Calculated in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “You changed around your schedule, probably canceled some multi-zillion deal to be here.”

  “Stupefied in love.”

  She closed her eyes while his hands glided over her. “None of the people I’m looking at understand that. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy for them to kill—more pay for it. It’s colder, I think, when you can’t even do the killing yourself. Like hiring people to fumigate your house or office. You’re not going to actually deal with the bugs. That’s too nasty. You’ll just pay to have it done. Money for money. Not for love or passion, not for need. Even then you don’t think it through, don’t bother yourself with the details. Just get it done, you think—order—and don’t clog up my day with the details.”

  “Why come after you?” He knew, but wanted to let her talk it through.

  “I bothered him. I got in his face, into his business. That’s insulting, and a little frightening. Get rid of me, and Peabody, and brush your hands off. Which is stupid again, for the same reason killing Dickenson was stupid. Somebody else just picks up the ball and runs with it.”

  “It buys time.”

  “That’s true, but kill a cop? Two cops? Wrath of God hits about even with the wrath of the entire NYPSD. And neither of those hits the level of the Wrath of Roarke.”

  “It’s already been stirred,” he stated.

  “I know it, but I’m good. I’m here. I’m good.” She hooked her good arm up and around his neck. “They’re jealous of you, all of them. That’s another kind of greed. Of avarice. They want what you have.”

  “They can’t have it.”

  “And they know it. More of a pisser. You’re not second- and third-generation money and business. You upstart.”

  He laughed at that. “Now I’m insulted.”

  “Irish street rat upstart with your shadowy past and your cop wife. Yeah, it adds a layer of pissiness having Roarke’s cop in their face. We’ll just teach them both a lesson.”

  “They don’t know my cop.” Carefully, he turned her so they faced. “But I do.”

  He kissed her, sweetly, then just took her hands in his when she started to reach for him. “No. You started this, and now you’ll just have to lie back and take it.”

  “Oh, I can take it.”

  “Let’s see.”

  Just his mouth on hers, just that kindest of contacts. He’d wanted only to tend to her, to soothe her aches, ease her hurts. Only that, but he understood she needed more. Needed him, and needed to show them both she wouldn’t be beaten, or even slowed down.

  Part of it might have been those memories of being hurt, of being so close to death by McQueen’s hands, of coming so close to taking his life while the pain and shock ruled her.

  It didn’t matter why, he thought. She needed, and he’d give.

  But gently, slowly, and with that fine sugary layer of sweetness.

  He felt her body go pliant, go soft against him, as he knew it would only for him. She, who never surrendered, would surrender to him, for him. Would give him that most intimate treasure.

  He murmured to her as he used his hands, his lips to comfort and arouse. A ghra. My love.

  He took her down, away from hurts, from worries, from all but silky, shimmering pleasure. Weighted her body with it, clouded her mind. And his words, so lovely, stirred in her heart.

  My love.

  The water foamed and frothed around them, scented, pulsing. She thought she could float away on it, on him, on what they brought to each other that no one else ever had, ever could.

  He gave her comfort before she knew she needed it, and he gave her love when her life had been so empty of it for so long.

  He’d come home to her, to bring her both before she’d thought to ask.

  “I love you.” She turned her cheek to his. “For everything.”

  For everything, he thought as he slipped slowly inside her. For all. Forever.

  Because he filled her, lifted her, loved her, she floated away. And linking her hand with his, floated away with him.

  BETTER, EVE THOUGHT, WHEN SHE SWITCHED to work mode. She wouldn’t want to go hand-to-hand with a Zeused-up chemi-head, but she could if she had to.

  And she was pretty sure, considering the circumstances, she could talk Roarke into pizza and brainstorming at her desk.

  In her office she went for caffeine—cold-style in a tube of Pepsi—while he had another glass of wine. And for comfort in one of her oldest T-shirts, a pair of navy flannel pants, and thick socks.

  If work didn’t beckon, it was just the sort of thing she’d put on to curl up with Roarke and watch one of his old vids.

  But work beckoned.

  “So I thought I could bounce some things off you while—”

  “Didn’t we just do that in the tub?”

  “Perv.” She gestured with her icy tube toward her board. “I’m getting a more rounded picture of some of the players, from your POV. A business guy’s POV. Maybe, using that same POV I can get some more hypotheticals, run more probabilities.”

  “We can do that.”

  “Great. We can bounce and eat. Let’s keep it simple, just grab some pizza.”

  “We can’t do that. I’d say the evening calls for something a bit more nutritious after the day you had.”

  “I’m not that hungry.” She felt her cheesy pie slipping out of reach. “I feel okay. Plus, pizza gets a bad nutrition rap.”

  “Mmm-hmmm.” With that, he left her for the kitchen.

  Probably in there programming gruel or broth, she thought, with a little bitterness. And she felt stuck as he’d taken care of her, and was—as usual—willing to devote a large portion of his evening to her work.

  So she’d choke down the stupid gruel.

  She went to her board, did some additions, some rearranging.

  She couldn’t see, not really, the difference between her top suspects. On the surface, sure, plenty of differences, but she didn’t get them.

  She pulled out her pocket ’link when it signaled, noted Peabody on the display. “Yeah?”

  “Hey, I’m sending you my notes from the interviews with the exes. I don’t know how much light they shed, but I can tell you I got an earful from Biden’s last ex. Can you spell bitter?”

  She glanced over as Roarke brought something out from the kitchen—thought of pizza vs. gruel. “Yeah, I can.”

  “Whitestone’s last serious relationship’s mostly sad, a little resentful. It’s the ‘Spent more time at work and with his friends than with me’ routine. Ingersol doesn’t really have a genuine ex. More like several women he sees or stops seeing off and on. The upshot there is fun guy, but commitment phobic.”

  “I’ll look at it,” she said as Roarke went out, came in again.

  “I didn’t hit up Newton’s fiancée, figuring she’s only going to tell me the good, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try for some juice on him. I tried a couple of her friends.”

  “That’s a good angle.”

  “I thought it would be—and if happy, in love, suited, perfect for each other, adorable, and so on are what we’re after, it was a great angle. Just no dish in that area.”

  “No dish is still information.”

  “Okay, I really tagged you to see how you were. Are you okay?”

  “I’m good.”

  “There’s a vid of the catch—well, a couple of them all over the Internet, all over the screen.”

  “So I hear.”

  “It was a really sweet catch, and too damn bad none of the people doing the vid got a decent capture of the suspect we were chasing.”

  “We’ll have EDD see if they can finesse anything there. Meanwhile the two auditors in Vegas are being transported back, and straight to Stuben Health and Wellness. Meet me at the ambulance bay, eight hundred.”

  “I’ll be there. Maybe
you can get checked out while we’re there.”

  “I’m fine, Peabody.” And to dispense with any more fussing, she cut her partner off.

  She wandered over to see what Roarke had set on the table.

  Some sort of stir-fry, she noted. Some sort of healthy deal, his dinner version of oatmeal.

  It wasn’t gruel, but . . .

  “That’s a lot of vegetables.”

  “It is, yes, and if you eat them like a good girl . . .” He lifted the silver lid on another plate, revealed a small pizza, with pepperoni arranged into a smiley face.

  She tried to give him a stony stare, but the laugh won out. “You think you’re cute, don’t you, pal?”

  “Adorable.”

  “In this case, you can have adorable. Ow!” She managed the stony stare when he slapped her hand away from the pizza.

  “Vegetables first.”

  Now the stony stare came naturally. “I’ve pummeled men for less.”

  “Want to give it a go?” he offered, and forked up a bite of his stir-fry.

  “I might, except the smiley pizza earns points.” She tried the stir-fry, discovered it wasn’t half bad. In fact, not bad at all with whatever sauce he’d programmed. It actually had a nice little bite to it. “So greed,” she began, “and envy, and in a sense gluttony. Maybe lust, too, and for some of them, definitely sloth. What’s left?”

  “Of the seven deadly sins? I believe wrath and pride.”

  “Okay, they can squeeze in there, too. The biggest that show in this group are the greed and envy. They’re deadly sins because they lead to others, right? They’re roots.”

  “That would be one way of looking at it.”

  “You’ve got some of them—well, everybody does—but they work for you. Not sloth. You’re not lazy, and to acquire, because acquisitions feels like another root here, you work. Physically, mentally. You think, plan, put time in. More than a lot of people who could easily coast put in. That’s the lust part.”

  “I thought we had the lust part in the tub.”

  “Lust for business.” She pointed her fork at him. “I get that lust from Whitestone, too. A lust for what he does, a desire to get up in the morning and do it again. It’s what builds success.”

  “Well, that and a talent for doing what you do. You can want it, be driven to do it, but if you’re not skilled, all the lust in the world won’t bring you success.”

  “Good point. In the case of my four top suspects, the lust doesn’t seem to me to root from what they do, but from the results and benefits of what others have done before, or are doing.”

  “Lust for gain, which toggles back to greed.”

  “Yeah. What is this, exactly?”

  Roarke glanced at the bok choy on her fork. “Tasty.”

  Because it wasn’t not tasty, she couldn’t formulate a reasonable argument. “Anyway, if you’re doing what you’re doing for the result, for the benefits, with no real lust or skill or basic appreciation for what generates the benefits, you’re going to look for ways to do less of what generates while pumping up the benefits.”

  “Passing the work off to others, and/or cheating.”

  “Others built something, figured it out, had to be good at it, and you’re plopped into the big leather chair and expected to keep it all going, and add to it. Maybe that’s privilege, sure, but that’s also pressure.”

  “Remind me of that when we have children. It’s important to give them enough for a foundation, and not enough they can do nothing.”

  She sure as hell wasn’t going to think about that now.

  “On the other end of that, Alva Moonie’s family appears to have instilled work ethic and responsibility. So after her wild phase, she likes what she does and wants to do it well. It’s not money that corrupts, necessarily. It’s—”

  “Greed. Once again.”

  “I figure.” She ate in silence a moment, considering. “That covers them all, except—possibly—Pope. He’s either the mouse he appears or he’s really good at pretending to be one. We need to look for private accounts, hidden accounts and property. These types are bound to have some.”

  “I’ve already started a search on that, but now that you’ve narrowed in, I’ll do the same and focus more keenly on the top of your list.”

  She nodded, pleased she’d finished the stir-fry and could now reach for a slice. “You know how to think like a cop.” At his silent rebuke, she smiled. “To avoid and outwit cops, if we’re sticking with roots. And you’ve served as expert consultant, civilian, plenty. You’re also the biggest of the business big shots. You know how to think in business, in big-shot style. I can get a feel for it, apply it to the case, but my POV on running a company is largely colored by what I see you do, and that’s not what I’m seeing here. At least in my limited view.”

  “You’ve investigated and closed countless cases that fall into areas you’re not familiar with.”

  “Absolutely. But I don’t always have the most expert of expert consultants eating a slice of my pizza.”

  “Who said it was all yours?” He toasted her with it, took a bite. “That would fall into the category of greed, and gluttony.”

  “Smart-ass. Anyway, I keep going over the board, my notes, the tones, the shades, and I feel like I’m missing something. Some, I don’t know, nuance that would narrow it down. You’ll find the motive in the files, in the numbers and the books and the tax codes and all that bullshit. But you’re going to find, I’m betting, plenty of little slick deals and shoving through loopholes that aren’t quite big enough and require greased palms. Like that.”

  “I have already, a bit here and there. Not enough, to my way of thinking, to justify murder or panic. Some adjustments, some penalties and interest, a fine or two—and some of those would be forgiven with a smart tax or corporate attorney making a case for misinterpretation or clerical error.”

  “Harder for me to judge that part. Even if I could find it. You asked me before who was I leaning toward. I’m going to ask you the same thing.”

  He shook his head, sat back with his wine. “I’m not a cop, not a trained investigator. Moreover, I haven’t spoken with any of your suspects, and am far from finished analyzing the financial data.”

  She peeled off a piece of pepperoni, popped it in her mouth. “You’ve got a gut, same as me. You know business, business leaders the way I never will. You understand that world because you live in it. I’m just asking if you were me, which one would you give the hardest look?”

  It surprised him how much he wanted to backpedal. He was used to watching her pick her way through the people, the evidence, the timing, the reasons, used to enjoying the way her mind and instincts played together on her hunt.

  “And if I’m wrong? If I lead you in the wrong direction?”

  “Direction’s what I want, right or wrong. It’s up to me to figure out what to do, how to do it. And up to me to take the direction or not. You’re the expert here. I’m consulting you. I want your opinion.”

  “All right then. Sterling Alexander.”

  “Why?”

  “Start with elimination.” He rose, and as she so often did, circled her board. “Young-Sachs. Use your deadly sins here as a springboard. He’s got more sloth than greed or lust. He’d prefer to do nothing at all, and has an admin who knows more than he does about his company. That’s laziness and carelessness. No one should know more than you do about your own. And if he wanted more, he’d just ask his mother. He’s got no reason to cheat or steal, and hasn’t enough ambition to do either. And he’s just not smart enough.”

  “I liked him.”

  “Did you?”

  “I mean I liked him for it because I didn’t like him otherwise. And that’s been part of the problem. They all gave me a buzz, one way or the other.”

  “Very possibly you get a buzz because
your instincts tell you none of them are thoroughly clean. They’ve all got pockets where they tuck some dirty little secrets.”

  “Maybe. Young-Sachs flaunting his illegals use and his complete lack of competence as CFO. He’s using the company to get access to illegals. I know it. Then there’s Biden going out of his way to insult and offend, and I’m betting finding ways, maybe just little ones now, to dip into the till. And Pope so damn accommodating, so willing to take his half brother’s disdain. But what you’re saying makes sense.”

  “So your instincts tell you all of them are wrong in some way.”

  “Yeah, that’s been a problem.”

  She rose now as well, joined him at the board. “So, elimination. Keep going.”

  “All right. How do you massage your books—and it has to be in the books—if you don’t understand how they work in the first place? Young-Sachs is dim and incompetent. Greedy, sure, but more lazy.”

  “Okay, let’s bump him down for now. Take another.”

  “All right then, staying with the same company we’ll take Tyler Biden. He’s a loose cannon. Quick temper, and has difficulty instilling loyalty in his employees. He’s got an idiot as the CFO.”

  “Yeah, which made me think it would make it easier for him to screw around the numbers.”

  “Agreed, but his CFO has, by all appearances, a very bright admin, who’s also sleeping with the CFO. And if you’re any judge, she’s in love with him, or at least emotionally attached. More difficult to persuade said admin into covering something up that would, should it come out, blowback on her lover. And on her as it would be well known through the company that she’s doing her boss’s job.”

  “That’s a good point, but—”

  “Not finished,” Roarke said, getting into the spirit of it now. “He’s an ambitious, angry man, who’d know that many believe, perhaps rightfully, he only has his position with the company due to nepotism. He has a lot to prove. He enjoys the money, the status, yes, but he wants respect. Whoever’s doing this, or involved, would have to align several others, as you said, in order to pull it off. And they’d know he couldn’t make it on level ground. That would be important to him.”