Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

Roarke nodded. “Almost certainly. It costs a bit more to buy and sell in increments, but adds another layer of that anonymity. No particularly large transactions through a single account.”

“Um.” Trueheart lifted a hand. “How much could they make?”

“Well now, if they bought at or near the low . . .” Roarke checked the numbers again. “And again, in their place I’d have had one eye on the market, and the other on the media, watching movement on the first, and for statements or announcements on the other, and they hold on until near the peak? Considering the two companies to work with, the steep dive, the steady recovery? I wouldn’t quibble they’ll make ten times their investment, and that’s a tidy profit.”

“Trueheart,” Eve said, “start looking at employees, both companies. Former employees, too, and give a hard look at anyone terminated for cause. Dabbling Baxter, take a look at financial types, emphasis on those who lean toward high risk. Check for that military—add paramilitary—background. Then see if there’s any cross. And let’s consider it’s high on the probability scale that one or both of these fuckheads met or crossed paths with Rogan. Nothing overt, nothing that Rogan would have thought about. Maybe they used the same gym—at least during the stalking stage. Played golf at the same course, whatever. Any name pops more than once, we dig deeper. Questions?”

“Bound to have some once we start on it.” Baxter looked at Trueheart. “We’re going to be busy, my young apprentice, so let’s get on it.”

“Peabody and I are in the field. Roarke?”

“I’ll wander my way back to EDD for now. Let me know if you’ll be back, and I’ll ride home with you.”

“I’ll be back, Peabody, with me. Grab your gear.”

She swung through Homicide, grabbed her own, swung out again as Peabody caught up. “Are we clear to interview Karson?”

“The medicals agreed to fifteen minutes—and that’s because Karson herself insisted. My impression is she’s pissed as much as hurt, but that’s my impression through her rep.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” As she alternated elevators with glides to the garage, Eve thought it through. “Family business. Successful one. She’s about to make a deal that expands it, takes it up a level or two. Before she can clinch it, she’s blown into a coma and wakes up in ICU. I’d be righteously pissed.”

“When you put it that way.”

Eve slipped behind the wheel. “Let’s see if it seems righteous or layered on. She knows business, and these businesses damn well. She’s bound to know the market.”

“Do you think she could be a part of it—to sweeten the deal. Coma, ICU.”

“It’s a gamble,” Eve said, pulling out into traffic. “Long shot, but let’s get an impression. And hell, let’s check Pearson’s medicals. It’s doesn’t jibe, but let’s check. He’s terminal, sees a way to sweeten the deal for his beneficiaries. Finds a screwy way to self-terminate. Low, low, low probability, but let’s not just ignore potential wackiness. After all, his wife and kids were out of harm’s way.”

As she drove—stop, start, stop—she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “Unlikely there’s any third party in this. Neither the wife nor daughter heard their assailants talking to anyone but each other, not even on a comm. It’s going to be the two of them. Brothers, by blood or choice. Or . . . lovers. That’s a thought. They could be lovers, or spouses.”

Considering it, she turned into the hospital’s underground garage, spent longer than she liked finding a slot.

“We’re also going to see about the other patients who were in the meeting and ended up at this med center. Karson’s priority.”

“They bumped her down a level. Out of ICU, condition serious but stable. The rep—Anson Whitt, and he might be a little sweet on her—said she has burns, a concussion, head lacerations, two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a serious wound in her side where a hunk of shrapnel from the conference table stabbed into her.”

They located the floor, badged at the nurses’ station. The nurse on duty scowled.

“Ms. Karson is in serious condition. She needs rest, quiet, care. It would be better if you came back tomorrow.”

“Maybe, but we’re here now, and have clearance.”

“Yes, I see that. However, if the patient is sleeping, I won’t wake her for you or anyone else.”

She rounded the station, a pint-size woman with chocolate skin and the air of authority in her hard eyes. Hard eyes that turned soft with compassion when she reached the snazzy private room Karson occupied.

“The police are here, sweetie. If you’re not up to visitors they’ll come back.”

“Thanks, Jeannie. I’ve been waiting for them. It’s fine.”

“Fifteen minutes,” the nurse said with another hard eye for Eve. “You just have to buzz for me,” she told Karson, and then stepped out, eerily silent in her thick-soled shoes.

“Ms. Karson.”

Eve approached the woman in the bed. Mixed-race female, with gel patches on burns, sutures running down her left temple to the middle of her ear. Eve saw the gray pallor under the wounds, the stabilized shoulder, while the monitors gave their quiet, steady beep, beep, beep.

“Lieutenant Dallas. And Detective Peabody.” She didn’t smile. “I’m told you were here earlier when I was . . . unavailable.”