Promises in Death (In Death #28)(28)

He’d taken lives in his time, Roarke admitted. He’d spilled blood. But always for purpose. Never for profit. Never for sport.

He supposed, in some oddly twisted way, he’d learned more of his own lines, his own moralities from Max Ricker than he had from his own unlamented father.

What, he wondered, had Alex Ricker learned from his father?

German boarding schools, Roarke noted. Military type. Very strict, very costly. Private tutors on holidays, then private university. Studied in business, finance, languages, politics, and international law. Played football—soccer to the Yanks.

Covering many bases there.

No marriages, no children on record.

Alex Maximum Ricker, age thirty-three, residences in Atlanta, Berlin, Paris, and most recently, New York. Financier and entrepreneur listed as occupations of record.

Also covering a lot of bases. Current net worth: 18.3 million.

Oh, no, there’ll be more than that. So, Roarke thought. Let’s get down to it.

He worked steadily for an hour, ordering multiple runs and chipping away manually.

“Covering asses, too, aren’t you now?” Roarke mumbled to himself when he hit a block, shoved and tunneled around and under it. “Not so quick to toot your own horn as your father was. Smarter. All that posturing and preening helped bring him down, didn’t it? Ah, now, there’s a start.”

“What? What have you got?”

“Hmmm?”

“I’ve got nothing.” Eve swiveled around to him. “Zip. You’ve got something. What?”

“Apparently, it’s not coffee,” he said with a glance at his empty mug.

“What am I, a domestic droid?”

“If so, why aren’t you wearing your frilly white apron and little white cap, and nothing else?”

She sent him a pained look of sincere bafflement. “Why do men think that kind of getup is sexy?”

“Hmm, let me think. Mostly naked women wearing only symbols of servitude. No, I can’t understand it myself.”

“Perverts, your entire species. What have you got?”

“Besides a very clear picture of you in my head wearing a frilly white apron and little white cap?”

“Jesus, I’ll get the damn coffee if you’ll cut it out.”

“What I’ve found is the reason Alex Ricker hasn’t blipped on my radar, not that I’ve given him much thought. But from a purely business standpoint, why he hasn’t blipped.”

“Why?”

Roarke gestured to the wall screen when he ordered data to transfer there. “He’s scattered and spread himself out, with numerous small to mid-size companies. None of them with holdings that cross the line into interesting.”

“What’s the line where they become interesting?”

“Oh, for me? Eight to ten million, unless I’m looking to acquire small, individual properties or businesses.”

“Oh yeah, anything under ten mil’s boring.” She rose to get the coffee. “Is he laundering or hiding income?”

“Not that I’ve found so far. He’s bought or established companies. Some he owns outright, others a controlling interest. Still others a small percentage. Some of his companies are arms of his other companies.”

He took the coffee she brought him, patted his knee in invitation, and laughed at her sour look. “Some of his companies own property—homes in Athens, Tokyo, Tuscany. He holds some of these interests through an Atlanta-based operation called—logically enough—Varied Interests. Others are held by the Morandi Corporation, which was his mother’s name.”

“Dead mother, as I remember.”

“Very dead. He was six when she ingested an unhealthy number of tranqs and supposedly fell or leaped from her bedroom window, twenty-two stories above the streets of Rome.”

“Where was Max Ricker?”

“Excellent question. According to statements in the very thin police file on her death, he was in Amsterdam when she jumped, or fell. Alex also has a company he called Maximum Exports, which owns—among other things—the antique store in Atlanta that was hit. There’s no criminal on him. He’s been questioned on various accounts by various authorities on various continents. But never charged.

“All of these business activities and the structuring are perfectly legal,” he told her. “Close to the edge on some, but never over. I’ve no doubt, unless he’s a complete bint, he’s got a second set of books on every one of his enterprises, and considerable funds sheltered in coded accounts.”

Roarke sat back, sipping coffee. “He stays under the radar, you see. Very carefully under. No splash, no flash. Quietly successful businesses that make no real noise. Until you dig down, put them together and see there’s really one entity that’s worth about ten times what his official data lists for him.”

“And there’s probably more.”

“Oh, very likely. I can find it, now that I’ve got his pattern. I could find those coded accounts, with enough time.”

“Those would probably still be on the legal side. What about the illegal side?”

“Some of these may be fronts. Or I’ll find smaller, more obsure businesses that serve as fronts. An antiques business—of which he has several worldwide—is always a handy way to smuggle all manner of things. There’s an easier way for me to find out if he’s taken over some of his father’s trade. I can ask people who know people.”