Born in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “What does Randall Sloan have to do with the Bullock account?”

  “It’s his account. It’s my name of record, but it’s his account.”

  “Why don’t you explain to me how that works?”

  “He brought them into the firm, years ago. I had just come on as a junior partner. But his father wouldn’t allow him to head the account. There’d been some question of Randall’s reliability, his—ah—skills and work ethic. He’s better suited in public relations. But he brought the account in, and I was new. He came to me, asked me…It wasn’t precisely asking.”

  Kraus took the glass the waiter brought him, downed a quick swallow. “I felt pressured, and to be honest, I thought it was unfair that he wasn’t given the account. So I agreed to keep my name on it, and he would do the actual business. I’d check the bottom line, of course, every quarter. And if there was any problem, any question, I’d take over. But the client was satisfied.”

  “I bet they were,” Eve replied.

  “She didn’t come to me. I swear to you, Natalie didn’t come to me about any problems, any questions.”

  “Who knew that Sloan was doing the books for Bullock?”

  “I didn’t think anyone did. He told me it was just a matter of pride, and I believed him. But he’d never hurt Natalie. She was almost like a daughter to him. This has to be some horrible mistake.”

  “Does Madeline Bullock normally stay at your home when she and her son come to New York?”

  “No. But Madeline was talking to my wife and mentioned that she loved our home, how welcoming it was, how peaceful. One thing led to another, and they agreed to stay with us. I need to see those records. I’m entitled to see them. I’m sure there’s just some misunderstanding.”

  “Tell me about Randall Sloan’s lifestyle.”

  “Please don’t ask me to speak behind the back of an associate. A friend. The son of my partner.”

  Eve said nothing, just waited.

  Kraus drank the rest of his scotch, signaled for another. “He gambles. Or he did. And poorly. There were rumors that some time ago—before I came to the firm—he skimmed a bit from one or two clients, and his father had to replace the funds. But he went into a program, for the gambling. There’s been no hint of anything improper for years. His father…Jacob’s a hard man, integrity is a god. His son smeared that. Randall will never be a partner. He accepts it. He prefers the work he does, in any case, to the administration, the accounting.”

  “Yet he pressured you into giving him, under the table, we’ll say, a major account.”

  “He brought them in,” Kraus repeated, and Eve nodded.

  “Yeah, that’s interesting, isn’t it?”

  You believe him,” Roarke said when they left Kraus sitting under the umbrella in the pseudosunlight with his head in his hands.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “I do, yes. The outsider, the last man in, so to speak, doing a favor for the big man’s son. It’s reasonable. And clever of Sloan and the Bullock people not to use each other for alibis.”

  “You got a dupe, you use the dupe. You drive,” she told him, and gave him Randall Sloan’s address. “Looks like I’m tagging London again.”

  She put in a transmission to Madeline Bullock’s home in London and got what she thought of as a Summerset clone. Not quite as bony in the face, she decided, but just as dour.

  “Ms. Bullock is traveling.”

  “Where?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “If Scotland Yard knocked on your door in the next thirty minutes, could you say then?”

  He actually sniffed. “I could not.”

  “Okay. Say the house burns down. How would you reach Ms. Bullock to tell her the bad news?”

  “On her private number, on her pocket ’link.”

  “Why don’t you give me that?”

  “Lieutenant, I am under no obligation to provide foreign authorities with Ms. Bullock’s private business.”

  “Got me there. But even in the colonies we have our ways of getting information.” She clicked off. “Do they go to school for that?” she demanded of Roarke. “Is there a Tight-Ass University? Did Summerset graduate cum laude?”

  “First in his class. Do you want to drive while I find the number you need?”

  “I somehow managed to fumble my way through such pesky chores before I met you.” She started the search, then stopped. Sat back. “You know what? I’ve got a better.” She got Feeney at home.

  He was wearing a baggy and faded New York Liberties Arena Ball jersey with a ball cap pulled over his explosion of ginger hair. “There’s a costume party at your house and I didn’t get invited?”

  “Game, two o’clock.”

  “You look ridiculous.”

  He pokered up. “My grandson gave me this jersey. You tag me on a Sunday to critique my wardrobe?”

  “Need a quick one. I’m looking for a pocket ’link number, private, and its current location.”

  “Game,” he repeated, “two o’clock.”

  “Murder. Twenty-four/seven. It’ll be quick. I just need the number and the area. The fricking country. Madeline Bullock. It may be registered to her, or to the Bullock Foundation. Probably her as it’s a personal ’link. London home base.”

  “Right, right, right,” he said. And hung up on her.

  “I could have done that for you,” Roarke pointed out.

  “You’re driving.” And she contacted Peabody. “Take another look at Randall Sloan. Finances, travel, property, real estate. He’s a gambler, so look at it with an eye to that.”

  “You got a scent?”

  “Yeah, I’m following it now. Mavis?”

  “She conked. Been out about a half-hour.”

  “Good. If I can track down Randall Sloan, I’m bringing him in for questioning. I’ll let you know.”

  “Dallas, I’ve got that list of agencies and counselors from England. All European-based.”

  She shifted gears, focused on Tandy. “Give them to the investigating officers, Rome and Middlesex. Meanwhile, run them yourself, zero in on any that have offices in both countries. Especially those that have multiple locations in Europe. And shoot them to my PPC while you’re at it.”

  “Got that. Good luck.”

  Eve rubbed her eyes, blinked them open.

  “Why don’t you get a little sleep before we get to Sloan’s?”

  She shook her head, wished she’d thought to bring a vat of coffee with her. “No way of knowing if she’s still alive. If it’s the baby they want, if they just went in there and took it out. She’d be, what, like a vessel.” Eve turned to Roarke. “When she gives up what she’s holding, she’s expendable.”

  “You can’t do any more than you’re doing, Eve.”

  “Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be enough. If she’s alive, she has to be out of her mind with fear. Not just for herself, but the baby. You’re carrying that…potential inside you, it’s the whole focus of your world, I guess. You’re creating it, protecting it, bringing it—you know—forth. Through all the discomfort, inconvenience, pain, and blood and fear, it’s vital. Its health, its safety, that’s paramount. I see that in Mavis, the way she looks, holds herself, holds it.

  “I don’t know if I’ve got that in me to give.”

  “You have to be joking. Darling Eve, you give all that, and more, to complete strangers.”

  “It’s the job.”

  “It’s you.”

  “You know how fucked up I am about kids, parents, the whole ball of it.”

  He took her hand as he drove, brought it to his lips. “I know the two of us have strange, dark places inside us, and we might need some time for a little more light to seep in before we’re ready to add to the family we’ve already made.”

  “Okay, good. More light. I’m for it.”

  “Then I think we should have five or six.”

  “Five or six what? What?” She thought…for a moment she thought her heart act
ually stopped. The buzz in her ears was so thick she barely heard his laugh. “That’s not funny.”

  “It certainly was, especially from my point of view. You couldn’t see your face.”

  “You know, one day, perhaps in our lifetime, medical science will find a way to implant an embryo into a man, incubating it there while said man waddles around looking like he swallowed and is unable to digest a pot-bellied pig. Then we’ll see what’s funny.”

  “One of the many things I love you for is your delightful imagination.”

  “Remember that when I put your name on the implant list. Why don’t people stay home on Sunday?” she wondered, bitterly, as she cued into the traffic. “What’s wrong with home? What kind of transpo did Bullock and her son take out of New York?”

  “Another thing I love you for is the many and varied channels of your mind. No doubt private, given the depth of the Bullock wells.”

  “Foundation shuttle. They came, ostensibly anyway, on foundation business. If they’re still traveling, they’ve probably made use of the same shuttle.”

  “Where were they when you originally verified Kraus’s alibi?”

  “I don’t know. Peabody did the verify, and she had to contact a foundation number and get a callback. It wasn’t pertinent at the time. But I can track that shuttle if I have to. Have to hack my way through international law and relations, and I hate that, but I’ve got enough to hold them for questioning. And I think the British government’s going to be very interested in their accounts.”

  “They may take a hit there,” Roarke agreed. “But if they’re smart, and their legal representatives will be, they can dump that on Randall Sloan personally, and the firm.”

  “I can tangle that, seeing as their legal reps fall under the same shadow. I’m going to have to turn this over to Global. After I talk to Randall Sloan.”

  Randall Sloan lived in a trim and elegant old brownstone on the edge of Tribeca. From the sidewalk, Eve could see that the third floor had been converted into a solarium so that it was topped with curved, pale blue glass.

  “He has a current driver’s license,” Eve said. “And keeps a vehicle four blocks from here in a private garage. Means, motive.”

  “Opportunity is dicier, isn’t it, given that he has an alibi. Or do you think his dinner companions for that evening are covering for him?”

  “Didn’t feel like it, but we’ll go back over that. He may have been a tool. Tools don’t always get dirty. If he didn’t do the murders himself, he knew about them.” She started up the three steps that led to the main entrance. “Alarm’s on green,” she pointed out.

  As she lifted her hand to press the buzzer, she noticed there was more, and engaged her recorder.

  “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Roarke, Expert Civilian Consultant, at the residence of Sloan, Randall. Upon arrival I’ve found the security system disengaged and the front door unlatched.”

  Automatically, she drew her weapon. She buzzed, and called out, “Randall Sloan, this is Lieutenant Dallas with the police. I have a civilian consultant with me. Please acknowledge.”

  She waited, ears cocked for any sound. “Mr. Sloan, I repeat, this is the police. Your residence is unsecured.” When there was no response, she circled around the line she had to walk, and eased the door open.

  “Nothing in plain sight,” she stated. “He could have gone rabbit. I need a warrant.”

  “Door’s open.”

  “Yeah, and I could go in, check it out. I can argue probable cause, but without authorization I risk giving his lawyers something to whine about. I can get a warrant quick enough.”

  She started to call in when someone hailed her from behind.

  Turning, she saw Jake Sloan and Rochelle DeLay walking toward the house, hand-in-hand, faces rosy from the cold.

  “Lieutenant, Jake and Rochelle, remember?”

  “Yes. This is Roarke.”

  “I recognize you.” As he came up the first step, Jake shot out a hand. “Good to meet you, and so you know, any time you’re looking for a young, hard-working accountant, I’m available.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “This is Rochelle.”

  “Nice to meet you both.”

  “You come to see Dad? He keeping you waiting in the cold?” Jake nodded toward the door. “It’s open.”

  “We found it that way,” Eve told him.

  “Really? That’s weird.” He moved by them and inside to give a shout. “Hey, Dad! You’ve got company. Come on in,” he said to Eve and Roarke. “We’re swinging by to get him for a Sunday deal at Grandpa’s.” Jake pulled off his watch cap, stuffed it messily in his coat pocket. “You want to have a seat? He must be upstairs.”

  Eve had slipped her weapon into her pocket when he’d called out to her from the street, and kept her hand on it now. “Mind if I come with you?”

  “Well…”

  “Door was open, Jake, security off. It’s the cop in me.”

  “Sure. Okay. He probably just opened it to look out for us. We’re running a little late. He forgot to engage it again. That’s all.”

  But she could see she’d put worry in him as he turned to the stairs. “Dad? Hey, Dad. I’m coming up, and I’m bringing the law.” He tried a smile as he said it, but when there was no answer, it faded.

  Her senses caught something all too familiar. “You want to stay behind me?” she said it casually, and shifted in front to take the lead. “Which is his bedroom?”

  “Second on the right. Listen, Lieutenant—”

  Eve eased the bedroom door open with a knuckle.

  Randall Sloan wasn’t going to make Sunday brunch, she thought, restraining Jake as he tried to rush into the room.

  An elaborate chrome chandelier dripped from the vaulted ceiling. Randall Sloan hung from the rope that had been tightly looped around its gleaming post.

  17

  “HE’S GONE.” EVE HAD TO HOOK JAKE’S ARMS behind his back, hold him against the wall. “You can’t help him.”

  “Bullshit! Bullshit! That’s my father. It’s my father.”

  “I’m sorry.” He was young, strong, and desperate, so it took all of Eve’s muscle to keep him from shaking her off and running inside. And compromising the crime scene. “Listen to me. Listen, goddamn it! I’m the one who has to help him now, and I can’t do it if you go in there and screw up any evidence. I need you to go downstairs.”

  “I’m not leaving here. I’m not leaving him. Go to hell.” And Jake pressed his face to the wall and wept.

  “Give him to me.” Roarke stepped up beside her. “Downstairs,” he said before she could ask about Rochelle. “I convinced her to stay put when we heard the shouting. Let me take him.”

  “I need a field kit.”

  “Yes, I know. Here now, Jake, you have to leave him to the lieutenant now. This is what she does. You come with me. Rochelle’s frightened, and she’s alone. Come downstairs and stay with her.”

  “It’s my dad. My dad’s in there.”

  “I’m very sorry. I’ll get him settled,” Roarke told Eve, “best I can, then go get your kit out of the car.”

  “I don’t want him to contact anyone yet.”

  “I’ll see to it. Come on, Jake.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t understand this.”

  “Of course not.”

  As Roarke pulled Jake away, Eve contacted Central for Crime Scene, then turned back to the room. “Victim is hanging from a rope attached to the master bedroom chandelier,” she began for the recorder. “Visual identification is of Sloan, Randall. There’s no apparent sign of struggle.”

  She scanned the room as she spoke. “The bed is made and appears undisturbed. The privacy screens are engaged, curtains open.”

  The bedside lamps were on, she noted, and a single wine glass with a bit of white left in it sat beside the one on the right. While Sloan was barefoot, there were slippers—leather from the look of them—under the body. He wore a tan sweater, bro
wn pants. A chair was overturned. Behind him in a work area the minicomp was on. She could see its active light blinking.

  She brought the front entrance back into her mind. No sign of break-in.

  She nodded to Roarke as he came back with her kit. “Thanks.”

  “Do you want me to contact Peabody?”

  “Not yet. She’s got enough on her hands. Can you keep them under control down there? I don’t want them touching anything, talking to anyone.”

  “All right.” He set somber eyes on Randall. “I suppose he knew you’d follow the trail that led to him.”

  “Looks like that, doesn’t it?” she said as she sealed up.

  Roarke shifted his gaze to her, lifted his brows. “But?”

  “Doesn’t feel like it. He knows his son is coming today. Is this how he wants Jake to find him? He leaves his security off, door unlatched. Why not run instead?”

  “Guilt?”

  “He’s been dirty for a long time. Suddenly, he gets a conscience?”

  “Fraud and murder are far apart on the scale.”

  “Maybe, but he strikes me as a runner, not a suicide.”

  She stepped inside, got to work.

  She took the room first. Slick and stylish, like the man. Pricey clothes, pricey decor, high-end electronics. A man who liked his comforts, she thought, his conveniences, and his symbols of status.

  Lifting the wineglass, she sniffed. Left a marker in its place before she sealed the contents, then the glass itself.

  She tapped the comp unit with a gloved finger, and the screen engaged. She read the text written on it.

  I’m sorry. So sorry. I can’t live this way. I see their faces, Natalie and Bick. It was only money, just money. It got out of hand. I must have lost my mind to pay to have them killed. I lost my mind, and now I’ve lost my soul. Forgive me, because I can’t forgive myself. I take this terrible act with me to Hell, for eternity.

  She turned from the screen to the body. “Well, one thing on there’s pure truth: It got out of hand.”

  She identified the body for the record by the fingerprints, then examined the hands, bagged them. Her gauge put time of death at twenty-fifteen, Friday evening.