J. Robb - Born In Death

“The amounts vary, year to year, but the setup remains constant.”

“How much are they washing?”

“Between six and eight million a year, for the time frame I’ve been working with. But it’s more than that. There are simpler ways to evade tax, and to launder money. I’d have to say this particular client has income that is perhaps not strictly legal. It’s an operation,” he told Eve. “Slickly run and profitable, and with these fees and expenses, I’d say a number of people have a piece of it.”

“Copperfield would have found this?”

“If she was looking. Or if she had a question and dug back to find the answer to it before she took over the account. Once you start to peel at the layers, they lift off systematically, simply because the setup is very systematic.”

“I don’t get it.” She shook her head. “I don’t mean the numbers, it’s a given I don’t get them. But I don’t get why. If this is an operation like you say, why didn’t they just keep a second set of books?”

“Greed’s a powerful incentive. There are hefty tax breaks under this system not only for the questionable income, but for all of it. But you have to report the income, the outlay, to get them.”

She nodded. “What’s the blind number on this file?”

“024- 93.”

She went back to her desk, called it up. “Sisters Three. A restaurant chain. London, Paris, Rome, New York, Chicago.”

“A restaurant?” Roarke frowned. “No, that’s not right. These aren’t the accounts of a restaurant.”

She rechecked. “That’s how it comes out.”

“That may be, but these aren’t the files and accounts for a restaurant.”

“Roarke, I’m looking at the file, the file Copperfield marked ‘Sisters Three’…And none of the names in the account are listed anywhere but on the label.”

“She switched files.”

“Labels. Discs. Now why would she do that? And who did she switch it with?”

Eve began to scroll down the file, scanning her computer screen. “Madeline Bullock. Son of a bitch. These are the accounting files for the Bullock Foundation. They weren’t her client.”

“Cavendish, etc., was,” Roarke recalled. “And they represent the Bullock Foundation.”

“She accessed the foundation’s files,” Eve murmured. “Labeled it under another account. Nobody would bother going into that file on her unit if they were looking for what she had on the law firm, and through them the foundation. Kraus, Robert Kraus. He headed this account, and was – allegedly – entertaining Bullock and her son the night Copperfield and Byson were killed. If you need an alibi, why not pick the client whose books you’re cooking?”

She paced around her desk. “Copperfield sees something in the law firm’s accounts that doesn’t balance for her. Something that connects to the Bullock Foundation – both clients of her firm. Wouldn’t she go to one of the big bosses on thisand the foundation’s accountant? She goes to Kraus, expresses some concern, asks some questions. Maybe he brushes her off, or says he’ll look into it. But she’s curious and she’s precise. Something doesn’t add up so she wants to fix it. She takes a look on her own. Sees what you see,” she said to Roarke.

“Makes a copy.” He nodded. “She couldn’t be sure she could go back to Kraus, because she’d asked herself why he hadn’t seen what she’d seen. Who can she talk to about this?”

“Her fiancé. But since she’s come in with questions, Kraus is careful. And he’s going to see she’s accessed, made copies. Time to panic a little. So you threaten, you bribe.”

“And set up a double murder, alibied by two people with a vested interest. Two people who are the face of one of the most prestigious and philanthropic charitable foundations in the world.”

“And who are now accessories to murder, times two. I think I want to have a chat with Bob. Peabody, with me.”

“Ah, Dallas, always happy to be with you, but I think in this case, you should take your number cruncher. No way I can talk the talk.”

Eve pursed her lips, studied Roarke. “She’s got a point. You up for it?”

“Should be fun.”

“And a big sigh of relief from the math-impaired,” Peabody stated. “McNab and I can work the Tandy Willowby case while you’re talking to Kraus.”

“Good. You’re on Mavis duty. Let’s move,” she said to Roarke.

They didn’t find Kraus at home, but his wife interrupted her Sunday bridge game to tell them he was playing golf at The Inner Circle in Brooklyn.

She was a comfortable-looking woman, spiffed up for the bridge party in baby-blue cashmere.

“This is about that sweet girl and her darling young man, isn’t it? It’s just horrible. I spent such a lovely little while chatting with her at the company holiday party last December. I hope you find whatever vicious person did this.”

“I will. You were here that night, entertaining, I understand.”

“Oh, yes. We had Madeline and Win as our guests. Dinner, some cards. And all that while – ”

“You played late?”

“Until nearly midnight, as I recall. I was ready to drop. Actually thought I was coming down with something, I was that tired. But after a good night’s sleep, I was fine. We had a lovely brunch the next morning.”

“Give your wife a little something to help her sleep,” Eve theorized as they drove to Brooklyn. “Plenty of time to get to Copperfield’s, take care of her. Get to Byson’s, do him, get home. Catch a few z’s, then have a lovely brunch.”

“What did he do with the computers and discs?” Roarke asked.

“Yeah, there’s that. Hauled them home. Probably has an office there the wife doesn’t fool with. Or he rented a place to hold them until he could properly dispose of them. Only one little hitch with that particular theory though.”

“Which is?”

“Robert Kraus has never had a driver’s license or owned a car. Whoever did this had to have private transportation. So he worked with an accomplice.”

“Bullock or Chase?”

“Maybe. Likely. Or someone else in the firm. Cavendish or his keeper. It spreads out, the way I see it. One or more people in the accounting firm had to know what was going on. One or more people in the foundation. One or more in the law firm. You said it was an operation. I’m going with that. Where does the money come from? The funds they’re laundering, funneling, juggling? What’s the source?”

“It’s listed as donations, charitable trusts, privatized income. I couldn’t dig deeper without specific names and companies.”

“The fees, the percentages. They’d likely be kickbacks, or hush money to the accountant, the lawyer. We’ll need to follow that, because it landed somewhere.”

The Inner Circle was an indoor golf course and driving range where aficionados of the sport could play a round, practice their putting, and have a friendly drink. For added fees, there were tony locker rooms with sports channels cued into wall screens, efficient attendants, shower facilities, and the services of a masseur or masseuse. The wet area included whirlpools, saunas, a lap pool, steam room.

They found Kraus in a party of four, on the ninth hole.

“A few minutes of your time,” Eve told him.

“Now?” His brows drew together under a tweed golf cap. “I’m in the middle of a round, with clients.”

“You’ll have to catch up later. Or I could walk along with you,” Eve said obligingly, “and we can discuss the discrepancies in the Bullock Foundation’s account in front of your clients.”

“Discrepancies? That’s ridiculous.” But he glanced at the woman and two men at his tee. “A moment.” He moved to them, hands spreading in apology. His face was full of annoyance as he walked back to Eve. “Now what’s this about?”