“More big money on Kraus’s alibis, Madeline Bullock and Winfield Chase. Mother and son. Bullock, Sam, was her second husband—no offspring from there. Bullock, Sam, died at the age of one-twelve. They’d been married five years. She was forty-six.”
“Isn’t that romantic?”
“Hear
t-tugging. First husband was younger, a callow seventy-three to her twenty-two.”
“Wealthy?”
“Was—not Sam Bullock wealthy, but well-stocked. Got eaten by a shark.”
“Step off.”
“Seriously. Scuba diving out in the Great Barrier Reef. He was eighty-eight. And this shark cruises along and chomp, chomp.”
She gave Eve a thoughtful look. “Ending as shark snacks is in my top-ten list of ways I don’t want to go out. How about you?”
“It may rank as number one, now that I’ve considered it a possibility. Any hint of foul play?”
“They weren’t able to interview the shark, but it was put down as death by misadventure.”
“Okay.”
“While Bullock, the company, is varied, it started out primarily with pharmaceuticals. The Foundation, which the widow heads since her husband’s death eight years ago, is a whopper, and annually disburses multiple millions to charities. Children’s health care is priority. Nothing criminal on the widow, sealed juvie on the son, who is now thirty-eight. No marriage or cohabs on record.”
“London-based, right?”
“Yep. They do have other homes, but none in the States. Mother and son share the same address. He’s VP of the Foundation.”
“Ought to be able to afford his own place.”
“Last from this: For Myers we have Karl and Elise Helbringer, Germany. Married thirty-five years, three offspring. Karl went into business with Elise when they were both in their twenties. Making boots, which led to shoes and skids and bags and all sorts of things. Including romance, apparently, as they married shortly afterward. Hit big in the fashion and the outdoorsy-type worlds and built a nice little German empire. So, as bootmakers, I wouldn’t say they’re rolling in it, but stomping in it.”
“Boots.”
“Their foundation, and the original Helbringer is still their top seller. You’re wearing a pair right now.”
“Of boots.”
“Helbringer boots. Very distinctive in their simplicity. Anyway, nothing on them or their offspring.”
“We’ll check for corroboration when we get back to Central.”
Eve pulled up in front of the grand front entrance of Roarke’s Palace. The doorman started over immediately. Eve saw recognition and then resignation flicker into his eyes as she climbed out of the car.
“Good morning, Lieutenant. Would you like me to have your vehicle parked?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you want it to stay exactly where it is.”
“There you go.” She jogged up the steps and into the glossy marble, the elaborate and enormous flowers, the sparkling fountains.
She wound her way under the waterfall of crystal chandeliers to the desk. When she saw another flicker of recognition on the face of one of the sleek, nattily uniformed desk clerks, she decided Roarke had called a staff meeting with her picture.
Regardless, she took out her badge. “I need to speak with Rochelle DeLay.”
“Certainly, Lieutenant. I’ll contact her immediately. If you’d care to have a seat.”