you give me a few minutes with Chaz? Jim knows about Marta. But I asked him not to say anything to Chaz. The poor guy was in such bad shape, and they didn’t want him overly excited or upset. They even banned ’links and screens. I want to tell him myself, what happened. I don’t want him to hear it from cops, no offense. I think it’ll be easier to hear it from a friend.”

“We’ll talk to Mr. Arnold first.”

“I really appreciate it. That’s Jim’s car. There he is. That’s Jim. God, he looks like he’s been through the wringer.”

Eve watched an attendant roll up a wheelchair, and the man—walking cast, pale, drawn face—maneuver from the passenger seat into the chair.

“Jim!” Gibbons pushed forward. “How ya doing? How do you feel?”

“Been better.” Jim took the hand Gibbons offered. “And believe me, a coupla days ago I was worse. I’m so damn glad to be back.”

“It’s good to have you back. They’re going to take good care of you and Chaz. I don’t want you to worry about anything. Anything you need, you just let me know.”

“I just want to get checked out and go home.” His gaze shifted to Eve, crossed over Peabody, and back again. “Police?”

“Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve said, “Detective Peabody.”

“Marta.” His eyes watered up. “I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to think or do. I didn’t tell Chaz,” he said to Gibbons. “I don’t know if I would’ve known how even if you hadn’t told me not to—and the doctors said that was best, too. I don’t know how he’s going to take it, Sly. He’s a hell of a lot more hurt than me. He really took the brunt of it. Where is he?”

“He’s not here yet.”

“They left before we did.” With obvious concern he tried to swivel in the chair, look around. “My wife and I just sat in the car for a few minutes, but they took him off in the ambulance right away. I guess they hit some traffic. Came a different way?”

Uneasy, Eve signaled Peabody. “We have a few questions,” she began as Peabody hurried off.

“We really need to get the patient into exam,” the attendant said.

“I want to wait for Chaz. Honey.” He reached out to a woman, eyes pink from weeping, when she came in. “The ambulance with Chaz isn’t here yet.”

“They must’ve gone another way.” She crouched down beside him. “Don’t worry now. Don’t. He’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Lieutenant.”

Peabody’s tone, her face, told Eve the news wouldn’t be good. She stepped over. “What have we got?”

“They can’t reach the ambulance. They don’t answer the dash ’link or the emergency call.”

“I want the names of the medicals sent to pick him up.”

“Got them. Communication’s trying their personal ’links. They have LoJacks on all emergency vehicles. They’re tracking it.”

“Keep an eye on these people,” she ordered, and strode off to Communications. She heard the angry voices before she reached the station.

“And I’m telling you, I got shifted to nine. So did Mormon. Ask him!”

“You’re on log, right here, for the transpo station pickup.”

“I was on the pickup, until I got the schedule change.”

“When did you get the schedule change?” Eve demanded.

“Who the hell are you?”

In answer she pulled out her badge.

“Jesus, now a schedule screwup’s illegal? I got the tag about six this morning. Instead of seven on, and the pickup, I’m nine on and standard rounds. Look.” He yanked out his ’link, pushed incoming, shoved it at Eve.

She read the message. “Where’s this Mormon?”

“We were in the eatery, catching some breakfast. He ran out to get some of that fancy coffee from the van when it showed up. He’ll be back in a minute.”

“Have you located the bus?” Eve asked.

“I’ve just got it. It’s way off route,” the woman said with a frown. “And I don’t know who the hell’s driving it because we’ve clearly got Mormon and Drumbowski on that run, and Drumbowski’s standing right here.”

“It’s not my screwup,” Drumbowski insisted.

“No,” Eve said, “it’s not. Give me the location. Now!”

“What the hell’s going on?” Drumbowski threw his hands in the air.

But Eve just took the location, sprinted away. She already knew Chaz Parzarri wouldn’t be transported to the hospital. But she was damn sure he’d be transported to the morgue.

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