She sat at her auxiliary unit, and dived into what she considered the much more interesting prospect of digging into people’s lives.
Arnold, James, age forty-six. On his second marriage, nine years in. The first gave him two children, one of each variety, and hefty child-support payments. He’d added another kid—female—with the second marriage.
He looked like an accountant, she decided. At least the clichéd image of one. Pale, a slightly worried expression on his thin face, faded blue eyes, thin sandy hair.
The sort who looked both harmless and boring. And, she knew, appearances were often deceiving.
He had an advanced degree, and had been a teacher’s assistant and a dorm monitor in college.
Nerd.
He’d worked for the IRS for six years, then had gone into the private sector with a brief and unsuccessful two years between trying to run his own business out of his home.
He’d been with Brewer for thirteen years.
Decent salary. She figured anyone who crunched numbers all damn day probably deserved one. Good thing, as his oldest kid’s college tuition took a greedy bite.
No criminal, but a shitload of traffic violations, she noted. And, hmmm, the second kid had some juvie knocks. Shoplifting, illegal possession, underage drinking, vandalism. A long stint in rehab. Private rehab. Pricy.
His wife had recently given up her professional parent stipend to go back to work as a paralegal.
While finances balanced, as far as she could tell, money had to be tight. How did it feel, poring over all those accounts loaded with cash, stocks, trusts, whatever, while you had to work and calculate just to make the mortgage?
Interesting.
Chaz Parzarri, age thirty-nine, single, no offspring. He had the kind of dark, sulky looks some women went for. Chiseled bone structure, a lot of wild curls. He didn’t, to her mind, look like an accountant. But he, too, had the advanced degree and the government experience—was all that required?
She glanced up, over to Roarke, wondered if he knew, but didn’t think it was important enough for the interruption.
His education advanced largely on scholarships—Chaz was a bright boy, she mused. Born in New Jersey to a waitress and a cab driver, with three siblings. Tight money again, at least in his background.
He’d turned that around, steady work, smart investments—she assumed—and had himself a condo on the Upper East Side only blocks from work.
No criminal. Traffic knocks, too, but not in Jim Arnold’s league. Mostly speeding.
Some people were always in a hurry. Maybe Chaz was in a hurry to get rich.
She put them aside to let them stew and read Peabody’s report on her interview with Jasper Milk, then Carmichael’s on her and Santiago’s interview with the interior designer.
Still letting it stew, she got up, programmed coffee, and came out to set a mug on the desk for Roarke.
“Thanks.” He leaned back to look up at her. “What’s the cost?”
“A couple of answers and/or opinions.”
“I can afford that.”
“Are you getting anywhere?”
“Of course.” He smiled, picked up the coffee. “Let me tell you up front, this is unlikely to be a snap. Two of these are big companies with subsidiaries, charitable foundations, payrolls, expenses, depreciations, and so on. I’ll need a basic overview on all of them. Don’t expect I’ll find a handy column marked Monies I’ve Embezzled or Misappropriated or That Were Never There in the First Place.”
“What does that last one mean?”
“That sometimes companies or people within them fudge in the opposite direction to mollify stockholders, potential clients, or investors and their BODs—and hope to make up those numbers. It’s . . . optimistic cheating,” he decided. “And usually flawed.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve one audit here due to a potential merger, another due to bylaws, another by court order. It appears your victim had done the same as I’m doing here. She got a feel for them first. She has some questions noted, on all three of these. Nothing major, but she hadn’t worked on them very long.”