by J. D. Robb
“I’ll be happier when we’re dancing naked under the tropical sun, but this will do.”
“Okay.” She rubbed her gritty eyes. “Let’s start tying this up.”
19
WHEN SHE CONTACTED BAXTER, HE WAS NEARLY at her gates. “Figured I could give you what I got, you give me yours. In person. I got Trueheart with me. Ought to be something the kid can do.”
There was always something, Eve thought, and began to cobble together her notes. Trueheart could play drone and write her report. Despite the months working with Baxter, Trueheart was still fresh as daisies in May and eager as a puppy gamboling through them. He wouldn’t squawk about drone work.
“More cops,” Roarke said. “More coffee, then.”
“Dancing naked, tropical sun, near future.”
“I don’t suppose we could take fifteen minutes in the holo-room to practice.” He set coffee at her elbow.
“We’ve been practicing every chance we get the last couple years. I think we’re ready to go pro. Where’s the money they’re washing coming from?”
“I thought you were going to let the Feds and Global worry about that?”
“Yeah, but it bugs me.” She rose to walk to the board, to study the photos of Bullock and Chase. In her mind she saw the way they’d stood together, the way they’d touched each other. “They’re not just mother and son.”
When Roarke said nothing, she turned to look at him. Nodded. “You saw it, too.”
“I suppose you and I may be more attuned to that kind of thing than most. I saw…we’ll say…the intimacy between them.”
“That’s too clean a word for it, but to my mind, so’s incest. It just doesn’t get to the base of it. She runs it, runs him.” It made something curdle inside her. “She’s the spider when she should have been shielding him from the bad stuff. Instead, she uses him and twists him…and this isn’t about me.”
He crossed to her, laid his hands on her shoulders, his lips on her hair. “How can you stop it from resonating with you, just as what may be happening to Tandy does with me?”
Eve reached up until her hand covered his. “He’d have been the one to do the killing. You could see that in him, the violence under the polish. But she’d be the one pushing the buttons. And maybe I’m reading too much into it.”
“If you are, I’m reading the same page.”
“Well.” She drew a breath, lowered her hand. “If we’re right, it’s something I’ll use when I’ve got them in Interview. But for now…What’s the source of the money? Illegals, weapons? It just doesn’t feel right. Mob money. I don’t know. They don’t give that off. Lots of other ways,” she mused. “Lots of ways to make money off the books, but it seems to me—it feels to me,” she corrected, “like it would be something they’re into. Or enjoy. Or believe in. They’re self-satisfied fuckers.”
“A perfect description.”
“You get me.” She nodded. “Prissy and righteous and full of themselves. I can’t see them hooking up with organized crime, because she likes to run the show. Wish I could walk through this with Mira, get a profile.”
“It sounds like you have one of your own.”
“She wears diamonds around the house. He’s wearing a suit on a Sunday night when they’re hanging at home. They have this image, even when no one’s around to see it. That’s what they’ve created and nurtured, even when they’re coupling in the dark. And the sex, that’s another level of the unity, the being above the rest. Do you know who she is? Smuggling maybe—it’s got that thin sheen of class and romance.”
“Why thank you, darling.”
She rolled her eyes at him. Trust him to remind her that that was how he’d earned a good portion of his fortune in his youth. “Jewelry, art, fine wines. That kind of thing might be it. Maybe some subtle blackmail.”
“The discs Peabody and McNab are bringing in should tell you, at least some of it.”
“Yeah. Probably encoded. Pain in the ass. A lot of their houses, other property, are in the foundation’s name.” Restless, she paced in front of the board. “But that’s just a way big wheels loop the loopholes in tax laws. And I’m betting a lot of the jewelry, the art, the high-dollar items were bought with cash.”
Then she jerked a thumb at the data she had on-screen. “And you look at him. Hitting onto fifty, no marriages, no cohabs, still lives with his mother. Works with his mother. Travels with his mother. They don’t feel they have to bother with a cover over what goes on between them. He didn’t say: ‘Do you know who we are,’ but who she is. She’s the power. She’s the control.”
Eve pushed that avenue aside as she heard cop feet heading toward the office.
It was always a surprise to see Trueheart out of uniform. They walked in looking, to Eve’s mind, like the leads in a buddy vid. The slick-looking veteran cop and his young studly apprentice.
“Coffee.” Baxter said it like a prayer. “Hook me up, kid. Dallas, Roarke.”
“What’s the word on the vehicle?” Eve demanded.
“Dump the discs every twenty-four, so the night in question’s long gone. No logs.”
“You brought me squat?”
“Would I bring you squat?” He took the coffee from Trueheart, sat, stretched out his legs. “Private garage, with monthly rates that cost more than the rent on my apartment and the kid’s here combined. Key card and passcode to get in. Place holds a half-dozen vehicles, and let me tell you, they were all flash. Vic’s is a sinewy all-terrain. Four-seater. Loaded.”
“That’s fascinating, Baxter.”
“Gets that way. We’re looking it over—had to call the manager in, and he’s the one gave us squat. But while we’re there, this guy whose ride is this classic Sunstorm—Triple X model, jet charger, six on the floor. Black and shiny as the mouth of hell, silvered glass roof. You know the model?” he asked Roarke. “First run in 2035?”
“I do indeed. A very fine machine.”
“I nearly wept when he drove it in.”
“It was a sweet ride,” Trueheart agreed, then flushed a little when Eve flicked him a glance.
“Sounds like you boys had tons of fun playing with the toys. But what does that give me?”
“In the course of the conversation, the Sunstorm’s owner—one Derrick Newman—stated that while he’d never actually met Sloan, he had admired his vehicle, and was considering purchasing one like it for hard weather and off-roading.”
“Maybe he can get a deal on it seeing as the owner’s dead.”
“While he’d never met Sloan,” Baxter repeated, “he had noticed that the all-terrain was, always and habitually, backed into its slot. It was parked in that manner a week ago Wednesday at approximately seven P.M. when Newman retrieved his own vehicle to pick up his current squeeze and drive to Oyster Bay for a rehearsal dinner for his brother’s wedding—which was the following Saturday. He returned his vehicle to the garage at just after three on Thursday morning as the current squeeze did not deign to put out that evening. At which time he noticed, with some curiosity, that the all-terrain was front-in.”
Eve pursed her lips. “That may not be squat.”
“It ain’t. When Newman mentioned Sloan’s parking habit, the manager corroborated. Sloan’s rented that space for three years, and has never parked front-in. Until a week ago Wednesday night or early Thursday morning.”
“I want that vehicle impounded. I want the sweepers going over it molecule by molecule.”
“Thought you would. I made the call while we were there. It’s on its way in now.”
“Good work.”
“Feel like I’ve done something, anyway,” Baxter said with a shrug. “I’ve been talking to Palma every day. She wants to come in, pack up her sister’s things as soon as the scene’s cleared.”
“Working on that.” Eve filled him in, nodded toward Peabody and McNab, who came in as she was wrapping up.
“Bagged, tagged, logged, delivered.” Peabody yawned as she and McNab dumped evidence bag
s on Eve’s desk. “Money smells pretty. ’Specially lots of it.”
“Get her coffee,” Eve ordered.
“Have this first.” Roarke held out another booster he’d already poured.
“Looks yucky,” Peabody said and pouted at it.
“I made it just for you.”
“Aww.” With stars in her heavy eyes, she gulped it down. “Is yucky.”
“Yes, I know. You, too, Ian.”
“Energy booster? I kinda like them.” He drank his without complaint while Trueheart passed around more coffee.
“Now, if everyone’s refreshed.” Eve unsealed the evidence bags marked with Peabody’s initials that contained the Bullock Foundation discs. “We’ll start with last year, work back.”
She plugged the first disc into her computer. “Display data, screen one.”
Not encoded she thought, and would have done a little happy dance if she’d had the energy. “Roarke? Translation?”
“Monthly accounts,” he verified. “I’d say Randall Sloan’s personal copy. It’s spelled out quite clearly here, unlike the files registered with the firm. You see his monthly fee.” Roarke picked up a laser, pointed. “And Madeline Bullock’s, Winfield Chase’s commissions—as they’re listed. Also deductions for legal fees, Cavendish, in New York. The London law firm takes a cut through monthly retainer, and billable hours.”
“Which means, in English.”
“The way these accounts were done, officially, the funneling and turnovers are more clearly documented here. And very, very illegal. The tax hounds will be wiping drool off their faces for years.”
“I’m looking at income here,” Eve said, scrolling through. “Primarily through individuals. Fees out of that to other individuals, and some institutions. Hospitals, medicals…food, lodging, transpo.
“Samuel and Reece Russo, a quarter million paid.”
“That’s an installment,” Roarke explained. “One of four.”
“A million for Sam and Reece, and a like amount from a Maryanna Clover. More of the same—you got, what, four—no, that’s five installment payments here from individuals, just in the first quarter of last year. What are they paying for?”
“The expenses attached to that income might tell the tale.” Roarke ordered the expenditures on-screen. “The Russos’ fee has a ten-thousand-euro payment, per installment, to a Sybil Hopson, a two-thousand-euro payment as monthly retainer to a Leticia Brownburn, M.D., with a lump payment of ten thousand in October of last year. Another, listed as donation to Sunday’s Child. Legal fees come to…twelve thousand for this transaction—as paid by the foundation.”
“So for a million, in what they’re finagling as primarily tax-free income, they expend under a hundred thousand. Good return,” Eve decided. “What’s Sunday’s Child?”
“Child placement agency,” the half-asleep Peabody muttered. “London-based.”
Eve spun around. “What?”
“Huh? What?” Peabody pushed up from her slouch in the chair, blinked rapidly. “Sorry. I must’ve zoned out.”
“Sunday’s Child.”
“Oh, we switched to the kidnapping. It’s one of the agencies on the list. London-based, with offices in Florence, Rome, Oxford, Milan, ah, Berlin. Places. Sorry, I’ll need to review my notes.”
“This agency is on the list in Tandy’s file, and appears as a major beneficiary of the Bullock Foundation?” She looked at Baxter. “Coincidence is hooey, right?”
“Words to live by. Christ, Dallas, are we dovetailing here?”
“Trueheart, run Leticia Brownburn, M.D., London. I want to know if she’s associated with Sunday’s Child. Roarke, I need you to go through these files as quickly as you can, see if we’ve got a pattern. If there are other like agencies, birthing centers.”
Movement was quick. Since every unit in the two offices was being used, Eve pulled out her PPC. “Data run on Russo, Samuel, and Russo, Reece,” she began and read off the identification numbers Sloan had listed on the file.
Working…Russo, Samuel, DOB: 5 August, 2018, married to Russo, Reece, nee Bickle, 10 May, 2050. Residence: London, England; Sardinia, Italy; Geneva, Switzerland; Nevis. One child, male, DOB: 15 September, 2059, through private adoption.
“That’s enough, hold run. Begin data run on Hopson, Sybil,” she ordered and read off the identification number.
Working…Hopson, Sybil, DOB: 3 March, 2040. Parents—
“Skip that. Residence and offspring.”
Resides Oxford University. Student. No offspring. One registered pregnancy, through term with live birth, male, 15 September, 2059. Placed through private adoption.
“Placement agency used for both Russo and Hopson.”
Working…Sunday’s Child, London.
“It’s not illegal, Dallas.” Baxter stood beside her. “I don’t know the ins and outs of private adoptions or surrogacy in Europe, but they could slide with this here.”
“Payments are too high,” Eve disagreed. “This girl sold her kid, and selling human beings is illegal, globally.”
“You can call the fee educational incentive, expense reimbursement. They’d go through some shit, but they’d probably scrape it off.”
“Maybe. But they hid the money, doctored the accounts so they fell well under the acceptable limit, left the bulk of the income unreported. And if this is what it looks like, they are, in essence, running a baby-selling operation at a big, fat profit. They won’t look good on the media reports when this hits. More, they killed three people to keep this buried.”
“This is what Palma’s sister stumbled onto,” Baxter murmured.
“I doubt she knew exactly what it entailed, but she dug around and got a strong clue. Baxter, there are other missing women like Tandy, and at least one who was killed, along with the fetus. It’s going to come back to this.” She nodded toward the screen. “Right back to this.”
“Grabbing women off the damn street? Stealing their kids?”
“Something like that. If these women contacted Sunday’s Child, maybe even started proceedings. Fees collected by the foundation.”
It was more than pieces now. The picture was full and complete in front of her. “Then, say the woman changes her mind, takes off. These women relocated, so maybe they felt threatened, or were afraid they’d be pressured, legally pursued. They’re snatched close to term. There’s a reason for that.”
“Shorter wait time for the product,” he said grimly.
“When the product’s delivered, the woman’s no longer needed, and is disposed of. Keeps those expenses way down. Work with Roarke, find me someone who paid the baby fee where the expenses don’t follow the rest of the pack.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Trueheart.”
“Lieutenant, Brownburn is on the board of Sunday’s Child, and the OB in residence.”
“Peabody, is there a branch of the agency in New York?”
“Europe only.”
“Another agency then, one that pops on the files. They didn’t haul her back to England, not this close to term. They want to be sure the product is safe and viable. Maybe New Jersey, Connecticut. Maybe…”
On an oath she leaped to the desk ’link. The big house with the blind windows. You can see out but you can’t see in, she thought as she hurriedly contacted Cher Reo.
Incognito, my ass.
“Jesus, Dallas, just how many times tonight are you going to ruin my evening?” Reo pushed at her tousled blonde hair. “I’m about to get lucky.”
“You’re going to get luckier. I need a warrant.”
“I got your damn warrants, and let me tell you, I worked my well-toned ass off for them.”
“I need a search-and-seize for the Bullock residence on East End Avenue. All contents.”
“Oh? Is that all?” Reo’s faint Southern drawl went sweet as honey.
“I have reason to believe they’re holding a woman there against her will. A very pregnant woman whose life will be over if she delivers
before we get to her. If she’s not being held there, I need authority to search the premises for proof of her whereabouts.”
“Dallas, are they killers or kidnappers?”
“One’s led to the other. Reo, this woman’s been missing since Thursday. I may already be too late. Don’t make me later.”
“I need more than ‘you have reason to believe,’ Dallas. I tap-danced my way to your mandatory DNA. I push for a second warrant on a separate matter, the lawyers for the other team are going to scream harassment.”
“I don’t have time—” Eve cut herself off, breathed. “I’m going to put Peabody on, and she’ll give you the song. I’m putting an op together, Reo. With or without a warrant, I’m going in within the hour.”
Jabbing a finger toward the ’link, Eve strode into Roarke’s office.
“I’ve got your pattern, Lieutenant,” Roarke told her. “A maximum of ten children placed per year, at birth, for fee, a minimum of four. Over the past eight years, sixty-five placements, for a gross profit of sixty-five-million euros.”
“I’m getting a warrant for the East End house. I think they could be holding Tandy there. Baxter.”
“Got some way uptown e-toys here,” he said without looking up from the screen. “I’ve got six out of that sixty-five where the expenditures were significantly lower than the others, and in one case where the buy fee was reimbursed.”
“Jones, Emily, Middlesex and/or London, England.”
“That’s the name listed on the first and only expenditure to an individual other than the medicals on the reimbursed fee. And, Dallas? Tandy’s on here.” McNab looked over at her. “One payment to her late last May, recorded as returned in full early June.”
“Changed her mind, paid them back. But that didn’t do the trick. We’re going in.”
In her office she outlined the layout, as she knew it, of the house.
“The subject is most likely being held on the second or third floor. Third gets my vote. She may be restrained, and is undoubtedly guarded, certainly by cams. There are at least two suspects and one servant droid on the premises. Given the situation, we have to assume there is a medical as well, droid or human. Both suspects should be considered violent.”