Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(16)

“From the grandfather’s estate.”

“Yes, indeed. But they’ll have to begin to cut a few corners, or sell off one of their properties, unless they have a serious increase in cash flow. This includes his two buried accounts, and her one.”

“You found three secret accounts already?” When he merely sipped her coffee, studied her over the rim, she shook her head. “Of course you did. Illegal accounts?”

“Questionable, and for a man in his position politically, unethical. The sale of the house would absolutely give him some breathing room.”

“But nothing that looks like he owed somebody who’d send the spine-crackers?”

“I’ll look deeper, but what I’ve already gone through paints a fairly clear picture. These are people accustomed to a certain lifestyle—and status—unwilling to pull back on expenses to keep their financial ship comfortably afloat. For instance, she spends between ten and twelve thousand a month on salon and spa visits. Not including twice a year body and face work, which triples that amount. He isn’t far behind her in that area.”

“Jesus, that’s, what, in the land of a quarter of a mil annually for vanity.”

“That’s the geography. And this is nothing, really, up against what he’s invested and continues to invest in the Institute. He put in twenty million of his own to launch it, and though he receives around a million annually from it, he pumps that, and a bit more, back in to keep it running. I can tell you that in the last eighteen months to two years, money has become a serious issue for him.”

“Okay, he needs to sell—that’s his motive. We need to find out who gets his share of said potential sale on his death. Wife and/or kids, most likely.”

She circled the board again. “The wife doesn’t want to give up the lifestyle. Would she have him killed over it?” Pausing, Eve studied the ID shot. “Wouldn’t surprise me. She’s got the chops for it. He probably has death insurance. He kicks, she’s not only the grieving widow, but she’d be pretty well set.”

She stuck her hands in her pockets, rocked back on her heels. Shook her head. “But the method’s all wrong for it. Even if she hired somebody. Here’s a bunch of money. Beat up my husband, kill him—and do it in this location because maybe she figures Dennis would agree to sell under those conditions.”

“My cousin’s grieving wife, he was killed here. Selling it will help us all heal. Yes.” Considering, Roarke offered her the rest of the coffee. “I could see it. Convoluted as it is.”

“Too convoluted. Plus, if they’re hired hits, be done with it. You don’t haul him off.”

“You’re back to personal.”

“Yeah, I am. He doesn’t owe anybody, no signs he’s paying or extorting blackmail?”

“Not that I’ve found, no.”

“So, it’s about the money for him, but it’s not about money for whoever has him. Sex.”

Roarke wrapped his arms around her waist. “Delighted.”

“Not us, ace. Money, politics, women—those appear to be his main deals. Money just isn’t playing. Politics—he’s not a senator anymore, but there’s that brain trust. I’ll look into that, but if he’s fueling it to keep it running, how much influence does it, or he, have . . . politically? So it comes down to sex. The suite at your hotel. I bet it makes a nice love nest.”

“We do try to keep such things well-feathered.”

“Ha. I bet you could tug a line and get me some names of lovebirds Senator Hound Dog might have roosted with. That doesn’t sound right,” she realized with a frown. “I’ve lost the colorful metaphor.”

“But it held long enough. I can tug a line, of course. And if he used it to entertain, I’ll have names or at least faces for you. Give me a few minutes.”

She went back for more coffee, then sat down to do the runs.

It didn’t surprise her when Roarke finished his task before she did.

“Five women in the past year. I’ve sent you their names. All multiple visits, on a weekly basis, most lasting between six and eight weeks. I want a brandy.”

“Five, in a year. And he’s nearly seventy.”

“Medical science, and we salute it, has made that issue moot.” He opened the wall slot, took out a decanter. “I’ve sent them to you in order of appearance. I can also tell you: While the senator uses the suite on the average of once a week for personal purposes, he generally stays the night. The lady of the moment rarely does.”

She generated ID shots, added them to the board. “All but two legally married. And the latest is twenty-five. I mean, humping Jesus, he has more than forty years on her. It’s just wrong.”

When Roarke just swirled and sipped brandy, she narrowed her eyes. “He’s old enough to be her grandfather.”

“I don’t like the man—less now than I did before—but I can’t help but admire his . . . stamina.”

“That’s dick-thinking.”

“Well . . .” Roarke glanced down at his own. “It does have opinions.”

Muttering to herself, she got up to circle the board. “They’re all lookers, I’ll give him that. And not one of them within fifteen years of his age. This Lauren Canford’s his oldest pick at forty-two. Married, two kids, a lobbyist. That’s a political thing. And the baby of the bunch, Charity Downing, twenty-five, single, an artist who works at Eclectia—a gallery in SoHo. Asha Coppola, on her second marriage, works for a nonprofit—age thirty-one. Allyson Byson, third marriage—is that optimism or insanity? Anyway, third marriage at age thirty-four, no occupation. And Carlee MacKensie, twenty-eight, single, freelance writer.