by J. D. Robb
There were differences, she mused. This victim had been married—but only weeks before her death. She had family in Middlesex, had lived there most of her life.
Except for a brief period when she’d gone to London. Gone there, according to the statements taken by the investigator, specifically to look into placing the baby with an agency.
She held up a hand when Peabody crossed the room.
“Just getting coffee,” Peabody told her.
“Twenty-one-year-old vic, England. Pregnant with casual boyfriend, opts to have the baby. Family is upset, don’t like boyfriend much. He’s been in trouble a couple times, doesn’t have regular employment. After some hand-wringing, vic goes to London to look into adoption options. Stays at a hostel for a few days, then moves to a midpriced hotel. Remains in London six weeks before returning to Middlesex. Boyfriend gets steady job, love conquers, and plans are made to marry and keep the baby.”
“But?”
“A couple weeks before her due date, she goes missing. Turns up two days later in the woods near the house she and new husband have rented. It’s a dump site. Murder occurred elsewhere, never determined.”
“They look at the new husband?”
“With a laserscope. Alibied tight. COD was head trauma, most likely from a fall. DB also showed signs of restraints, hands and feet, and minor perimortem bruising on the arms. The body was mutilated after death. Hacked up, and the fetus removed. Nonviable.”
“Nasty.” Peabody glanced toward the door to make sure Mavis wasn’t within earshot. “But there are essential differences to Tandy.”
“And similarities. If you theorize that whoever took these women wanted the babies, and when this vic died, the abductor attempted to retrieve the baby. Too late for that, so he or she covers it up by mutilating the body, then dumping both of them.”
Eve rose to add the new picture and name to her board. “What have we got? Three young, healthy pregnant women. None of whom were legally attached to the father at the time they conceived. At least two of them sought information on adoption.”
“Make it three for three,” Peabody put in. “Italian vic’s cousin confirms Belego researched that option, and made an appointment with a counselor regarding same.”
“Got a name?”
“No. But the cousin’s going to ask around, see if Belego mentioned it to anyone.”
“Three for three speaks to me. Let’s try this. Search for agencies that have offices in London, and Florence and/or Rome. I’ve got the name of Tandy’s obstetrician in London. We’ll tag him, too. But first, let’s see if the doctor’s associated with any adoption agencies or counselors.”
A quick search revealed that Tandy’s OB volunteered three days a week at a women’s clinic. The same clinic, she noted, that the woman from Middlesex had used while in London.
Worth a conversation, she decided, and spent the next fifteen minutes tracking down the doctor.
After she’d spoken to him, she added his name and the clinic to her board. “He confirms that he gave Tandy the name of some agencies, and counseling services. He can’t confirm whether she visited any as she canceled her followup appointment with him, and requested copies of her medical records. He’ll check his book, get back to me with the date she called to cancel, and he’s sending a list of the agencies and services they routinely give to patients.”
“All that’s in Europe,” Peabody pointed out. “If Tandy was taken, it was here.”
“It’s a small world,” Eve answered and turned as Roarke stepped in.
“I think you’ll be interested in our findings, Lieutenant,” he said, and handed Eve a disc.
16
EVE SHIFTED TANDY ASIDE WHILE ROARKE INPUT data into her unit, and ordered it on-screen. It seemed like a lot of numbers to her, in a lot of columns in a complicated and overly detailed spread sheet.
He, apparently, saw a great deal more.
“Two accounts were questionable for me,” he began. “The first, McNab and I agree, has gaps, little voids. A precise, methodical accountant such as Copperfield wouldn’t have these voids in one of her files.”
“Tampered with?”
“Again, McNab and I agree.”
“Yeah.” McNab nodded. “I might not get the financial mumbo, but I know when a file’s been diddled with. At least some of that diddling corresponds with the dates you gave me when Copperfield first talked to Byson about finding something, when her assistant claimed she’d logged on after hours. Some of it goes back farther.”
“Someone very carefully removed and/or doctored her work,” Roarke continued. “Someone, in my opinion, with a good working knowledge of accounting.”
“Inside job. What’s the file number?”
When he gave it to her, Eve looked up the corresponding file name. “Well, well, well, it’s our old friends Stubens, Robbins, Cavendish, and Mull.”
“Interesting.”
“You said it was a law firm.” Grinning, McNab pointed at Roarke. “Blinders on, but you slammed it.”
“Billable hours.” Roarke used a laser pointer to highlight columns from his blind copy still displayed on-screen. “Retainers, partners’ percentages. Odds were.”
“But do we have them on anything?” Eve asked. “Illegal practices, finances, taxes?”
Roarke shook his head. “You have the gaps, and when they’re filled in you may. But the numbers jibe, and nothing on the surface appears off.”
“But it is,” Eve complained. “It is off.”
“On the second account I’ve brought up, something certainly is.” He switched displays. “The bottom lines add up precisely,” he continued. “And the account would, I believe, hold up under most standard audits. But what I found, and what I suspect your victim found, were areas of income and outlay that were carefully manipulated in order to add up. On their own, they simply don’t. There are fees—here.”
He used the laser pointer to highlight a section. “These fees repeat—not in amounts, but in precise percentages of coordinating areas of income—and simply don’t jibe. Always forty-five percent of the take, if you will, and with the corresponding amounts, that same percentage appears first under an area of nonprofit contributions, making it exempt from taxes. Which, in the way this is manipulated, makes that fee exempt.”
“Tax fraud,” Eve said.
“Certainly, but that’s only one piece of the pie. The income itself is split into parts, juggled into subaccounts, with expenses attached to, and deducted from it. The income, minus this, is then tumbled back into the main. It’s then disbursed—the sum of it—in a way that, since I have to guess, I assume is through some sort of charitable trust. The client received a hefty write-off, straight from the top, which you see here. Annually.
“The amounts vary, year to year, but the setup remains constant.”
“How much are they washing?”
“Between six and eight million a year, for the time frame I’ve been working with. But it’s more than that. There are simpler ways to evade tax, and to launder money. I’d have to say this particular client has income that is perhaps not strictly legal. It’s an operation,” he told Eve. “Slickly run and profitable, and with these fees and expenses, I’d say a number of people have a piece of it.”
“Copperfield would have found this?”
“If she was looking. Or if she had a question and dug back to find the answer to it before she took over the account. Once you start to peel at the layers, they lift off systematically, simply because the setup is very systematic.”
“I don’t get it.” She shook her head. “I don’t mean the numbers, it’s a given I don’t get them. But I don’t get why. If this is an operation like you say, why didn’t they just keep a second set of books?”
“Greed’s a powerful incentive. There are hefty tax breaks under this system not only for the questionable income, but for all of it. But you have to report the income, the outlay, to get them.”
She nodded. “Wha
t’s the blind number on this file?”
“024-93.”
She went back to her desk, called it up. “Sisters Three. A restaurant chain. London, Paris, Rome, New York, Chicago.”
“A restaurant?” Roarke frowned. “No, that’s not right. These aren’t the accounts of a restaurant.”
She rechecked. “That’s how it comes out.”
“That may be, but these aren’t the files and accounts for a restaurant.”
“Roarke, I’m looking at the file, the file Copperfield marked ‘Sisters Three’…And none of the names in the account are listed anywhere but on the label.”
“She switched files.”
“Labels. Discs. Now why would she do that? And who did she switch it with?”
Eve began to scroll down the file, scanning her computer screen. “Madeline Bullock. Son of a bitch. These are the accounting files for the Bullock Foundation. They weren’t her client.”
“Cavendish, etc., was,” Roarke recalled. “And they represent the Bullock Foundation.”
“She accessed the foundation’s files,” Eve murmured. “Labeled it under another account. Nobody would bother going into that file on her unit if they were looking for what she had on the law firm, and through them the foundation. Kraus, Robert Kraus. He headed this account, and was—allegedly—entertaining Bullock and her son the night Copperfield and Byson were killed. If you need an alibi, why not pick the client whose books you’re cooking?”
She paced around her desk. “Copperfield sees something in the law firm’s accounts that doesn’t balance for her. Something that connects to the Bullock Foundation—both clients of her firm. Wouldn’t she go to one of the big bosses on this and the foundation’s accountant? She goes to Kraus, expresses some concern, asks some questions. Maybe he brushes her off, or says he’ll look into it. But she’s curious and she’s precise. Something doesn’t add up so she wants to fix it. She takes a look on her own. Sees what you see,” she said to Roarke.
“Makes a copy.” He nodded. “She couldn’t be sure she could go back to Kraus, because she’d asked herself why he hadn’t seen what she’d seen. Who can she talk to about this?”
“Her fiancé. But since she’s come in with questions, Kraus is careful. And he’s going to see she’s accessed, made copies. Time to panic a little. So you threaten, you bribe.”
“And set up a double murder, alibied by two people with a vested interest. Two people who are the face of one of the most prestigious and philanthropic charitable foundations in the world.”
“And who are now accessories to murder, times two. I think I want to have a chat with Bob. Peabody, with me.”
“Ah, Dallas, always happy to be with you, but I think in this case, you should take your number cruncher. No way I can talk the talk.”
Eve pursed her lips, studied Roarke. “She’s got a point. You up for it?”
“Should be fun.”
“And a big sigh of relief from the math-impaired,” Peabody stated. “McNab and I can work the Tandy Willowby case while you’re talking to Kraus.”
“Good. You’re on Mavis duty. Let’s move,” she said to Roarke.
They didn’t find Kraus at home, but his wife interrupted her Sunday bridge game to tell them he was playing golf at The Inner Circle in Brooklyn.
She was a comfortable-looking woman, spiffed up for the bridge party in baby-blue cashmere.
“This is about that sweet girl and her darling young man, isn’t it? It’s just horrible. I spent such a lovely little while chatting with her at the company holiday party last December. I hope you find whatever vicious person did this.”
“I will. You were here that night, entertaining, I understand.”
“Oh, yes. We had Madeline and Win as our guests. Dinner, some cards. And all that while—”
“You played late?”
“Until nearly midnight, as I recall. I was ready to drop. Actually thought I was coming down with something, I was that tired. But after a good night’s sleep, I was fine. We had a lovely brunch the next morning.”
“Give your wife a little something to help her sleep,” Eve theorized as they drove to Brooklyn. “Plenty of time to get to Copperfield’s, take care of her. Get to Byson’s, do him, get home. Catch a few z’s, then have a lovely brunch.”
“What did he do with the computers and discs?” Roarke asked.
“Yeah, there’s that. Hauled them home. Probably has an office there the wife doesn’t fool with. Or he rented a place to hold them until he could properly dispose of them. Only one little hitch with that particular theory though.”
“Which is?”
“Robert Kraus has never had a driver’s license or owned a car. Whoever did this had to have private transportation. So he worked with an accomplice.”
“Bullock or Chase?”
“Maybe. Likely. Or someone else in the firm. Cavendish or his keeper. It spreads out, the way I see it. One or more people in the accounting firm had to know what was going on. One or more people in the foundation. One or more in the law firm. You said it was an operation. I’m going with that. Where does the money come from? The funds they’re laundering, funneling, juggling? What’s the source?”
“It’s listed as donations, charitable trusts, privatized income. I couldn’t dig deeper without specific names and companies.”
“The fees, the percentages. They’d likely be kickbacks, or hush money to the accountant, the lawyer. We’ll need to follow that, because it landed somewhere.”
The Inner Circle was an indoor golf course and driving range where aficionados of the sport could play a round, practice their putting, and have a friendly drink. For added fees, there were tony locker rooms with sports channels cued into wall screens, efficient attendants, shower facilities, and the services of a masseur or masseuse. The wet area included whirlpools, saunas, a lap pool, steam room.
They found Kraus in a party of four, on the ninth hole.
“A few minutes of your time,” Eve told him.
“Now?” His brows drew together under a tweed golf cap. “I’m in the middle of a round, with clients.”
“You’ll have to catch up later. Or I could walk along with you,” Eve said obligingly, “and we can discuss the discrepancies in the Bullock Foundation’s account in front of your clients.”
“Discrepancies? That’s ridiculous.” But he glanced at the woman and two men at his tee. “A moment.” He moved to them, hands spreading in apology. His face was full of annoyance as he walked back to Eve. “Now what’s this about?”
“It’s about a multimillion-dollar motive for murder. Natalie Copperfield came to you regarding questionable accounts in the Stuben and Company file.”
“Stuben? She did not. You asked me if she discussed anything of the sort regarding a client with me, and I told you she hadn’t.”
“The questionable accounts relate to the Bullock Foundation, which is your client. And your alibi for the murders.”
He flushed, glanced around. “Would you mind keeping your voice down?”
Eve merely shrugged and hooked her thumbs in her coat pockets. “If you have a problem with someone overhearing this conversation, we can take it back to Central.”
Looking thoroughly put out, he gestured for them to follow. “We’ll take this to the clubhouse.” Kraus strode off the ninth green toward an open patio under simulated sunlight, and after swiping a key card in a slot, gestured them to an umbrellaed table.
“I don’t know what you think you’ve come across,” he began.
“The laundering of funds through charitable trusts,” Roarke began. “The disbursement of funds claimed as tax exempt to subaccounts, which is then funneled back into the trust and redisbursed. It’s a clever circle, washing considerable income annually.”
“The Bullock Foundation is above reproach, as is our firm. What you’re saying is impossible.”
“Natalie Copperfield accessed the Bullock accounts.”
“I don’t understand
you, and obviously you don’t understand how we run our business. Natalie wasn’t cleared for that data.”
“But you were. They’re yours. Her killer got her home unit, her discs. Got to her office unit and deleted files. But he couldn’t delete all of them, certainly not files that were on record as her clients. She changed the label on the file. The Bullock data was still there.”
“Why would she do such a thing?”
Eve leaned forward. “We’re going to get you cold for money laundering, for tax fraud. You’re going to want to talk to me now, if you want any kind of help with two counts, murder one.”
“I didn’t kill anyone. My God, are you insane?” His hand trembled a little as he pulled off his cap. “I’ve never doctored an account. It’s ludicrous.”
“Your wife states you played cards on the night of the murders until after midnight. And she was extremely tired. She went to bed, giving you more than enough time to get to Natalie Copperfield’s apartment. To break in, to restrain her, torture her, kill her, and take her data unit.”
He wasn’t just pale now, he was gray. “No.”
“From there, to travel to Bick Byson’s loft, struggle with him, stun him, restrain and question him before you killed him and took his data unit. Have you disposed of them already?”
“I’ve never hurt another human being in my life. I never left the house that night. My God, my God, what is happening?”
“So you let Bullock or Chase do the dirty work?”
“This is absurd. Of course not.”
“I’m going to get a warrant for your other files, Mr. Kraus. What you did with one, you did with others.”
“You can get a warrant for whatever you like. You’ll find nothing because I’ve done nothing. You’re mistaken about the Bullock accounts. Natalie must have been mistaken, because there can’t be anything wrong with them. Randall—”
Eve pounced. “What does Randall Sloan have to do with it?”
Kraus rubbed his hands over his face, then signaled to the waiter he’d initially waved away. “Scotch, straight up. A double. My God, my God.”