Calculated in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “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 t
o 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 hi
s 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.”