Forgotten in Death(53)

Frowning, she circled around to the other side of her board. “It has to be at night, all of it, the kill, getting the good materials, using them. All the same night.

“Had to put the ceiling in, too, or someone would see her, someone would notice the three feet and a body. They had to have the—what, boards, beams?”

“Support beams—the steel. And joists.”

“Those, she falls between them. They hadn’t done the floor yet, hadn’t cleared all the rock because she fell on rocks. Get the wall up, cover at least that three feet of floor. Doing the form, you said. Forming it up, then pouring the concrete. A lot to do, a lot to do fast.”

She stuck her hands in her pockets again. “The floor of the main part—the restaurant part—that was concrete, like the wine cellar.”

“The plans were for an industrial look—an upscale industrial ambiance.”

“So how do you put that in, form it so you’re not just dumping the stuff so it goes down to the lower floor?”

“Supports—those joists—form it out, install the subflooring, the base. Layer the cement over the subfloor. Pour, level, smooth.”

“Got it. They didn’t have to worry about the rest as long as she was covered, all sides. They could use the other stuff for the rest. Wanted the higher grade for the fucking coffin they put her in.”

He walked over to her, slid his arms around her from behind. “And I’ve pulled your focus away from your priority.”

“It’s just something I can let simmer around. Plus, I can work it into my interviews tomorrow.”

“Let me know when you need the copter to go upstate.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now I’m going to write up what I got from Gray, and let all that simmer.”





11





Once she accepted she couldn’t do anything more until morning, and kept covering the same ground, Eve shut down.

She walked over to the adjoining door to Roarke’s office.

He sat at his own command center, hair tied back, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

The cat, she noted, had deserted them both, and was unquestionably stretched out across their bed.

“I’m closing up shop,” she told him.

He didn’t glance up, certainly didn’t jolt as she had earlier, but finished whatever he had on his desk screen.

“Without me finding you asleep at your desk or nudging you to give it a rest?”

“You want me back in pissed mode?”

“Not at all. Just pleasantly surprised. I’m happy to close down as well, in just one minute.”

“What are you working on?”

“I had some business of my own, then I thought to turn to the fun of sliding into the financials of other people.”

“Like who?”

“I’ve the Singers going in one area, and so far I believe the family has very clever, very enterprising financial managers. Nothing you could deem illegal, just close to a shade of shady, but not over the line.

“So far,” he added, and finally looked at her.

“Yuri Bardov, that’s another matter. Very complex, very layered—also clever, but I’ll wind my way through. A smart, experienced man is Yuri. His wife’s nephew isn’t quite so smart.”

She heard the smug, very clearly. “You’ve got something on him.”

“He apparently thinks that by setting up some of his shell accounts in the Caymans and Russia as well as New York, he doesn’t need to bother with all the layers—and what those layers cost—as his uncle does. He also spends lavishly. I can’t say if his wife—who lives very well—and their children—who are receiving an excellent private school education—are aware he keeps women.”

“Side pieces? Plural?”

“Three, and kept women seems the right term in this case, as he pays for the lovely villa on Corfu for one—along with the minor female child, whose expenses he covers.”

“He’s got another kid.”

“That would be my conclusion, as he transfers funds, monthly, into an account for her education, her clothing, her ballet lessons, and so on.”

He leaned back, gestured to the screen, where Eve saw the ID shot of a woman in her early forties and a minor female, age fourteen. “It’s the same for the woman in Prague, and the two minors—male and female—whom he supports.”

The screen split, showing three more IDs. Adult female, middle thirties, two minors, ages eight and six.

“More recently he opened yet another account after purchasing a home in Vermont for a third woman. Going by medical records she’s about thirty weeks pregnant.”

Eve studied the next photo. “Busy guy.”

“He is, and one who apparently insists on spreading his seed. A man in his position and with his, let’s say resources, could easily pressure a woman to terminate a pregnancy—and one would think would use some standard caution to prevent same in the first place.”

Hands in her pockets now, Eve rocked back and forth on her heels. All three women, she noted, were dark-eyed brunettes.

So he had a type.

“All of this paid for out of hidden accounts?”

“Hidden, and not very well, and not legal.”