Calculated in Death

If there was something hinky and he was involved, rather than assign an auditor, he could just say, Hey, I need to get my hand in. I’ll take that/those accounts. The same for the other two—Kyle and Martini. If you’re smart enough to keep a business like this going for half a century or more, you’re smart enough to cover your tracks without killing off an employee.”
    Eve’s hands slid into her pockets. Not as cold today, she thought, because the wind was down. But damn cold enough.
    “And if you’re not,” she continued, “or if killing the employee seemed more efficient, you sure as hell wouldn’t break into your own offices and take files after the fact.”
    “Makes sense. I’m glad because I did feel sorry for him.”
    “Right now, we’ll focus on the businesses in the files the vic sent to her home unit. She didn’t give that away, even when they hurt her. She had a reason to send those files home, a reason she wanted to work on them there, and a reason she didn’t tell anyone.”
    “She found something,” Peabody ventured as they got into the car.
    “Maybe. Or felt something. She had questions, made notations. So, it follows she wanted to dig out the answers. We’ll make the circuit. The closest offices are Young-Biden. Health company—health centers, hospitals, clinics, meds, supplies, and all the junk that goes with it.”
    Young-Biden comprised five floors, with the busy hub covered with marble, glass, and bright, hard colors. Five people manned a curved central counter, all of them looking fit, healthy, and youthful.
    Wall screens showcased various health centers, labs, rehab centers, and clinics worldwide.
    Eve approached the counter, waited until one of the five behind it made actual eye contact.
    “Yes, may I help you?”
    “I need to speak with Young or Biden.”
    The woman arched her eyebrows so dramatically they all but merged with her hairline. Eve heard the distinctive sniff. “Do you have an appointment?”
    “I have this.” Eve laid her badge on the counter.
    “I see.” She stared at the badge as if Eve had laid a fat, hairy spider on the counter. “Ms. Young is out of the country. Mr. Young-Sachs is in house, but in meetings, as is Mr. Biden. If you’d care to make an appointment . . .”
    “Sure, I can do that. I can make an appointment to have Mr. Young-Sachs and Mr. Biden brought down to Cop Central for questioning. When would that be convenient?”
    Now the eyebrows lowered to beetle over very annoyed eyes. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Excuse me a moment.”
    She swiveled in her chair, presenting her back to Eve, and murmured rapidly on her headset.
    When she swiveled back she kept her eyebrows level, her face impassive. “Mr. Young-Sachs will see you shortly. If you’ll go up to the forty-fifth floor, someone will meet you.”
    “I’ll do that.” Eve walked over to the elevators, rolled her shoulders. “That felt good.”
    “Why do people like that get so pissed off about having the boss talk to a cop?” Peabody wondered. “I mean, really, it’s not their ass in the sling.”
    “I don’t know, but I’m glad they do.” Eve stepped into the elevator, ordered forty-five. “It gives me a lift.”

FLOOR FORTY-FIVE SHIFTED THE MOOD TO calm and plush with warm colors, thick rugs, leafy plants, and stylish waiting areas.
    A six-foot blonde in towering heels and a short black suit greeted Eve with a pleasant, professional smile.
    “Officer?”
    “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.”
    “Lieutenant. I’m Tuva Gunnarsson, Mr. Young-Sachs’s admin. May I ask what this is in reference to?”
    “Police business.”
    “Yes, of course.” The smooth voice and manner didn’t ripple. “If you’ll come with me.”
    How the blonde managed to glide on the stilts seemed like magic, but glide she did, through the waiting area, through glass doors into a window-walled corridor, all the way to the wide double doors. She opened them both with a kind of flourish into her boss’s big, swanky office.
    More glass, more plush in two conversation areas, a slick silver wet bar, three wall screens, and a command console in that same slick silver backed by a high-backed leather chair in fresh-blood red.
    “Mr. Young-Sachs will be with you in a moment. Can I get you anything?” She opened a wall panel to reveal a kitchen area, complete with full bar and a gleam of ruby-colored glassware.
    “No, thanks. How long have you worked here?”
    “Six