Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(28)

Acknowledged . . .

When the data flashed on, Eve picked up her coffee, narrowed her eyes. “That’s a nice chunk. Heading toward half a million.” But she frowned. “Am I reading this right? Deposits in increments over—what?—a two-year period.”

“Nearly three, actually.”

“Doesn’t smell like payoff for a murder, unfortunately. The last deposit was a little over a week ago, in the amount of twenty-three-thousand dollars and fifty-three cents. That’s a weird number.”

“All the deposits are uneven amounts, and all under twenty-five thousand.”

“Blackmail, maybe, and he deposits odd amounts to try to stay under the radar, which he has.”

“Possibly.”

“Or some corporate espionage, selling Dudley data to competitors. He’s PA for one of the top security guys, so he’d have some access there.”

“Another possibility.”

“They’re pretty regular, aren’t they?” Hands in pockets, eyes narrowed, she studied the figures. “Every four or six weeks, another little bump in the nest egg. Withdrawals are few and far between, and pretty light. Living within his means, using a little extra here and there no one would blink at. Still, the amounts are . . . Wait, he’s got a cohab, double the amount of deposits and it makes more sense.” She glanced over. “And you’ve already gone there.”

“As it happens. Computer, secondary financials, split screen.”

“Karolea Prinz, nearly the same amounts, nearly the same dates. Now we’ve got something. She works for Dudley,” Eve added. “I ran her. Pharmaceutical rep.” She sipped her coffee. “So, I’ll tell you what you’ve already figured out. They’re skimming drug supplies, which she’d have access to, and selling them on the street or to a supplier. Every month or so.”

“It reads that way to me.”

“Nothing to do with Houston. In fact, this bumps them down below bottom, unless I find out Houston or someone connected was a customer. But the fact is, using his boss’s data would bring just this sort of attention. Why go there when you’ve got such a nice sideline? You don’t want to shine any lights.”

“They’ve been successful, so I’d agree, bringing the cops to their own doorstep would be monumentally stupid.”

“Too bad, but it’ll be fun to get him in the box and sweat the snot out of him.” In fact, remembering his curled lip and down-the-nose smirk, it gave her a warm little thrill.

“Between this and the use of Sweet’s data, it doesn’t look like that arm of Dudley’s is as secure as it should be.” And that, she thought, was interesting, too. “Where there’s one hole, there’s probably another. Houston’s killer’s in one of those holes.”

“Nothing on the victim’s family connections?” Roarke asked her.

“The father’s dead. Beat some neighbor kid, got a stretch in the Tombs. Picked the wrong con to mess with inside, and ended up bleeding out in the showers, thanks to the shiv in his gut. The mother moved back to Tennessee where her family’s from. There’s nothing there.”

She puffed out her cheeks, blew out the breath. “I’ve run the partner, the partner’s wife, the vic’s wife, even the vic’s kids back, forth, sideways. There’s no buzz, no pop. The wife gets Houston’s share of the business, but essentially she already had it. This killing just wasn’t about Houston particularly. And nothing about the company, so far, brings up any questions. If there’s a connection, Dudley’s the most likely source. Even then . . .”

She shook her head.

“Even then?”

“It’s playing more and more like it was for the thrill. Just for the rush. And if that’s the way it is, he’s already looking for the next thrill.”

The scream ripped out of the shadows, high and wild. Behind it chased a gurgle of maniacal laughter. For a moment, Ava Crampton caught a glimpse of her reflection in a smoky mirror before the ghoul burst out of the false glass, claws dripping blood.

Her squeal was quick and unplanned, but her pivot toward her date, the urgent press of her body to his, was calculated.

She knew her job.

At thirty-three she’d clocked over twelve years’ experience as a licensed companion, and had worked her way steadily up the levels to the pinnacle.

She invested in herself, folding her profits back into her face, her body, her education, her style. She could speak conversationally in three languages, and was diligently working on a fourth. She kept her five foot six inch frame rigorously toned, was, in fact, an advanced yogini—the practice not only kept her centered but gave her a superb flexibility that pleased her clients.

She considered her mixed-race heritage a gift that had provided her with dusky skin (which she tended as rigorously as she did her body), cut-glass cheekbones, full lips, and crystalline blue eyes. She kept her hair long, curled, artfully tumbled in a caramel brown that set off that skin, those eyes.

Her investment paid off. She was one of the highest-rated LCs on the East Coast, routinely commanding a cool ten thousand an evening—double that for an overnight. She’d trained and tested and was licensed for a menu of extras and specialties to suit the varied whims of her clients.

Her date tonight was a first-timer, but had passed her strict and scrupulous screening. He was wealthy, healthy, and boasted a clean criminal record. He’d been married for twelve years, divorced for eight months. His young daughter attended an excellent private school.