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He keyed in to the view outside Greene’s condo. “This first one goes in, stays sixteen minutes. Bet the contents of his briefcase switched during that little social call.”
“Time to test the merchandise and count the money,” Eve agreed. “Do we know if Illegals was tracking this guy?”
“Don’t. Can.” Unconsciously, McNab flexed his fingers, working on the tingle that hadn’t quite faded. “I got some contacts there. Far as I can tell, the perv skimmed the line, kept legitimate business avenues open, didn’t deal too heavy.”
“Second visitor?”
“Different deal. Stayed ninety-eight minutes. No bag.”
Eve studied the second man entering, exiting. “Sex,” she said flatly. “What about the third?”
“Forty-minute stay, carried a disc bag in and out. Likes his sex on vids, I guess.”
“I know this guy. I know him. Tripps. Deals bootlegged vids. Has a few runners on the street. Yeah, I know him. I’ll tap him if I need to, see if he can draw me a picture. Run the other faces for ID in case we need them.”
Eve saw him massaging his right thigh as he set up for the search. “No, not now. Morning’s soon enough. Pack it in for the night. Why don’t you and Peabody go use the pool or something? Or just get out for a while.”
“Yeah? Taking pity on the recovering crip?”
“Grab it while you can, pal. It won’t last.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t mind a little club action. Some music. Not up to dancing yet. You know what would really do it? Virtual club scene. If we could use the holoroom.”
“If you’re going to program in some perverted sexual fantasy, I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Mum’s the word.”
She went back to her own office and spent the next hour dissecting Nick Greene’s life.
College man, a business major who’d started picking up trouble in his teens. Minor possession fines, criminal trespass, bootlegging vids. Always the entrepreneur, she thought.
It had paid off for a while. Classy Park Avenue digs, closet full of snazzy designer duds.
She frowned as she continued through his financials. He’d garaged two high-end vehicles, and had kept a third, and a watercraft, stored at his weekend place in the Hamptons. He had art and jewelry insured in excess of three million.
“Doesn’t add up.”
She went to the ’link and beeped Roarke. “I need you to look at something in my office.”
He came in, looking mildly irritated. “If you want the job done, Lieutenant, you have to let me do it.”
“I need your expert opinion on something else. Look at these assets, reported income, debits. Give me your take.”
She had the numbers on-screen, and paced the office while Roarke studied them.
“Obviously someone didn’t report all their income. That’s shocking.”
“Ditch the sarcasm. How much in excess of this could you make from a mid-level illegals business, running a few unlicensed whores, dealing some porn vids, a little sex brokering?”
“I’ve decided to be flattered rather than insulted that you assumed I’d know of such matters. Depends, of course, on the overhead. You’d have to buy or cook the illegals before you could sell them, outfit and maintain the prostitutes, generate the vids. Then there’s the outlay for bribes, security, employees. If you were good at it, had a steady clientele, you’d pull in two or three million in profit.”
“Still doesn’t add up. He kept it small, exclusive. You don’t get busted as hard or as often if you keep it low profile. So say you add the three million to what he reported last year. That keeps him under five million. You could live real comfortable on that.”
“Some could. Are we done now?”
“No. You’ve got five million to play with. Look at his clothing expenditures last year.”
Stifling impatience, Roarke scanned the data she shot on-screen. “So he wasn’t a snappy dresser.”
