Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(68)

He thought she’d have to beat him to it, but didn’t mention it.

She angled around to take a look at her butt in the mirror. Better. A lot better. “I dreamed about flying babies. You can’t catch them all.”

“That’s . . . unfortunate.”

“I’ll say. They’d hit the ground and pow.” She threw her hands up in the air. “All this stuff came gushing out.”

“Really, Eve, you’ll put me off breakfast.”

“Not guts and stuff. It was like little weird toys and shiny candy. Like they were those piñata things people bust up for what’s inside.”

He lowered the tablet to study her. “You have such a busy, fascinating brain.”

“And the vic’s there, too, sitting on one of those benches on the High Line. She keeps saying two and two makes four. Over and over. I mean I get it, numbers don’t lie, numbers add up, but she’s sitting there, chanting that and working on one of those ancient adding things.”

“An abacus?”

“What’s an abacus? Oh, right, one of those—” Standing naked but for the pack on her shoulder, her hair in tufts, she slid her fingers through the air. “No, it was one of those—” Now she tapped her two index fingers in the air, then swiped her hand.

“An adding machine.”

“Yeah. I’m trying to catch all those flying babies and she’s tapping away, muttering basic math. It was distracting. I probably missed a few because she wouldn’t give it a rest. Anyway, weird.”

Weird indeed, he thought as she went into the bathroom, but not a nightmare.

He rose, got a fresh med pack, the wand, programmed coffee. After a brief consideration, he opted for cheese and spinach omelets. Enough cheese and she wouldn’t bitch about the spinach. He thought she could use the protein and the iron.

When she came out, wrapped in a robe, he had the food and the first-aid tools set out. She eyed them both suspiciously.

“What’s in those eggs?”

“Eat them and find out. I’ve been playing with some of the data my auto-search spit out. It’s interesting.”

“What have you got?”

“Eat and find out.”

She sat, but went for the coffee first. “Does two and two make four?”

“I think not in this case. There’s a payment here of just over two hundred thousand to IOC. A search for IOC turns up several companies and organizations including a  p**n  site billed as the Intense Orgasm Companion, which deals in vids, toys, enhancements, real-time vid or VR sex with a licensed companion, contacts to LCs who are affiliated with the site and will make house calls. And so on.”

Sex, she thought, never failed to sell.

“I don’t think Alexander funneled two hundred K out of his company for  p**n .”

“I tend to agree. I lean toward Investment Opportunity Corporation, a smallish outfit based in Miami, but claiming national coverage. They buy and sell properties—primarily commercial, but also residential. Developed or zoned for development.”

“Isn’t that basically what Alexander and Pope already does?”

“It is, so it’s odd—not illegal—but odd they’d pay out six figures, under the label of operating expenses, to another company. IOC is also connected, if you follow the dots carefully, to yet another company. Real and Exclusive Properties. This one’s based in the Caymans, claims global coverage. It caters to, according to its site, investors looking for exclusive properties, as individuals or groups. One of their services is analyzing clients and properties and matching them up.”

“What, like a dating site?”

He grinned at her. “I suppose so. They have a few properties on their site, and some testimonials from satisfied clients. They suggest direct contact for further information, and of course, exclusive property investments.”

“And you smell fraud?”

“Well, it fairly stinks of it, darling. This sort of thing is ripe for fraud.”

She thought she could see it, more or less, but wanted clarity. “How?”

“The basic con here would be to lure the client, and the money, in. Then make some reasonable payoffs as you would in any hustle to prime that pump for more. I suspect some of the land doesn’t exist, or is well overestimated in value thanks to payoffs or grifters on the payroll who can spin the con.”

“How do they get away with it? If they skin clients, there’d be noise.”

“You’d keep it fairly small, the dollar amounts. Keep it under the radar of the Security and Exchange Commission or its global alternative. Deposit in several accounts, again, keeping those deposits under the radar. Run the con, shut down, take the money, launder if necessary, then set up elsewhere. Different name, different look, different place. Same basic con. That’s the simplest.”

“Okay.” Yeah, she could follow it. “Alexander gets his share—the elephant’s share—”

“Lion’s share, as you perfectly well know.”

“Elephants are the biggest, and he takes the biggest.”

“Your logic is . . . unarguable.”

“See? So, he’s the elephant, then he has to wash the money, then bury it, or just bury it.”

“He has another easy system for laundry with the real estate. Arrange to purchase a property below market value, giving the difference in cash to the seller. He saves on taxes. Then you resell at market a few months later and make a legitimate profit. The money’s now clean.”