Frustrated, she dragged a hand through her hair.
She’d been right there.
“He’s been in there before,” she continued. “He had to have been in there before to pick the perfect spot to watch her without drawing any attention, having the cover. That’s her favorite table. She sits there in that booth when she comes in. He had to know that. He copped one of the less desired tables, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quieter,” Roarke pointed out. “More private.”
“Most people want the action in a bar, the noise—unless they want privacy. So if it’s for privacy, it’s usually a table for two. But a solo … I don’t know. I’d say it would be an easier table to snag at that time of day. Right after work, people are blowing off steam. It’s a big crowd, it’s a happy vibe. But he wants the quieter spot, more secluded—and a high top. Better vantage point.”
She shoved up, paced. “But this is good. Narrowing it down. Maybe I didn’t see the son of a bitch even when he had to walk a few feet in back of me to get to the stairs, but it’s going to be this guy. And we know who waited on him.”
When she grabbed for her ’link, Roarke sighed.
“Eve, it’s past midnight. You can’t tag that poor girl now.”
“She’s young. She’s probably still awake.” But his quiet stare had her muttering a curse, stuffing her ’link back into her pocket. “In the morning.”
“As a reward for your consideration, I’ll fill you in on what I have—so far—on the financials.”
“It better be good.”
“I think you’ll like it. Under her own name, she has a healthy portfolio. Some conservative stocks, bonds, and annuities meticulously managed by a very solid firm. No surprises. She keeps enough fluid to cover expenses very much in line with her income. A bit indulgent, as one might expect, in certain areas. Salons, fashion, entertainment. Though she’s also careful to debit Channel Seventy-Five for travel, considerable wardrobe, and salon treatments, entertainment, and so on. All this is, again, meticulously listed for tax purposes.”
“Now give me the juice.”
“So far, and I haven’t been at it long, I’ve found two other accounts. She did a reasonably decent job covering them, and they’d likely slip by—obviously have done—any standard check. The first is under the name Lorilie Saturn.”
“That’s too damn silly to be clever.”
“That may be, but it worked for her. It’s out of Argentina—which is a fine haven for accounts people don’t want reported to the U.S. tax hounds. It holds just over three million at the moment. She uses its debit feature for purchases—which, from the listings, are exclusive to art and jewelry. During the past three years, more than ten million has come in and gone out.”
“That’s not chump change.”
“Well now, it’s all relative, isn’t it? The second is under Linda Venus, so it’s a theme we have going.”
“A damn solar system,” Eve muttered.
“This one is off-planet, another haven, and she uses it strictly for cash. In and out. She can go to any number of financial outlets in New York, or anywhere else for that matter, and as long as the in and the out is under ten thousand, it goes unreported.”
“Yeah, yeah, like the amounts she laid out to Bellami. Always under ten large.”
“Exactly. She would deposit, say, eight thousand, then have that funneled to her other hidden account, or leave it. She might withdraw five or six thousand in cash and skip away whistling a tune. There’s considerable more action in this account. Often daily deposits and withdrawals or transfers. At the moment, this account holds six million and change.
“From her legitimate account,” he went on, “she pays her rent and fees, her taxes, and the usual expenses one has, to live the sort of life her genuine income allows. However, there’s another monthly amount drawn out of the Venus account—the same amount at the end of each month. Fifty-two hundred dollars.”
“She’s got another place. That’s rent or mortgage on another place.”
“I’d lean there. But as it’s taken out in cash, and so far I haven’t found where—or indeed if—it’s funneled elsewhere, we can’t be sure. And we can’t trace it.”
“Why would she want another place? Why another place?” Eve mumbled as she paced. “Hoarder. That’s what you said. She’s a bit of a hoarder. Maybe the other place is for the stuff. The stuff she doesn’t keep in her apartment where she entertains.”
She stopped pacing, fisted her hands on her hips as she studied Mars’s ID shot.
“Yeah, that could play. It’s one thing to have your closet packed with clothes, and a safe packed with cash and jewelry. Nobody sees that—or if somebody sees the clothes they just think: Wow, she’s got a lot of clothes. But if you’ve got the place jammed with furniture and art and other crap, they notice.
“They talk, wonder.”
She circled again. “She wouldn’t meet marks there. That’s stupid. You don’t want to meet them anywhere that’s tied to you. She’s got the swank digs, so she doesn’t need more swank digs. She needs someplace to keep secrets. Secrets, that’s her thing. She needs a place to keep her own, away from where she lets people in.