“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 bags 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.”