by J. D. Robb
“Not much we can do about that.”
Maybe a preemptive strike, she thought. And wondered if she could squeeze in enough time into coaxing, maneuvering, or bribing Nadine into spinning the story as she needed it spun.
She contacted the WIN offices as she drove. “This is Lieutenant Dallas. Is Jake Ingersol in?”
“All three partners are meeting at the new offices this morning, Lieutenant. Do you need the address?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Would you like me to contact Mr. Ingersol and tell him you’re hoping to speak to him?”
“No, don’t bother.”
As she drove back across town yet again, she heard Peabody murmuring condolences to Gibbons, and skillfully, she’d give Peabody the chops there, evading direct answers on the murder.
“Set me up another consult with Mira, will you?” she asked Peabody when her partner ended the conversation. “Her admin’s less likely to try to fry out your eyeballs over the ’link. I need some direction on these assholes.”
She rubbed at the back of her neck, thinking of Parzarri, strapped down on the gurney, watching his killer’s face as he smothered. Twisting, struggling, helpless.
He’d been dirty, that was clear to her. But not a killer. Or he hadn’t had the opportunity to decide if he could or would take part in the murder of his coworker. He’d never known.
Now, he was dead because she hadn’t anticipated, she hadn’t seen the logic in killing him, in eliminating what must have been a valuable cog in the wheel.
Maybe she should’ve taken Roarke up on that trip to Vegas, confronted him then and there. Or met the damn shuttle instead of going to the hospital.
Hindsight, she thought, was a cold, hard bitch.
“You’ve got a meet with Mira when you can work it in,” Peabody told her.
“That’s it? Just like that?”
“I played nice.”
“Okay, that does it. You’re making all my session appointments with Mira. I freaking surrender to her admin, just like I’m going to freaking surrender—again—to vending machines. It’s not worth the aggravation.”
“It’s not our fault.” Peabody let out a sigh, leaned back. “I’m pretty good at the self-blame game. I can usually win. It’s hard to lose anyway when I’m playing myself. But Parzarri isn’t on us.”
“I miscalculated. He’s dead.”
“Maybe you miscalculated, but how do you calculate this? You were right before when you said killing him was stupid and wasteful. How do you run a mega-million-dollar company when you make stupid, wasteful decisions? He was incommunicado, they knew that. He didn’t know about Dickenson, so he had no reason to betray them even if he’d wanted to. He’s been raking in the dough, and finding ways so they rake it in. As far as they know the files on them are all in their possession, so those numbers can be manipulated before they’re reaudited. Why wouldn’t they keep their same guy on that?”
“I figured they would. I was wrong.”
“No—I mean yes—but they shouldn’t have killed him, not with the scenario that’s in place. If they worried about letting it ride, that you’d keep building a case, keep digging, okay, move him out. He’s in the wind—and in the wind, hell, Dallas, they could’ve laid it all on him somehow. They could’ve planted bogus evidence that made it look like he ordered the hit, or that he’d been working with somebody who ordered it. He’s off doing the mambo in Argentina or wherever, still keeping the books—new name, new face. It’s a good investment. And they pin it on him, maybe even have him fiddle around so it looks like he skimmed from them. Now they’re a victim, too.”
Eve ran it over in her head. “That would’ve been smart. Keep the accountant, aim the light on him, but keep him fat and happy somewhere else. They should’ve thought of that, should have tried it.”
“They’ve got somebody who’s running their numbers, cooking their books, helping them run scams, but they kill him during an audit they need fixed up? It’s dumbass.”
“Impulse again, instant gratification. They could always get rid of Parzarri if he didn’t go along, if he made any of the wrong noises. They didn’t give him a chance, either way. They had an accountant, a money guy, a hacker, and the muscle.”
“Now they’re down an accountant.”
“Yeah.” Impulse, instant gratification, Eve thought. “They may compound the stupid by going after the money guy. But more—think about this—by killing the accountant, it gives us something they didn’t know we had—that connection. Now we know Parzarri was involved. So maybe they hope to shine that line on his corpse, with less time to plan it through, less time to implement. But that’s the impulse, the quick trigger again. And back to greed. Fucking greedy bastard. Why invest in the accountant? You figure you’ll just bribe another, start him out on what’s it—entry level. I bet Alexander thinks that’s smart business. The ultimate layoff.”
“No severance package.”
“If he’s going to try to hang it on the dead guy, he needs the money guy’s cooperation. Or he needs him dead, too.” Considering the pattern, Eve hit the sirens and floored it.
“Here we go again,” Peabody sighed, and grabbed the chicken stick.
Eve swung to the curb in front of the building, slapped On Duty as she double-parked, and ignored the bitter fury of other drivers. She scanned quickly for a dark Exec Lux 5000, saw none as she jogged up the steps to the main entrance.
She jabbed the buzzer.
In under ten seconds, Whitestone opened the door with a welcoming smile. “Lieutenant Dallas, we were just—”
“Ingersol.”
“Jake?” Whitestone stepped back as she strode straight into the spacious lobby that smelled of fresh paint and gleamed with smooth surfaces. The unmanned reception counter formed a central, wide U backed by a shimmering silver wall with THE WIN GROUP in large, fancy script.
“We need to talk to him.”
“He just stepped out. He should be back in a few minutes. Why don’t I give you the tour while—”
“Where?” Eve demanded. “Where did he go?”
Puzzlement edged toward worry. “I don’t know, exactly. We’re getting furniture delivered this morning, some other things. Rob and Jake and I wanted to make sure it all went smooth. Rob’s back in his office, trying to coordinate deliveries. Jake got a call on his ’link and said he had to go take care of something and wouldn’t be more than an hour. He’s only been gone about twenty minutes, maybe a half hour. I didn’t pay attention.”
“Peabody.”
“I’m on it,” she said, and walked away to follow the unspoken order for a BOLO on Jake Ingersol.
“On what?” Whitestone demanded, more agitated. “Is there something wrong? Something to do with Jake?”
“Chaz Parzarri was murdered this morning.”
“What? How? Jesus Christ. Rob!” He turned, moved right, shouting. “Rob, get out here. He was in the hospital, right? Are you sure it was murder? Maybe he was hurt worse than we thought. I just can’t—”
“What the hell, Brad, I’m in the middle of— Oh, sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t know you were here.”
“She says Chaz Parzarri from Brewer—she says he’s been murdered.”
“When? Where? He’s in Las Vegas, or no. God, he was coming back this morning. I talked to Jim Arnold last night. They were coming back this morning. Jim? Is Jim all right?”
“He’s fine. Do you know where your other partner went when he left here?”
“Jake? He had a client with some crisis or problem. He just said he was meeting the client for a quick coffee and reassurance. He’d be back. Why?”
“I need to speak with him. Urgently.”
“Let me just tag him. He’s going to be upset about Chaz. They worked together on several accounts.” Newton pulled out his pocket ’link.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention the murder. Just find out his location. I’ll take it from there.”
“It went to v-mail. Let me text him. We have a code when it’s urgent.”
“How did he behave when he was contacted by this client?” she asked Whitestone.
“Ah, I don’t know exactly what you mean. Maybe a little annoyed. We’re really trying to get this place up and running within the next two weeks. The crew finished here, and in my apartment. They’ve just got a few things to do, what they call punch out, in a couple of the rental units. We’re ready to move in.”
“If he was meeting a client for coffee in this area, where would it be?”
“We usually use Express. It’s just a block south.”
“He’s not answering,” Newton reported.
“Stay here,” Eve ordered. “If he contacts you, tell him to stay where he is, and let me know. Peabody.”
“Why won’t you tell us what’s going on?” Newton complained. “If there’s something up with Jake, if something’s wrong, we need to know.”
“I’ll let you know when I know,” she said and strode out.
Halfway to the car she stopped, turned, and stared at the door of what would be Whitestone’s apartment.
“Jesus, could they be that arrogant? That goddamn bold?”
Changing direction, she walked down the stairs, glanced back at Peabody, drew her weapon.
“You really think?”
“It’s right here. Pretty damn convenient. He’s sure as hell not meeting a client for coffee.”
With her left hand, she took out her master, slid it slowly, quietly through the slot. She held up three fingers, two, one.
They went through the door together, fast and smooth.
She saw they could be that arrogant. They could be that bold.
Jake Ingersol lay on the newly finished floor, eyes staring up at the freshly painted ceiling, and his brutalized head swimming in a pool of his own blood.
Eve held up a hand. “We clear it first.”
She didn’t believe they’d find the killer hiding in one of the closets or curled into a kitchen cabinet, but they worked through, room by room before she holstered her weapon.
“Get the field kits, Peabody. I’ll call it in.”
“He beat him with a hammer.” The weapon lay beside the body, covered in blood and gore. “Beat his head to pulp with it. Spatter’s everywhere. Jesus. And look at the blood on the pants. He must’ve kneecapped him with it.”
“Yeah. He put some effort into this one. I’d say he’s starting to enjoy his work.”
WHILE PEABODY WENT OUT FOR FIELD KITS, Eve stood studying the scene, the body, the spatter patterns on the freshly painted walls, the gleaming floor.
She calculated they’d missed the killer by minutes, missed preventing murder by perhaps thirty.
She could see how it happened, the movements, the horror, the brutality—see it before the field kit and the tools and instruments.
The contact via ’link, text only, or with video blocked? She’d have lured her target that way. A simple statement, a flat demand. Mr. Alexander needs to speak with you, right away. He’ll meet you in the apartment of the new building.
If the vic questioned, some cryptic or impatient answer could be given. Alexander said now, that means now.
Odds were the killer made the ’link tag from inside the apartment, gaining access through the hacker’s skills, or because Ingersol had already passed on the new codes.
“Vic comes down after the ’link tag,” Eve said out loud as Peabody walked back in with the kits. “The killer’s already here. That’s how he’d work it. He’s a coward at the core. He’d take him from behind, an ambush. We know he’s got a stunner, so he’d use it. He stuns Ingersol, takes him down, then beats him to death when he’s helpless. That’s his way.”
“Why not quick and easy, snap his neck like he did with Dickenson? Or smother him, like Parzarri? Why this kind of ugly, personal mess?”
“Personal, exactly. And because he’s experimenting now. He’s into it now. He’s not killing a stranger now.” She took the kit from Peabody, began to seal up.
“So he not only knew Ingersol, but . . .” Like Eve, Peabody studied the body, the spatter. “Really didn’t like him.”
“Possible. Very possible. Ingersol pissed him off, or insulted him at some point, or he just didn’t like his face. That gives him a reason—maybe it gives him permission—to whale away. Dickenson? That was thoughtless, ruthless. Swat that fly and walk away. The attack on us? Following orders. But was there a little thrill in there at the prospect of taking out two cops, in a public place? Maybe.”
“Major fail on that one.”
“Yeah.” Taking out her gauges, Eve performed the basics—confirming ID, determining TOD. “Alexander wouldn’t have been very pleased. Maybe he took his muscle to the toolshed.”
“The toolshed? For the hammer?”
“No, you know. You go to the toolshed to get your ass whipped.”
“You do? Oh, oh, you mean woodshed.”
“Why does wood need a shed?”
“I don’t know . . . well, to keep it dry. You can’t start a fire with wet wood.”
“Eighteen minutes. He’s been dead for eighteen goddamn minutes.” Anger spurted inside her, needed to be tamped down. “They came directly here from the underpass and Parzarri. He’s riding on the boost from doing the accountant. Does he already have the hammer? Was it here?”
She looked around again but saw no tools, no materials. They’d finished in here. “The crew had cleaned up, so why would there be a hammer? Did he bring it with him? Did he stop to buy it? We find out. Either way, one of them, killer or hacker, makes the call.”
She looked at the door again, calculated, then carefully lifted the victim’s bloody, ruined shirt. “Yeah, stun marks. ME to confirm, but I think . . .” She fixed on microgoggles, all but put her nose on the broken chest. “Looks like it to me. He doesn’t stun Ingersol from behind. Maybe he couldn’t get in position to, or he just wanted to see Ingersol’s face when he went down. So. Vic walks in, all rush, all business, and the killer stuns him.”
She closed her eyes a moment. “If the hammer was here, using it was impulse. I don’t think so, not this time, and a stray hammer’s just too damn convenient. He’s pumped up, wants more. He’s greedy, just like the rest of them. All of them just want more. He could’ve walked over, put the stunner to the carotid, ended it. But he beat him to pieces.”
“He’d have gotten blood all over him.”
“If the hammer was here and it’s impulse, yeah. But if he bought it, he bought protective gear, or he brought both with him. We need to know which. It’ll play into profile.”
She sat back on her heels. “Let’s have EDD check the locks, get uniforms for a canvass—big guy with another guy, the vehicle. Maybe this time we’ll get lucky.”
“There’s nobody left to kill, is there? As far as we know this involved Alexander, Ingersol, and Parzarri. And the hacker.”
“Maybe they take out the hacker. More stupid waste, but why stop now? Alexander has other employees running these projects and scams. And maybe Alexander’s through ordering kills, for now. But you do this.” She nodded down at the body. “You’ve found another, very satisfying line of work. He’s not giving it up.”
She left Peabody to wait for the uniforms and sweepers, and went back upstairs to inform the partners.
“He’s still not answering,” Newton told her. “I can only think his ’link got turned off somehow. Otherwise—”
“He’s not going to answer. He’s dead.”
She spoke flatly, coldly, wanting to study reactions. She saw anger surge into Newton’s face, shock freeze Whitestone’s.
“What are you talking about?” Newton whippe
d out the words. “That’s ridiculous. What the hell are you trying to do?”
“To inform you your partner, Jake Ingersol, has been murdered. I’m sorry for your loss. Now sit down.”
“Why would anyone murder Jake?” Whitestone managed. “It doesn’t make any sense. It’s crazy. Is this about the accountants? Is this some lunatic targeting all of us? A client? I don’t understand. I don’t understand. He was just here. Not an hour ago.”
“Sit down,” she repeated, more gently now as she saw the mix of shock and anger on both, and the dawning of grief.
Newton lowered shakily into an old folding chair. Whitestone just sat on the floor. “How? How?” he asked her. “You have to tell us what happened. He wasn’t just our partner. He’s our friend. Rob. Jesus, Rob.”
“He met his killer in the apartment downstairs. Your apartment, Mr. Whitestone.”
Color drained from Whitestone’s face, leaving it a sickly green. “No. No. He was going out for coffee, meeting a client.”
“No, he wasn’t. He believed he was meeting a client—and more than a client, a partner in a land and investment fraud operation. Chaz Parzarri served as their accountant.”
Newton lurched up from the chair. “That’s bullshit! Fraud? Jake’s dead and now you’re trying to make him a criminal?”
“He made himself. We have significant evidence linking Ingersol, Parzarri, and another individual to fraud in several land and property schemes. You don’t look very surprised,” she said to Whitestone.
“I thought he was kidding around. I thought . . . The wrist unit, Rob, he said he got at an estate sale for peanuts. The painting he bought a few months ago after he said he’d hit it big in Atlantic City. And . . . other things. Oh God.” He lowered his head to his knees.
“You don’t seriously believe Jake was involved in fraud?” Newton demanded. “For God’s sake, Brad.”
“I don’t know . . .” He rubbed shaky hands over his face. “About a year ago Jake and I were out at a club, and we got pretty toasted. You were off with Lissa, so it was the two of us. It looked like I might lose the Breckinridge account, remember? I was feeling pretty low. He laid out this whole idea for making money off land deals. Setting up dummy companies, pulling in groups and selling off more shares than you had, then buying up the land yourself. Inflating or deflating the assessments. He drew up a chart on cocktail napkins.”