Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(33)

“As you did.”

“Yeah. Still, panic equals mistakes.”

“He could’ve assumed you wouldn’t go inside.”

“That’s what’s bone-ass stupid. For Christ’s sake, we find a woman outside an empty apartment, it just follows we’ll go in and look around.”

“Then take a closer look at—who’s the W in WIN again?”

“Whitestone, Bradley.”

“Right. Who also happens to be right on the spot to report the crime.”

“Makes him look suspicious, yeah. And it’s obvious, not so subtle here. Moonie gave me the rundown of her evening with him, and she’s the one who brought up the new building. He didn’t push it. We’ll keep looking at him, but I like the other partners more.”

“Why?”

“If you’re arranging for somebody to be murdered, and you’ve arranged for them to use your place, and you’re an ambitious money guy, do you take someone you’re hoping will be an important client—and one you’d like to bang—to the scene so she discovers the DB with you?”

“Well now, that’s a bit of a circular route, and a foolish one. Still, you could call it an alibi.”

“You could call it an alibi,” she agreed, “but a smarter one, and he comes off smart, is to stick with the potential client, stay away from the area, and find out when the cops come to call.”

“Some like to insert themselves.”

She liked him playing devil’s advocate, making her think through the steps and details.

“Some do, not him. Just not.” She shook her head when Roarke lifted the bottle to pour her more wine. “Added, there’s that ambition. He’s proud of the company, and that building. It can’t be good for business when clients find out some woman got killed—even if we bought mugging—right there, dumped right on his doorstep. It puts people off, and especially people with lots and lots of money.”

“There’s a point.” Roarke leaned back, enjoying her, enjoying the moment despite death. “Aren’t the other partners proud and ambitious?”

“I’d say yes. I also say this was spur of the moment, driven by the moment, and a little panic. We’ve got a place, we’ll use it—the cops will never figure it’s us. It’s just random, just her bad luck. Whoever ordered the hit tells the muscle to make it quick and clean, and make it look like a mugging. Take her valuables. And I’ll bet your fine ass a week’s pay whoever killed her has never been mugged and has never mugged anyone. Or he’d know better how to make it look.”

“Whose week’s pay? Mine or yours?”

“Since you make more in a week than most people make in a bunch of decades, we’ll stick with mine. Which circles back to why you’re so useful. If there’s something hinky with the books, the files, you’ll spot it.”

“Fortunately I like being useful,” and added, “I’m looking forward to the opportunity to poke about in someone else’s financials.” He smiled when she frowned at him. “Using the power for good, of course. Why don’t I get started on that? I’ll work in here. Easier, I think, if I have a question for you, or you for me.”

“Okay. I can use the auxiliary. I need to set up my board, but I’ll get you started first.”

“Are the files on your unit here, or at Central?”

“I told McNab to copy and send, yeah.”

“Then I can be a self-starter.”

Just as well, she thought. As he’d put the meal together, she was stuck with the clearing up. But fair was fair, and like the magic soup, the meal and the reprise had her energy back in tune.

A nap, sex, and a hot shower may have played into that. Either way, she calculated she had a few good hours in her.

She noted that Roarke dived right in, and that the cat watched her suspiciously when she came out of the kitchen to set up her board.

She decided her best tactic there was ignoring Galahad until he pretended nothing was wrong and never had been.

She studied the board as she worked, and went to her auxiliary unit to print out more ID photos. She pinned Candida and Aston to her board, and Alva Moonie’s housekeeper.

Connections, she thought, and began to make them. Candida to Alva—former friends, lovers. Both rolling it in. Candida to the vic through the audit. She added Candida’s money man, and a note to do a run on him.

She aligned the vic’s family on one side, her coworkers on the other. And took a good look at James Arnold and Chaz Parzarri, making another note to contact the hospital and get the rundown on injuries and prognoses.

Roarke, she saw, was in work mode. With his hair tied back, sleeves pushed up, he looked relaxed about it. Who knew why some people found numbers so damn fascinating.

She sat at her auxiliary unit, and dived into what she considered the much more interesting prospect of digging into people’s lives.

Arnold, James, age forty-six. On his second marriage, nine years in. The first gave him two children, one of each variety, and hefty child-support payments. He’d added another kid—female—with the second marriage.

He looked like an accountant, she decided. At least the clichéd image of one. Pale, a slightly worried expression on his thin face, faded blue eyes, thin sandy hair.