by J. D. Robb
“You’ll do smarter business if you know the field, which is always in flux.”
“Okay, I sort of get that. Then you spend the rest of the day moving and shaking, wheeling and dealing, checking up on stuff in the works, putting more stuff into the works, and buying stuff.”
“In a nutshell.” He took the appointment book back, put it away.
“You do it to make money, and make stuff, but you also do it because you get off on it.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
She was a boss; she knew how it worked. Her department was small scale compared to the Universe of Roarke, but a lot of the same rules applied.
“And if I asked you about any given employee, especially one who’d have the security level to access or gather information about funds or properties or investments—whatever—if you didn’t have the information on that employee in your head, you’d be able to have it in about ten seconds.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“No. See, you’ve had a couple people who work for you screw around, but when you consider the kazillion people who work for you in one way or another, but especially on the higher rungs, your system’s gold. And part of that gold is your immersion in it, because it’s your money, your people, your companies, your rep.”
“All right.”
“You’ve been audited, right?”
“Internally and externally.”
“And if there was anything hinky, you’d know it before the auditors. You’d fix it.”
One way or another, but there was no point thinking about that.
“That makes me wonder if the brass of the companies the vic was auditing know what’s what, and if they don’t, why? More, one of those companies—at least one—has something going on they’d kill for. How high does that go?”
“It’s usually best to start at the top and work down.”
“I’m thinking the same. Another round with the partners,” she continued as she ate. “Another with the vic’s firm. Tightening the circle if I can until you dig out whatever needs to be dug out. I’m going to give a copy to one of the department’s forensic accountants, too.”
“Are you telling me that to stir my competitive juices?”
“No, I need to do it. And okay, that’s a factor, but I need to do it. And run some of this by Mira, once I talk to a few more people.”
“Your day’s starting to look like mine.”
“Don’t say that, I’ll be forced to hide under the bed until tomorrow.”
“Darling Eve, the motives and the methods may vary, but our days aren’t so very different. Now, since you’re going to interview some of the top businessmen in the city, what are you wearing?”
“Some sort of clothing.”
“That’s a start.”
He rose, walked into her closet. “Subtle power, I think. Authority, but not threatening.”
“I like being threatening.”
“As well I know, but you’ll want to draw out rather than beat out information. And what you wear will send a message—I can swim in the same pool as you, and mine’s even bigger.”
She scowled over a last slice of bacon. “It’s your damn pool.”
“Shut up before you annoy me and I pick out something that makes you look weak and foolish.”
Amused, as he’d intended, she polished off her breakfast. “Do I have something like that?”
“It’s all in the combination, the presentation, the geography, and the time of day.”
“All that,” she muttered, and figured this time he was being absolutely serious.
“By the way, your dress for the premiere’s here. Have you bothered to look at it?”
“I saw it.” And automatically rolled her shoulders when they tensed. “You know something might come up.”
“Stop.” He came out with a pair of dark gray trousers with silver rivets, a simple mock turtleneck in pale apricot, and a jacket caught somewhere between red and orange.
“The color makes a statement. You’re not afraid to be noticed, and the cut says profession. Combined it’s ‘Don’t fuck with me, as I’m in charge.’ It’s rich fabric, but doesn’t flaunt it.”
“Why don’t clothes ever talk to me?”
“They do. You don’t always listen. And, to circle back, you’ll enjoy the premiere. I’m arranging for Peabody and McNab and Mavis and Leonardo to go with us in the limo. That makes a statement, too. You’re partners. You’re friends.”
“They’ll be all over that. I hate the gawking. Half the damn people I interviewed yesterday are going to the thing, and . . .” She paused, considered. “Hmmm.”
“And there you are. Now you can consider it part of the job.”
“I might be able to make it work for me. Something to think about.”
He tapped a finger to her head. “Always busy. Black belt and boots.”
“Even I could figure that out.”
Now he brushed his lips over her head, then walked to her jewelry case, scanned, selected. “Studs, subtle again, and classic, with the pop of the carnelian that picks up the color of the jacket.”
“I thought carnelian changed colors.”
“Very funny.” He handed them to her. “Wearing this, you’ll be like a chameleon in the ivory towers of business.”
Once she’d dressed, he angled his head. “Very nice. You know, a scarf would polish it up.”
“Oh sure, I’ll hang something around my neck some bad guy can grab onto and strangle me with.”
“Forget I mentioned it. I’ll give some time to your business today. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”
“With that schedule I don’t see how you have time to take a leak much less do side work.”
“Yet somehow I manage.” He slipped his arms around her, laid his lips on hers. “You look out for my cop now.”
“I’m so well-dressed nobody’ll make me for a cop.”
“Care to wager on it?”
She shook her head and laughed. “You can look out for my gazillionaire.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
Even as she turned to leave, her pocket ’link signaled. She frowned at the readout. “It’s the supervisor at Brewer. Dallas,” she said.
“Lieutenant, it’s Sly Gibbons at Brewer, Kyle, and Martini. There’s been a break-in.”
“What sort of break-in?”
“I—I came in early. I wanted to have some time . . . Someone’s been in Marta’s office. On her computer. Files are missing from her computer, and, and the backups, they’re gone, too. I—”
“Have you alerted building security?”
“Yes, first thing, but when they checked the discs they said there was some sort of glitch. I don’t understand it. I was the last one out of the office yesterday. I secured it myself. I don’t—”
“I’m on my way. Stay where you are, tell security I’m coming in, and I want to see all security discs.”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll be right here.”
“Tidying up,” Roarke said when she clicked off.
“Yeah. They had her keys, her codes, whatever she had in her handbag, her briefcase. Screwed with the security cams. Had to get rid of the files, probably several that don’t apply just to cover. Maybe make it look like a malfunction.”
“Not difficult, unless you look carefully.”
“Which we will. They don’t know about the copies she sent to her home unit. Unless they looked carefully. I’ve gotta go.” She contacted Denzel Dickenson first.
He looked, to her, unbearably weary.
“This is Dallas. Have you had anyone contact you or attempt to get into your apartment?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sending a couple of cops over, just to take a look. I don’t want you to ans
wer the door to anyone else. Understood?”
“Yes, but—”
“Just a precaution. Are your children with you?”
“Yes. My sister’s coming over later this morning. We have to . . . start making arrangements.”
“Just sit tight.”
She grabbed her coat from the newel post, dragging it on as she rushed out the door.
Her car sat out front. She had to give Summerset points for putting it back, since she knew he always garaged it in the evening. Jumping in, she contacted Dispatch, arranged for the detail, then tagged Peabody.
“I need you and McNab at the vic’s office. They had a break-in. I want a geek going over her office unit. We don’t need the warrant for that now. Have him contact Feeney so he knows I’ve grabbed one of his e-men.”
“You got it. We’re on our way.”
She zipped through the gates and punched it.
Somebody’d been doing some calmer thinking, she decided, and had concluded sooner or later—most likely sooner—another accountant would be assigned to the audit. It didn’t pay to keep killing accountants. Better to get rid of the files. Then generate new ones at some point. Doctored ones, maybe. Or you’d insist the audit be conducted when the accountant in your pocket was back in business.
Or . . . Outrage. You’re taking your business elsewhere, or you’re going to court to demand another firm handle your audit.
The key word? Stall.
Pushing through traffic, she contacted Mira’s office, wheedled a short meeting out of Mira’s ferocious admin. Wheedling wasn’t easy, but she’d finished the job as she pulled up to Gibbons’s office building. She double-parked—screw it—and flipped on her On Duty light.
She badged her way through the door and dealt with the same security man she’d met the day before.
“I know Mr. Gibbons thinks he’s had some trouble up there. But I’ve got no record of anybody coming in or out of the building after hours.”
“Cleaning crew?”
“Yeah, sure, but they logged in.”
“I’m going to need copies of the discs.”
“I’ll have them for you.”
“I’ve got an e-man on the way. Show him your security.”
“No problem.”
With a nod, she stepped onto an elevator. And stepped off to a hand-wringing Sylvestor Gibbons.
“This is terrible. Someone stole those files, Lieutenant. They were on Marta’s computer. She worked on them on the day—on that day. Her unit’s secured, passcoded. That data is highly sensitive and confidential. We’re responsible.”
“I get it.” She moved into the office with him. “Why were you on her unit?”
“I wanted to copy her work. It has to be reassigned. There are deadlines. We’ll get extensions, obviously. But the work needs to be done. And if you get the warrant and confiscate her files, I wanted another set of copies.”
“You said it was passcoded.”
“Yes, but I have a master code. As supervisor I have to be able to access any data necessary. I contacted Mr. Brewer personally, discussed it with him, and he agreed.”
“When did you contact him?”
“This morning. Early. I didn’t sleep well, and I was up. I thought about this, and knew I had to discuss it with Mr. Brewer.”
“Okay.” Which probably put Brewer in the clear. The timing didn’t work. “Let’s have a look at her office.”
“It was secured,” he told her as he unlocked the door. “There was nothing out of place, nothing I can see. I bypassed her passcode, began the copies, and I saw files missing.”
“How many accounts or clients?”
“I counted eight before I contacted security, then you. I was afraid to do anymore. That I’d compromise the evidence? The scene? I’m very upset.”
“But you checked for the backups?”
“Right away.”
“Where do you keep them?”
“Oh, sorry. I’ll show you. I have a safe in my office. All copies of sensitive material stay secured.”
“Who has the combination?”
“Besides me? The bosses and the head of security would have it on file.”
“No one else in the office?”
“No. No one.”
“How often do you change it?” she asked as she studied the compact safe inside a small closet.
“I . . . I’ve never actually changed it. It’s the factory default, and we’ve never had any trouble. There never seemed to be any reason to reprogram.”
“I bet sometimes when you’re securing sensitive material in this safe, someone might be in here. Your assistant, one of your accountants, one of their assistants.”
“I . . . Yes.” He dropped down in a chair, dropped his head into his hands. “This is a nightmare. The parties involved will have to be notified their data may be compromised. The work done, if not complete and already copied to clients or courts will have to be regenerated. And our reputation . . . I’m responsible.”
“The person who killed Marta Dickenson and compromised her data is responsible.”
“You think it’s the same person.”
Eve just looked at him. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Was anything else taken? Anything that wasn’t Marta’s work?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t look thoroughly.”
“Look thoroughly now. I’m going to have a crime scene team process the offices, and my e-man will analyze the security discs, and the system. What time did you leave the office yesterday?”
“About four. We closed early. The partners came in, spoke to everyone, and told us to go home. We’re closed today as well. I stayed a little longer, then I locked up. I went to Mr. Brewer’s office. I just needed to talk to someone. Mr. Kyle and Mr. Martini were still with him. We talked about having a small memorial here, in the offices. I went to Marta’s apartment, to offer Denzel my condolences. I know it’s for family right now, but we were. Are. And when I got home, I had several drinks. My wife was very understanding.”
He paused, shook his head. “There was some petty cash, three hundred dollars. It’s gone. Otherwise, it’s just copies of Marta’s files. I count ten now. There must be two more missing from her computer.”
He stared down at his hands. “It can’t be one of us. It can’t. We’re family.”
Eve didn’t bother to tell him families often stole from each other, and weren’t above familial murder.
When Peabody arrived, Eve gestured her into Marta’s office. “Ten missing files, so they’re trying to work another cover. Still not real smart about it. It may look like system error when McNab gets to it, so he’ll need to dig past that.”
“He will. He’s going over security with the guy downstairs.”
“They got into Gibbons’s office safe, took the copies, which kind of negates a system glitch. Helped themselves to the three hundred in cash in there.”
“Waste not, want not.”
“Sounds true. Gibbons never reprograms the combination, and he admits he’s not always alone in there when he opens it to put something in.”
“So anybody who works here could, potentially, have the combination. Plus they had Marta’s security data most likely if she kept it in her bag or briefcase. Even if not, whoever they’re working with inside, if so, could have given them a way in.”
“It’s a clean job. No ransacking, no mess, no violence. That semi-pro feel again. Professional enough to cover your tracks, stupid enough to leave a trail taking the cash and the files. Leave the fucking three hundred, just corrupt the files.”
“Rushed again, like the murder,” Peabody commented. “A good plan, but not thorough.”
“Still got the job done. Nothing for us to do here,” Eve concluded. “I’
ve got CI coming in to process, not that they’ll find anything. The rest is for McNab. I think we should go talk to some hot-shot business guys.”
“You got that hot-shot outfit.”
“Don’t start on my clothes.”
“I can’t compliment your outfit? Strict.”
“You’re wearing pink cowboy boots. What do you know about fashion?”
“You gave me the boots,” Peabody reminded her, “and I get compliments on them all the time. So there.”
They went downstairs, and Eve hunted up McNab.
As fashion statements went, Ian McNab occupied a world of his own. Eve imagined the many pockets of his bright purple baggies came in handy, but for the life of her couldn’t figure out why he’d matched it with a pullover made up of eye-aching, multicolored swirls. Over it he’d tossed a long, sleeveless purple vest, presumably to discreetly cover his weapon. But the neon hearts dancing over the back of the vest over-balanced discretion.
And Roarke said she didn’t pay attention to clothes.
He lifted his head from his work, the silver rings in his ear jiggling. Like Roarke he wore his hair—straight and blond—pulled back in work mode. But McNab’s trailed halfway down his back of pulsing hearts.
“Somebody knew what they were doing,” he told Eve, and pushed back a bit from the main comp. “Jigged it up to look like a hiccup, and that can happen on these older systems.”
“But it didn’t.”
“Nope. He left fingerprints.”
She all but leaped at the word. “You ran prints?”
“Not that kind of print. E-prints. If you’d just done a standard check run of the system, you’d go, yeah, damn hiccup. You push through a couple levels, and you find a shutdown code blended in with the rest. It’s a little hide-and-seek, and pretty damn good. I need to run a few more checks, but I think they did it by remote, and that’s excellent equipment and a mega excel tech.”
“Okay. When you’re done here, see what you can tell me about the vic’s office unit.”
“Gotcha.” His deep green eyes narrowed in his thin, pretty face. “Mega excel tech,” he repeated. “Shut down the cams, the locks, the alarms, one, two, three. It’s an older system, but it’s not crap.”