“Yeah, it is, and I guess the whole cousin thing can get unwieldy. Still, when you hear McNab or Peabody talk about their cousins—then there’s your whole Irish cousins thing—there’s a lot of ties, a lot of . . . liking. But with this cousin and his fuckhead of a wife, it’s not just a lack of liking or ignoring of ties, it’s . . .”
“Contempt,” Roarke said, and she jabbed her fork at him in agreement.
“That’s the exact word. And anybody who has contempt for somebody like Mr. Mira has to be an asshole.”
“So you are expecting the dead body of an asshole within the next twenty-four.”
She nodded, ate one last bite. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean we don’t do the job. We should add that as like an addendum to the banner the bullpen made. You know, ‘No matter your race, creed, blah blah, we protect and serve, because you could get dead.’ We should put one of those . . .”
She squiggled a shape with a finger in the air, making him smile because he understood her so easily. “Asterisk.”
“Yeah, that thing. And add: ‘Even if you’re an asshole.’”
“Past tense might be more applicable, being Homicide. ‘Even if you were an asshole.’”
“Hmm. Good point. And I’d better get started. You’ll take the financials.”
“With considerable delight.”
They walked out together. “I’m going to send Peabody a report, bring her up to speed. I’ll copy Mira on it. It shook her up. You don’t see her shaken very often, but it really shook her, seeing he’d been hurt.”
“Love makes us vulnerable.”
“He soothed her. He’s got this way. I know he was upset, and he took a hell of a knock, so he was hurt, but he soothed her.”
“And love makes us strong. That’s its wonder.”
“I don’t know if many people are born kind. Like it’s just part of their DNA. I think Mr. Mira was. So I really wish I’d punched the Mandy-Bitch.”
“You have your visual of exploding blood.” Roarke patted her shoulder. “Let that be enough.”
“It’ll have to be.”
They split off, her to her office, Roarke toward his that adjoined it. The cat opted to stick with Eve, and trotted directly to her sleep chair, leaped up, circled, circled, circled, and collapsed as if he’d run a marathon.
She went to her desk first, sat, and saw from her incomings the sweepers had taken her rush-it order to heart.
The blood on the desk chair was Edward Mira’s. Floorboards, Dennis Mira. The only prints in the study, entranceway, doors, belonged to: Dennis and Edward Mira; Sila Robarts; Frankie Trent, Sila’s mother; and Dara Robarts, Sila’s daughter—the housekeepers.
So the suspects sealed up, she concluded. They’d had a plan.
She began to construct a report, with the sweeper’s early results attached. Then deciding it best to also copy her commander, cleaned it up a little. She considered whatever hit she’d take over the “kiss my ass” comment worth it.
With the book already begun with the reports, her notes, she set up her board. Pretty thin so far, she thought, circling in and studying Edward Mira’s ID shot. But still ahead of the game when the body showed up.
She started back to her desk intending to start deeper runs on all connected parties, and Roarke stepped in.
“That fast?” she commented.
“Initially. I can tell you the senator could very much use a large influx of cash.”
“Gambling?”
“Not particularly, no. Lifestyle. And the Mira Institute isn’t yet self-sustaining. He pumped a lot of money into it, and it continues to drain his resources. Basically, they spend a great deal. Security, entertaining, travel. They have the penthouse here in the city, another home in East Hampton, a pied-à-terre in East Washington. And memberships at very exclusive country clubs in each location. The Institute also rents a suite at my Palace Hotel, as well as carrying a substantial payroll, and very high operating expenses.”
He wandered over, helped himself to the coffee she had on her desk. “He’s made some poorly considered investments in the last two or three years, and that’s depleted some of the income. There has been sporadic income from the sale of some antiques and collectibles.”
“From the grandfather’s estate.”
“Yes, indeed. But they’ll have to begin to cut a few corners, or sell off one of their properties, unless they have a serious increase in cash flow. This includes his two buried accounts, and her one.”
“You found three secret accounts already?” When he merely sipped her coffee, studied her over the rim, she shook her head. “Of course you did. Illegal accounts?”
“Questionable, and for a man in his position politically, unethical. The sale of the house would absolutely give him some breathing room.”
“But nothing that looks like he owed somebody who’d send the spine-crackers?”
“I’ll look deeper, but what I’ve already gone through paints a fairly clear picture. These are people accustomed to a certain lifestyle—and status—unwilling to pull back on expenses to keep their financial ship comfortably afloat. For instance, she spends between ten and twelve thousand a month on salon and spa visits. Not including twice a year body and face work, which triples that amount. He isn’t far behind her in that area.”
“Jesus, that’s, what, in the land of a quarter of a mil annually for vanity.”
“That’s the geography. And this is nothing, really, up against what he’s invested and continues to invest in the Institute. He put in twenty million of his own to launch it, and though he receives around a million annually from it, he pumps that, and a bit more, back in to keep it running. I can tell you that in the last eighteen months to two years, money has become a serious issue for him.”
“Okay, he needs to sell—that’s his motive. We need to find out who gets his share of said potential sale on his death. Wife and/or kids, most likely.”
She circled the board again. “The wife doesn’t want to give up the lifestyle. Would she have him killed over it?” Pausing, Eve studied the ID shot. “Wouldn’t surprise me. She’s got the chops for it. He probably has death insurance. He kicks, she’s not only the grieving widow, but she’d be pretty well set.”
She stuck her hands in her pockets, rocked back on her heels. Shook her head. “But the method’s all wrong for it. Even if she hired somebody. Here’s a bunch of money. Beat up my husband, kill him—and do it in this location because maybe she figures Dennis would agree to sell under those conditions.”
“My cousin’s grieving wife, he was killed here. Selling it will help us all heal. Yes.” Considering, Roarke offered her the rest of the coffee. “I could see it. Convoluted as it is.”
“Too convoluted. Plus, if they’re hired hits, be done with it. You don’t haul him off.”
“You’re back to personal.”
“Yeah, I am. He doesn’t owe anybody, no signs he’s paying or extorting blackmail?”
“Not that I’ve found, no.”
“So, it’s about the money for him, but it’s not about money for whoever has him. Sex.”
Roarke wrapped his arms around her waist. “Delighted.”
“Not us, ace. Money, politics, women—those appear to be his main deals. Money just isn’t playing. Politics—he’s not a senator anymore, but there’s that brain trust. I’ll look into that, but if he’s fueling it to keep it running, how much influence does it, or he, have . . . politically? So it comes down to sex. The suite at your hotel. I bet it makes a nice love nest.”
“We do try to keep such things well-feathered.”
“Ha. I bet you could tug a line and get me some names of lovebirds Senator Hound Dog might have roosted with. That doesn’t sound right,” she realized with a frown. “I’ve lost the colorful metaphor.”
“But it held long enough. I can tug a line, of course. And if he used it to entertain, I’ll have names or at least faces for you. Give me a few minutes.”
She went back for more coffee, then sat down to do the runs.
It didn’t surprise her when Roarke finished his task before she did.
“Five women in the past year. I’ve sent you their names. All multiple visits, on a weekly basis, most lasting between six and eight weeks. I want a brandy.”