J. Robb - Born In Death

Peabody waited until Leonardo led Mavis out. “And now that you’ve got her out of the way?”

“Look over the file I got from Italy. Like crime. Woman poofed at thirty-six weeks. No trace of her or the baby. He’s got names from Florence, where she lived before she moved to Rome and vanished. Do followups.”

“I don’t speak Italian. Except for, like, manicotti, linguini, and the occasional ciao . ”

“Me, either. Improvise. Try this new angle, see if anyone knows if she explored other options. Termination or adoption.”

For herself, Eve went back to Peabody’s IRCCA data and took a harder look at the other cases. Possible, she thought, possible one or more of the other open cases was a bungled abduction, resulting in death. Cover up the mistake with rape or assault or theft. Ditch the body.

She picked through the details, pored over the autopsy reports. Then narrowed her eyes at the data on a twenty-one-year-old victim in Middlesex. The mutilated body and fetus had been found in the woods, which the local police had determined was a dump site rather than the murder scene. Mutilation postmortem. COD: head trauma.

Following through, Eve contacted the primary investigator. Fifteen minutes later, she sat back, frowned over at her murder board.

There were differences, she mused. This victim had been married – but only weeks before her death. She had family in Middlesex, had lived there most of her life.

Except for a brief period when she’d gone to London. Gone there, according to the statements taken by the investigator, specifically to look into placing the baby with an agency.

She held up a hand when Peabody crossed the room.

“Just getting coffee,” Peabody told her.

“Twenty-one-year-old vic, England. Pregnant with casual boyfriend, opts to have the baby. Family is upset, don’t like boyfriend much. He’s been in trouble a couple times, doesn’t have regular employment. After some hand-wringing, vic goes to London to look into adoption options. Stays at a hostel for a few days, then moves to a midpriced hotel. Remains in London six weeks before returning to Middlesex. Boyfriend gets steady job, love conquers, and plans are made to marry and keep the baby.”

“But?”

“A couple weeks before her due date, she goes missing. Turns up two days later in the woods near the house she and new husband have rented. It’s a dump site. Murder occurred elsewhere, never determined.”

“They look at the new husband?”

“With a laserscope. Alibied tight. COD was head trauma, most likely from a fall. DB also showed signs of restraints, hands and feet, and minor perimortem bruising on the arms. The body was mutilated after death. Hacked up, and the fetus removed. Nonviable.”

“Nasty.” Peabody glanced toward the door to make sure Mavis wasn’t within earshot. “But there are essential differences to Tandy.”

“And similarities. If you theorize that whoever took these women wanted the babies, and when this vic died, the abductor attempted to retrieve the baby. Too late for that, so he or she covers it up by mutilating the body, then dumping both of them.”

Eve rose to add the new picture and name to her board. “What have we got? Three young, healthy pregnant women. None of whom were legally attached to the father at the time they conceived. At least two of them sought information on adoption.”

“Make it three for three,” Peabody put in. “Italian vic’s cousin confirms Belego researched that option, and made an appointment with a counselor regarding same.”

“Got a name?”

“No. But the cousin’s going to ask around, see if Belego mentioned it to anyone.”

“Three for three speaks to me. Let’s try this. Search for agencies that have offices in London, and Florence and/or Rome. I’ve got the name of Tandy’s obstetrician in London. We’ll tag him, too. But first, let’s see if the doctor’s associated with any adoption agencies or counselors.”

A quick search revealed that Tandy’s OB volunteered three days a week at a women’s clinic. The same clinic, she noted, that the woman from Middlesex had used while in London.

Worth a conversation, she decided, and spent the next fifteen minutes tracking down the doctor.

After she’d spoken to him, she added his name and the clinic to her board. “He confirms that he gave Tandy the name of some agencies, and counseling services. He can’t confirm whether she visited any as she canceled her followup appointment with him, and requested copies of her medical records. He’ll check his book, get back to me with the date she called to cancel, and he’s sending a list of the agencies and services they routinely give to patients.”

“All that’s in Europe,” Peabody pointed out. “If Tandy was taken, it was here.”

“It’s a small world,” Eve answered and turned as Roarke stepped in.

“I think you’ll be interested in our findings, Lieutenant,” he said, and handed Eve a disc.

EVE SHIFTED TANDY ASIDE WHILE ROARKE INPUT data into her unit, and ordered it on-screen. It seemed like a lot of numbers to her, in a lot of columns in a complicated and overly detailed spread sheet.

He, apparently, saw a great deal more.

“Two accounts were questionable for me,” he began. “The first, McNab and I agree, has gaps, little voids. A precise, methodical accountant such as Copperfield wouldn’t have these voids in one of her files.”

“Tampered with?”

“Again, McNab and I agree.”

“Yeah.” McNab nodded. “I might not get the financial mumbo, but I know when a file’s been diddled with. At least some of that diddling corresponds with the dates you gave me when Copperfield first talked to Byson about finding something, when her assistant claimed she’d logged on after hours. Some of it goes back farther.”

“Someone very carefully removed and/or doctored her work,” Roarke continued. “Someone, in my opinion, with a good working knowledge of accounting.”

“Inside job. What’s the file number?”

When he gave it to her, Eve looked up the corresponding file name. “Well, well, well, it’s our old friends Stubens, Robbins, Cavendish, and Mull.”

“Interesting.”

“You said it was a law firm.” Grinning, McNab pointed at Roarke. “Blinders on, but you slammed it.”

“Billable hours.” Roarke used a laser pointer to highlight columns from his blind copy still displayed on-screen. “Retainers, partners’ percentages. Odds were.”

“But do we have them on anything?” Eve asked. “Illegal practices, finances, taxes?”

Roarke shook his head. “You have the gaps, and when they’re filled in you may. But the numbers jibe, and nothing on the surface appears off.”

“But it is,” Eve complained. “It is off.”

“On the second account I’ve brought up, something certainly is.” He switched displays. “The bottom lines add up precisely,” he continued. “And the account would, I believe, hold up under most standard audits. But what I found, and what I suspect your victim found, were areas of income and outlay that were carefully manipulated in order to add up. On their own, they simply don’t. There are fees – here.”

He used the laser pointer to highlight a section. “These fees repeat – not in amounts, but in precise percentages of coordinating areas of income – and simply don’t jibe. Always forty-five percent of the take, if you will, and with the corresponding amounts, that same percentage appears first under an area of nonprofit contributions, making it exempt from taxes. Which, in the way this is manipulated, makes that fee exempt.”

“Tax fraud,” Eve said.

“Certainly, but that’s only one piece of the pie. The income itself is split into parts, juggled into subaccounts, with expenses attached to, and deducted from it. The income, minus this, is then tumbled back into the main. It’s then disbursed – the sum of it – in a way that, since I have to guess, I assume is through some sort of charitable trust. The client received a hefty write-off, straight from the top, which you see here. Annually.