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“Where’d you get it?”
He shifted. Even with her screen view she could tell he squirmed. “Maybe I swung by your office, to update you, and you weren’t there. And maybe since you’ve got a damn unlimited supply of the stuff I got myself one lousy mug. Don’t see why you have to be so stingy when you’ve—”
“You help yourself to anything else while you were there? Such as candy?”
“What candy? You got candy in there? What kind?”
“That’s for me to know, and you to keep your hands off. I’ll get back to you.”
Thinking of coffee and candy reminded her she’d missed breakfast and lunch. She ordered up data on Grant Swisher, then strode into her office kitchen to grab a nutribar and another hit of caffeine.
Settling, she ordered the data on wall screen, and scanned.
Swisher, Grant Edward, DOB March 2, 2019. Residence 310 West Eighty-first, New York City, September 22, 2051 to present. Married Getz, Keelie Rose, May 6, 2046. Two children of the marriage: Coyle Edward, DOB August 15, 2047, male. Nixie Fran, DOB February 21, 2050, female.
Three of those names would be listed as deceased by end of the day in Vital Records, she thought.
She read through the basic data, requested any and all criminal records, and got a pop for possession of Zoner when Grant Swisher had been nineteen. Medical was just as ordinary.
She dug into finances.
He did well. Family law paid enough to handle the mortgage on the house, a time share place in the Hamptons, private schools for both kids. With the wife’s income factored in, you had a cozy buffer for a live-in domestic, family vacations, restaurants, and other recreational activities—including a hefty golf tab—and enough left over for a reasonable savings or emergency account.
Nothing over the top, she mused. Nothing, from the looks of it, under the table.
Keelie Swisher, two years younger than her husband, no criminal, standard medical, had a master’s degree in Nutrition and Health. She’d put it to use, prior to children, with a position on staff at a high-end city spa. After the first kid, she’d done the professional mother gig for a year, then gone back to the same employment. Repeated the routine with kid number two, but instead of going back as an employee, she’d opened her own business.
Living Well, Eve mused. Didn’t sound much like Nutrition, but it must have worked. She tracked the business, shaky first year, middling second. But by the third year, Keelie Swisher had developed a solid clientele, and was cruising.
She ran the boy. No criminal, no flag for sealed juvenile records. No flags on the medical to indicate violence or abuse—though there were some bumps, some breaks. Sports related, according to the medicals. And it fit.
He had his own bank account with his parents listed on it. She pursed her lips over the regular monthly deposits, but the amounts weren’t enough to arrow toward illegals sales or criminal profits.
She found the same pattern, with smaller amounts, in Nixie’s account.
She was pondering it when Peabody came in carrying a white bag, stained with grease and smelling like glory. “Picked up a couple of gyros. Ate mine, so if you don’t want yours, I’ll be happy to take it off your hands.”
“I want it, and nobody should eat two gyros.”
“Hey, I lost five pounds when I was on medical. Okay, I put three back on, but that’s still two by anybody’s math.” She dropped the bag on Eve’s desk. “Where’s Nixie?”
“Summerset.” Eve dumped the nutribar she’d yet to open in her desk drawer and pulled out the gyro. She took a huge bite and mumbled something that sounded like “Slool ressa.”
“Got the school records on both.” Translating, Peabody pulled out two discs. “Their school officials were pretty broken up when I notified. Nice schools. Coyle did well, no suspicious dips in grades or attendance. And Nixie? That kid’s a blade. Aces all the way. Both scored high on IQ tests, but she’s a level up from her brother, and makes the most of it. No disciplinary problems on either. A couple of warnings about talking in class or s
neaking game vids, but no major. Coyle played softball and basketball. Nixie’s into school plays, does the school media flash, school band—plays the piccolo.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a wind instrument. Kinda like a flute. These kids have a lot of extracurricular, good grades. Didn’t have time to get in trouble, from my view.”
“They both have their own bank accounts, and make regular monthly deposits. Where do kids get up to a hundred bucks a month?”
Peabody turned to the wall screen, scanned the data. “Allowance.”
“Allowance for what?”
She looked back, shook her head at Eve. “Their parents probably gave them a weekly allowance, spending money, saving money, that sort of thing.”
