Born in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “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.”

&nbs
p; 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.”

  6

  EVE FOUND PEABODY AND THE REST OF THE team finishing up in Byson’s office.

  “McNab, I want you to go with the officers to transport all these items to Central. I want you with the boxes and their contents every step of the way. You personally log them in. And lock them up—conference room five. I’ve cleared that with the commander. Take the electronics directly to Feeney.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Those electronics are to be logged a second time into EDD, with your code and with Feeney’s.”

  He lifted his brows. “We got national security in here?”

  “We’ve got our asses in there, so if you don’t want yours in a sling, log and document every step. Peabody, you and I are going to get some statements from associates. You take this department, and Byson’s people. Do another round with his supervisor. I’ll take Copperfield’s.”

  She started out. “Every step of the way, McNab,” she repeated, then took the elevator to Natalie’s department. She knew just where she wanted to start.

  “I need to speak with Jacob Sloan, the grandson.”

  This time around
the receptionist didn’t hesitate, but simply beeped an interoffice ’link. “Jake? A Lieutenant Dallas would like to speak with you. Of course.”

  “Third door, left,” Eve was told. “Excuse me? Would you—do you know anything about a memorial?”

  “No. Sorry. I’m sure the family will make an announcement.”

  She followed the direction and found Jake Sloan waiting just outside his office door. He was built like his grandfather, but youth made him lanky. His hair was a dark blond, pulled back in a fat little tail at the nape of his neck. His eyes were a bleak sea foam.

  “You’re the one who’s in charge of Natalie and Bick’s murders. Investigating their murders, I mean. I’m Jake Sloan.”

  “I’d like to speak to you. Privately.”

  “Yeah, come on in. You want something?” he asked as he closed the door behind her.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I can’t settle.” He paced around a small office with posters in geometric shapes and primary colors on the walls. There were toys on his desk—or what she thought of as toys, in any case. A bright red squeeze ball mocked up like a devil with horns, a cartoon dog on a fat spring, a curly tube that rocked on a string and changed colors with the movements.

  He walked to a tiny refreshment area and pulled a bottle of water from a minifriggie.

  “I almost didn’t come in today,” he told Eve. “But I couldn’t stand the idea of staying home. Staying alone.”

  “You and Natalie knew each other well.”

  “We were pals.” His smile was shaky and brief. “Had lunch together a couple days a week maybe, with Bick if he could make it. Gossip in the break room, hang out. We’d go out together a couple of times a month, usually. Nat and Bick, me and whatever girl I was seeing. One girl the last six months.”

  He dropped down in his chair. “I’m rambling. You don’t care about any of that.”

  “Actually, I do. Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt Natalie?”

  “No.” She saw the gleam of tears before he turned his head to stare hard at the image of a blue circle inside a red triangle framed on the wall. “People liked Nat. I don’t understand how this could happen. Her and Bick. Both of them. I keep thinking it’s going to be some awful mistake and she’ll poke her head in the door and say, ‘Skinny latte?’”