Desperation in Death (In Death #55)(52)

“How?”

“Well, I can certainly eliminate any I own. I hope you’d agree.”

“I can go with that.”

“I can also eliminate, or at least downgrade, any owned by people or groups I know well enough to know. Trust me on this,” he said when she frowned. “And there may be some that send up a flag for me. Because I know them to be on what you’d call the shady side of things. Others I may not know at all—I don’t know everyone, after all—and those I could look into more deeply.”

“It won’t be quick.”

“It won’t, no. As you’ve already learned from your own look, there are potentially hundreds of properties that might fit, and more yet that might fit after another round. If it’s attached to a business, a front, that front might run on perfectly legal means. It’s what I’d do in any case.”

Since he’d put it in front of her, she picked up her wine.

“You’d run a business out of the front. Sell something, or make something, run a small factory, whatever. Keep those books, pay those taxes, keep it clean. Behind it, you run the real business.”

“Exactly so. Smuggle the girls in, warehouse them, so to speak, and when you deem them ready for the market, sell and transport them out again. You’d need vehicles. Potentially boats or shuttles.”

“Long haul trucks hauling human cargo.”

“Possibly. Risky—road accidents, traffic stops. But possibly. Private air shuttles, if you have the funding, would be smarter and safer. And faster.”

“The victim’s shirt—good fabric, tailored to her size. The fancy silk underwear. No labels, and Harvo reports no match on any legit outlet with the same design, same materials. They have to have a tailor on board. Maybe the front’s something like that. Fabric and clothing?”

“I can look for that.” He considered. “It’s an angle. Front with something you already use or need, and make a legitimate business out of it to cover the rest.”

“Okay, yeah. What else do they use or need? Photography and vids. You’ve got to market the product. Maybe that, or selling equipment for it. Transportation. A fleet of trucks or vans, a delivery service, moving company. You have to deliver the product once sold, so invest in transpo—the vehicles, ships, shuttles—and do regular business to cover. Food or medical supplies. But those don’t fit as well,” she decided. “Perishable and trickier to license and run. Regular inspections required.”

“Agreed there. The business, if it exists, may be something completely unrelated. But, again, if I ran the operation, I’d prefer the double-dip and lower overhead.”

“If you factor that in, it narrows the field. Still a big-ass field, but we have to start somewhere.”

“Then I’ll do just that and get started. You’ve got the dishes.”

“Yeah, I got them.”



* * *



While Eve dealt with the dishes and thought through her next steps, Auntie rang the bell at the entrance of her partner’s stately Georgian mansion on Long Island.

She’d enjoyed the drive—he’d sent a limo, as always. She wore a formal gown, as he’d expect, and knew she looked her very best in the formfitting bold red and metallic silver. She wore diamonds, cold and white. This chapter of her career had proved profitable. Her hair, meticulously colored and styled in the Academy’s salon, swept back from her pampered face.

The techs on staff routinely eradicated any lines, smoothed the surface of that face, added fillers. While she’d never have the dewy freshness of nineteen, when she’d launched her career as an escort, her beauty remained, polished and perfect to her mind, at a ripe sixty-four.

The woman who opened the door wore a black skin suit, one that plunged deep between her breasts. The glittery choker at her throat ensured—with an electric jolt—that she didn’t step outside the house.

She wouldn’t, of course. Auntie had trained her personally five years before, and knew Raven—so named for her thick fall of black hair—devoted herself to her master.

“Good evening, Auntie.” The full lips coated with slick red dye curved in greeting. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you.”

Auntie glided into the soaring entrance hall with its desert-sand marble floors, its lavish gold-and-crystal chandeliers, its bold slashes of art.

The lush roses, white and pure, on the central table perfumed the air.

“Master will join you shortly. May I escort you to the parlor?”

“Of course.”

The parlor, lavish as the rest, held a white grand piano, a marble fireplace, divans, settees, oversize chairs, all in patterns of white on white. White roses flowed from vases; ornately framed mirrors of all shapes and sizes reflected the cold splendor of the room.

“Champagne, Auntie?”

“Please.” So saying, Auntie arranged herself on a divan and watched her former trainee lift the bottle from its bed of ice in gleaming silver, pour it into a flute.

Perfectly done, she thought, and congratulated herself.

“Is there anything else I can do to make you more comfortable while you wait?”

“No.” She flicked a hand. “You can go.”

“Enjoy your evening.”

She intended to. Her partner invariably served the finest wines and food perfectly prepared. Their long association benefitted them both.