J. Robb - Born In Death

“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.”

Working…Sunday’s Child, London.

“It’s not illegal, Dallas.” Baxter stood beside her. “I don’t know the ins and outs of private adoptions or surrogacy in Europe, but they could slide with this here.”

“Payments are too high,” Eve disagreed. “This girl sold her kid, and selling human beings is illegal, globally.”

“You can call the fee educational incentive, expense reimbursement. They’d go through some shit, but they’d probably scrape it off.”

“Maybe. But they hid the money, doctored the accounts so they fell well under the acceptable limit, left the bulk of the income unreported. And if this is what it looks like, they are, in essence, running a baby-selling operation at a big, fat profit. They won’t look good on the media reports when this hits. More, they killed three people to keep this buried.”

“This is what Palma’s sister stumbled onto,” Baxter murmured.

“I doubt she knew exactly what it entailed, but she dug around and got a strong clue. Baxter, there are other missing women like Tandy, and at least one who was killed, along with the fetus. It’s going to come back to this.” She nodded toward the screen. “Right back to this.”

“Grabbing women off the damn street? Stealing their kids?”

“Something like that. If these women contacted Sunday’s Child, maybe even started proceedings. Fees collected by the foundation.”

It was more than pieces now. The picture was full and complete in front of her. “Then, say the woman changes her mind, takes off. These women relocated, so maybe they felt threatened, or were afraid they’d be pressured, legally pursued. They’re snatched close to term. There’s a reason for that.”

“Shorter wait time for the product,” he said grimly.

“When the product’s delivered, the woman’s no longer needed, and is disposed of. Keeps those expenses way down. Work with Roarke, find me someone who paid the baby fee where the expenses don’t follow the rest of the pack.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Trueheart.”

“Lieutenant, Brownburn is on the board of Sunday’s Child, and the OB in residence.”

“Peabody, is there a branch of the agency in New York?”