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“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.”
