She glanced at it, then looked over at him as he sat. “Are my eyes bleeding? They feel like they’re bleeding.”
“Not so far.”
“I don’t know how you do it, day after day.” She made the mistake of looking toward the wall screen where he had the morning stock reports running. And slapped a hand over her aching eyes. “Have mercy.”
He chuckled, but switched to the morning media. “Had enough of numbers, darling?”
“I saw them in my sleep. Dancing. Some were singing. I think some might have had teeth. I’d rather lie bare-assed naked on the sidewalk and be trampled by tourists from South Dakota than be an accountant. And you.” She stabbed her fork in his direction. “You love them. The fives and twenties and the profit margins, overheads, the trading fees and tax-free fuckwhats.”
“I love little more than a tax-free fuckwhat.”
“How does anybody keep track of money anyway, when it’s zinging around all over the place? This guy puts it here for five minutes into pork asses, then whap! he kicks the asses and slaps it into gizmos, then shuffles some of that into peanut brittle.”
“It’s never wise to put all your eggs into one pork’s ass.”
“Whatever.” She had to struggle back a yawn. “Those accountant guys rake it in and spread it around.”
“Money’s a bit like manure. You can’t get anything to grow if you don’t spread it around.”
“I couldn’t find anything off, but then I think my brain fried in hour two. Lifestyles jibe with the incomes, incomes jibe with the business fees and profits, investments and blah-de-blah. If any of them are pulling some in on the side, they’ve got it buried.”
“I’ll see if I can scrape off any of the dirt there. Meanwhile, I’ve got a couple of clients that have shown fairly consistent upswings and profits over the last two years. Could be good management,” he added as he ate. “Good luck. Or good information.”
“With New York branches?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Gives me someone to harass and intimidate. Makes up for the long night with numbers.” She ate with more enthusiasm. “Roarke. Say you were doing something off the books, under the table, or in the gray area of law and ethics.”
“Me?” He gave a good imitation of insulted shock. “What a thing to imply.”
“Yeah, right. But if you were, and one of your employees tapped in. How would you handle it?”
“Denial. Complete and utter denial, and while I was denying, I’d be busy covering up anything potentially damaging, crunching numbers, altering data. Depending on how matters shook out, I’d give the employee a raise or transfer them.”
“In other words, there are lots of ways around this, if it’s a money deal. Killing two people is extreme, brings more heat. Now you’ve got cops digging.”
“A strong and foolish reaction, yes. Someone took it personally, when it’s simply business.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”
Since it was something she wanted to run past Mira, Eve copied the files to the profiler’s office unit, and contacted Mira’s obsessively protective admin for an appointment.
On the way downtown, an ad blimp cruised overhead blasting the news of an INVENTORY BLOWOUT! and a RED DOT EXTRAVAGANZA! at Aladdin’s Cave at Union Square.
She wondered about people who got juiced up about blowouts and extravaganzas at places called Aladdin’s Cave. What were they after, cut-rate lamps with genies? Overstocked flying carpets?
It was too early for bargain hunters or for any but the most determined tourists. New Yorkers clipped along the sidewalks, heading to or from work, to breakfast meetings. By-the-day domestics huddled in the chill waiting for their buses to rumble up to take them to the apartments or townhouses they’d spend their days cleaning.
More, she knew, would be jammed under the streets, zoning while the subway thundered along the rails.
On corners, glide-cart operators were set up to hawk their hideous excuse for coffee and tooth-chipping bagels to the early commuters. Steam poured off the grills to accommodate those hungry enough or just crazy enough to eat the fake egg pouches the carts fried up.
A few enterprising street hawkers were spreading their designer rip-offs and gray market wares on tables and blankets. Scarves and hats and gloves would be the hot sellers, she thought, on a day with the bitter wind cutting at the bone, and the sky just waiting to dump snow.
Which it did, along with nasty little bits of ice, minutes before she turned into the garage at Central.
In her office, she got another cup of coffee, put her feet up on her desk, and stared at the murder board.
Personal, she thought again.
Jake Sloan had personal relationships with both vics.
Lilah Grove attempted to develop one with the male vic.
Cara Greene, first vic’s department head, purportedly had friendly personal relationship with both vics.
All three generations of Sloans had a personal interest in Copperfield.
And all of the above had considerable investment in the firm, its success, and its reputation.
Eve angled her head, shifted her thoughts. So what connection within the firm do or did any or all of those people have?
She plugged in the data Roarke had given her and began to look for one.
While she was working, Roarke was walking into Commander Whitney’s office. Whitney rose, offered a hand.
“I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice,” Roarke began.
“It’s not a problem. Can I offer you coffee?”
“No. I won’t keep you long.” Roarke opened his briefcase, took out a file. He’d kept his lawyers busy through the night. “I understand there’s some concern regarding the Copperfield/Byson investigation, and the ethics of my relationship with the primary.”
“Why don’t you sit down?”
“All right. What you have there,” Roarke continued in the same cool tones, “is a document my attorneys have drafted that binds me from utilizing any of the data I may come across through the primary in the course of her investigation.”
Whitney flicked a glance down at the file, then shifted his eyes back to Roarke’s. “I see.”
“It also stipulates that should I be given access to any of that data, I’ll be given it blind. Figures only, without names or organizations. The document is quite detailed, and the penalties, should I break any of the stipulations therein, are quite stiff. Naturally, you’ll want your legal department to vet it, and should there be any changes or additions requested, those changes and/or additions can be discussed with my legal reps until the document suits all parties.”
“I’ll see that it’s done.”
“All right, then.” Roarke got to his feet. “Of course, legalities and documents don’t take into account the fact I may lie and cheat my way around the stipulations, and use my wife and two brutally murdered people for my own financial gain. But I would hope this department, and this office, understands – clearly understands – the primary in this investigation would never allow it.”
Roarke waited a beat. “I’d like to hear you say you don’t question the lieutenant’s integrity. In fact, I bloody well insist on it.”
“Lieutenant Dallas’s integrity is not at issue for me. And is not in question.”
“Just mine, then?”
“Officially, this department and this office must insure the privacy of the citizens of New York – that information generated or uncovered during the course of an investigation is not utilized for harm, for personal gain, or in any illegal capacity.”
“I thought you knew me better than that,” Roarke shot back, barely able to hold on to the slippery edge of his fury. “At least well enough to be sure I’d do nothing to reflect poorly on my wife, to put her reputation or her career on the line.”
“I do.” Whitney nodded. “I know you well enough to be absolutely sure of that. So, unofficially, all this is bullshit.” Whitney flicked his fingers at the file sharply enough to scoot it over the surface of his desk. “Bureaucratic, political, ass-kissing bullshit that infuriates me nearly as much as you. I can offer you my personal apology for it.”