J. Robb - Born In Death

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.”

“You should have offered her one.”

Now Whitney raised his brows. “Lieutenant Dallas isn’t a civilian, and is under my command. She knows the departmental line. I don’t apologize for informing a subordinate of a potential problem within an investigation. Nor would she, I expect, in my place.”

“She intends to bring me in, officially as expert consultant, civilian.”

“She would, wouldn’t she?” Whitney sat back, frowned. “Thumb her nose at anyone who’d question her integrity or yours. Still…” Now he tapped his fingers, thinking it through. “That would also put you under the department’s aegis throughout the investigation, which goes some way of covering us. And your document, which I’d assume is as complicated as it is detailed, should take care of the rest.

“Some media spinning if we need it.”

“That can be handled,” Roarke told him.

“I’ve no doubt about it. I’ll have this vetted by Legal, and run it through with Chief Tibble.”

“Then I’ll let you get to it.”

Whitney rose. “When you speak to the lieutenant, tell her I have every confidence this case will be closed in a timely fashion.”

And that, Roarke thought, was as close to an apology as Eve would get. “I’ll do that.”

When Peabody poked her head into Eve’s office, Eve was pinning names to the back side of her board. “Baxter and I have been through the lot,” she told Eve. “Nothing pops out of line, and Copperfield and Byson didn’t share any clients.”

“You gotta go under it,” Eve said half to herself. “Forget the numbers for now, look at names. Look at people. Numbers make you crazy anyway.”

“I kind of like them.” Peabody moved in, squeezing around the desk to view the back of the board.

“You got your big three,” Eve began, and tapped names. “Sloan, Myers, Kraus. Under Sloan you’ve got the son, then the grandson. Connect Copperfield to Jake Sloan, putting them both under Cara Greene. Under Copperfield, you’ve got the assistant, Sarajane Bloomdale. Rochelle DeLay connects to Jake Sloan, to Copperfield, and also to Byson, who comes over here, under the big three, and under Myra Lovitz, with another connect to Lilah Grove.”

“You need a bigger board.”

“Maybe. Then you’ve got your alibis. Myers and Kraus with clients.”

“And all checked out,” Peabody added.

“Jacob Sloan’s got his grandkid and the girlfriend, his wife. Doubling that back as Sloan alibiing the grandson. Handy.”

“Yet feasible.”

“Randall Sloan has clients covering his ass for the time in question.”

“Also checked. And none of the alibis were Copperfield’s clients.”

“Nope. However, the Bullock Foundation is represented in the legal world by Stuben, Robbins, Cavendish, and Mull, who were Copperfield’s. And one of the accounts – according to Greene when I contacted her this morning – Copperfield copped within the last year.”

“Aha!” Peabody hunched her shoulders at Eve’s beady stare. “I just wanted to say it.”

“The British law firm has a New York branch, which is also handy. Byson connects there, as he represented the number crunching for Lordes Cavendish McDermott – ”

“Sounds like an opera singer.”

“Socialite and widow of Miles McDermott, really rich dude. Meanwhile, other under-the-surface connections. Randall Sloan is alibied by Sasha Zinka and Lola Warfield. Zinka has a sister living in Prague, who, along with two partners, owns and runs a five-diamond hotel. And whose number crunching is done by…”

“Sloan, Myers, and Kraus. I did Copperfield’s. I don’t remember a Zinka. It would’ve clicked.”

“Sister’s name is Kerlinko, Anna. And the hotel group was Copperfield’s. Also copped within this last year.”

“Either a lot of coincidence or a lot of connections.”

“I like connections. Pull the data on these companies, and the New York-based staff for now. I’ve got a quick consult with Mira, then we’re in the field.”

Heading out, Eve stopped to scowl at a vending machine. She and Vending currently had a cold war in progress. But she wanted a damn Pepsi. In fact, if she took a tube with her to Mira’s, the doctor wouldn’t insist on pushing into her hands that flower tea she always brewed.

Eve jingled the loose credits in her pockets. She wasn’t going to just key in her code. That wasn’t just asking for trouble, it was begging for it.

She took out the credits she needed, was about to risk the annoyance and disappointment by plugging them in herself, when a couple of uniforms came her way, quick-stepping a skinny guy in restraints between them.

The skinny guy was squawking like a parrot on Zeus about harassment, constitutional rights, and someone named Shirley.

“Hey.” She held up a hand, then held out the credits. With her free hand she stabbed a finger at the parrot. “You. Zip it.”

Even with the illegals in his system whirling his eyes around in his head, the mope must have caught the tone of her voice. He went down to whimpers.

“Use this, gimme Pepsi.”

“Sure, Lieutenant.”

Because the uniform didn’t blink at the request, Eve assumed her cold war was known throughout the department.

“What he do?” she asked with a nod toward the now sniveling parrot.

“Pushed a woman down a couple flights of stairs at his flop. She didn’t bounce.”

“Slipped. She slipped. I wasn’t even there. I hardly knew her. Cops tossed me down on the street. I’m gonna sue.”

“Three eyewits,” the uniform said dryly as he handed Eve her tube. “Fled the scene. Took a little spill during pursuit.”