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“Bagged, tagged, logged, delivered.” Peabody yawned as she and McNab dumped evidence bags on Eve’s desk. “Money smells pretty. ’Specially lots of it.”
“Get her coffee,” Eve ordered.
“Have this first.” Roarke held out another booster he’d already poured.
“Looks yucky,” Peabody said and pouted at it.
“I made it just for you.”
“Aww.” With stars in her heavy eyes, she gulped it down. “Is yucky.”
“Yes, I know. You, too, Ian.”
“Energy booster? I kinda like them.” He drank his without complaint while Trueheart passed around more coffee.
“Now, if everyone’s refreshed.” Eve unsealed the evidence bags marked with Peabody’s initials that contained the Bullock Foundation discs. “We’ll start with last year, work back.”
She plugged the first disc into her computer. “Display data, screen one.”
Not encoded she thought, and would have done a little happy dance if she’d had the energy. “Roarke? Translation?”
“Monthly accounts,” he verified. “I’d say Randall Sloan’s personal copy. It’s spelled out quite clearly here, unlike the files registered with the firm. You see his monthly fee.” Roarke picked up a laser, pointed. “And Madeline Bullock’s, Winfield Chase’s commissions—as they’re listed. Also deductions for legal fees, Cavendish, in New York. The London law firm takes a cut through monthly retainer, and billable hours.”
“Which means, in English.”
“The way these accounts were done, officially, the funneling and turnovers are more clearly documented here. And very, very illegal. The tax hounds will be wiping drool off their faces for years.”
“I’m looking at income here,” Eve said, scrolling through. “Primarily through individuals. Fees out of that to other individuals, and some institutions. Hospitals, medicals…food, lodging, transpo.
“Samuel and Reece Russo, a quarter million paid.”
“That’s an installment,” Roarke explained. “One of four.”
“A million for Sam and Reece, and a like amount from a Maryanna Clover. More of the same—you got, what, four—no, that’s five installment payments here from individuals, just in the first quarter of last year. What are they paying for?”
“The expenses attached to that income might tell the tale.” Roarke ordered the expenditures on-screen. “The Russos’ fee has a ten-thousand-euro payment, per installment, to a Sybil Hopson, a two-thousand-euro payment as monthly retainer to a Leticia Brownburn, M.D., with a lump payment of ten thousand in October of last year. Another, listed as donation to Sunday’s Child. Legal fees come to…twelve thousand for this transaction—as paid by the foundation.”
“So for a million, in what they’re finagling as primarily tax-free income, they expend under a hundred thousand. Good return,” Eve decided. “What’s Sunday’s Child?”
“Child placement agency,” the half-asleep Peabody muttered. “London-based.”
Eve spun around. “What?”
“Huh? What?” Peabody pushed up from her slouch in the chair, blinked rapidly. “Sorry. I must’ve zoned out.”
“Sunday’s Child.”
“Oh, we switched to the kidnapping. It’s one of the agencies on the list. London-based, with offices in Florence, Rome, Oxford, Milan, ah, Berlin. Places. Sorry, I’ll need to review my notes.”
“This agency is on the list in Tandy’s file, and appears as a major beneficiary of the Bullock Foundation?” She looked at Baxter. “Coincidence is hooey, right?”
“Words to live by. Christ, Dallas, are we dovetailing here?”
“Trueheart, run Leticia Brownburn, M.D., London. I want to know if she’s associated with Sunday’s Child. Roarke, I need you to go through these files as quickly as you can, see if we’ve got a pattern. If there are other like agencies, birthing centers.”
Movement was quick. Since every unit in the two offices was being used, Eve pulled out her PPC. “Data run on Russo, Samuel, and Russo, Reece,” she began and read off the identification numbers Sloan had listed on the file.
Working…Russo, Samuel, DOB: 5 August, 2018, married to Russo, Reece, nee Bickle, 10 May, 2050. Residence: London, England; Sardinia, Italy; Geneva, Switzerland; Nevis. One child, male, DOB: 15 September, 2059, through private adoption.
