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“Sleepy sex then six solid. Not shabby.”
“Said with a smug smile, just to finish off your alliteration.”
“Hah. You’re a sharp, sexy son of a bitch. See, I finish my own alliterations.”
He had to laugh. “Now that you have, sit and have some breakfast, and I’ll tell you what I learned of your top accountants from a business associate.”
“What associate?” She lowered the coffee she’d started to drink. “When?”
“You wouldn’t know him, and shortly ago.”
“Tell me while I get dressed.”
“Eat.”
She heaved a sigh, but dropped down and scooped some of the berries into a smaller bowl. “Spill.”
“Jacob Sloan founded the firm with Carl Myers, the father of the current Carl Myers on the letterhead. Sloan has a very small handful of accounts he continues to oversee personally. He does, however, according to my source, take a very active part in the running of the firm.”
“His ball, he wants to watch where it bounces.”
“I’d say so, yes. Myers handles domestic, corporate, and individual—as did his father—more of the very top individual accounts. Robert Kraus—who was made partner about a decade ago—heads up the legal department, and oversees some of the cream of the foreign and international.”
Roarke nudged a bowl of what looked suspiciously like flakes of tree bark toward her.
“Does he, your associate, know how active any or all of them are in the day-to-day?”
“He tells me very. While they are a layered and multifaceted firm with various departments, department heads, and so forth, they hold a weekly partners’ meeting—that would be only the three of them—a daily briefing, and there are quarterly account reports and employee evals, which each partner is copied on. Very hands on.”
“And if so, difficult for one to slip something shaky by the other two.”
“It would seem, but difficult isn’t impossible or even improbable.”
“Sloan’s the top dog,” Eve muttered. “Probably the hardest for an account exec to get to, one-on-one. And the one who’d make the most sense to try to seek out if you hit on something that seemed off. At least if you believed he wasn’t in on it.”
“And if you did, or weren’t sure, a reason to try to gather as many facts and as much evidence as possible before you went to the authorities.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She ate some of the tree bark without thinking about it. “Bio data I got on Sloan is that self-made stuff. Worked his way up, took risks, beat his own drum, built his firm and rep brick by brick. One marriage—and she has some family dough and prestige—one male offspring, conservative bent. Got a second home in the Caymans.”
“Makes excellent sense, tax-wise,” Roarke said. “And a good way to shelter income. He’d know all the ins and outs there.”
“Copperfield handled foreign accounts. Might be she stumbled on something he was into. Guy founds a firm that takes on a big shine over the years, puts all that time and effort into it, he’d have a lot of pride in it—and a lot at stake.”
She pushed up. “Well, I’m going to go see what I think of him.” Leaning over, she kissed him. “If I need help interpreting some of the numbers, are you up for it?”
“I could be.”
“Good to know. Later.”
She had Peabody and McNab meet her in the lobby of the building that housed the accounting firm. As ordered, four uniforms with banker’s boxes for transporting items were already in place.
McNab wore a coat that looked as if it had been used as a canvas for fingerpainting by a hyperactive toddler.
“Couldn’t you just try to look like a cop?”
He only grinned. “We get up there, I’ll wear a really stern expression.”
“Yeah, that’ll make a difference.”
