“For the baby?”

“I don’t know.” Now she pulled at her hair. “I can’t think about it. It throws me off. I was thinking about murder, and I was fine. Now I’m thinking about themes and thrones, and I feel a little sick.”

Eve took a huge breath. “Who did she tell?”

“ Peabody? I thought she just told you.”

“No, God, not Peabody. Natalie Copperfield. Who did she trust or respect or feel obliged to report to if she found something off? Which of her clients did she believe, while they might do something illegal, unethical, might offer a bribe, wouldn’t cause her real physical harm? Because there’s no way she’d have let her sister come over, talked about pancake breakfasts, if she believed there might be actual danger.”

“First, I’d say who she told would depend on the level of the illegality she uncovered. It’s not impossible she went directly to the client or their representative. But more likely that she showed the data to a superior.”

“Back where I started, running rings. No way to pin down who she might have told other than the boyfriend.”

“As for her client list, there are some high-end companies here. Any or all of them has very likely had some slippery moments. You can’t operate large companies without some slippage. Then you pay lawyers to slide you out of it, or you pay fines, settle suits out of court. But I don’t know of any major scandal involving those on her lists. And I haven’t heard anything murmuring on the wind about illegal practices. I can tune myself to that wind a little closer for you.”

“That’d be good.”

She frowned at the board again. “Wait. What if the client isn’t the problem? What if someone inside the firm did something like Whitney suggested you could do.”

Roarke cocked his head, nodded. “Fed one client private data on another. Interesting.”

“You could demand a percentage, a kickback, even a monthly retainer for information given. One client’s got a deal coming up. You just access the files on any competitors your firm might also represent. Pass along some inside data for a fee. Maybe she sees something, like one client consistently nipping out another, or others in competitive areas. She questions the percentages of that, pokes around.”

“It would explain her reason for not telling a superior – if she didn’t do so.”

“Can’t tell someone over her head if she’s not sure who’s part of the unethical practice. I can do an analysis of comparative operations over the last twelve months, check out the clients who most consistently pump out above the rest of the field.”

“I can do that for you.”

“Yeah?” That seriously brightened Eve’s day. “You’d probably see it faster if there’s anything to see. I can take a closer look at the financials – incomes, outlays of the partners.”

“They’d know how to hide income. They’re accountants.”

“Gotta start somewhere.”

IN THE MORNING WITH A SKY THAT LOOKED LIKE soured milk, Eve sat bleary-eyed over her second cup of coffee. It wasn’t the hours, she thought. It was the figures.

Roarke plopped an omelette down in front of her. “You need it.”

She glanced at it, then looked over at him as he sat. “Are my eyes bleeding? They feel like they’re bleeding.”

“Not so far.”

“I don’t know how you do it, day after day.” She made the mistake of looking toward the wall screen where he had the morning stock reports running. And slapped a hand over her aching eyes. “Have mercy.”

He chuckled, but switched to the morning media. “Had enough of numbers, darling?”

“I saw them in my sleep. Dancing. Some were singing. I think some might have had teeth. I’d rather lie bare-assed naked on the sidewalk and be trampled by tourists from South Dakota than be an accountant. And you.” She stabbed her fork in his direction. “You love them. The fives and twenties and the profit margins, overheads, the trading fees and tax-free fuckwhats.”

“I love little more than a tax-free fuckwhat.”

“How does anybody keep track of money anyway, when it’s zinging around all over the place? This guy puts it here for five minutes into pork asses, then whap! he kicks the asses and slaps it into gizmos, then shuffles some of that into peanut brittle.”

“It’s never wise to put all your eggs into one pork’s ass.”

“Whatever.” She had to struggle back a yawn. “Those accountant guys rake it in and spread it around.”

“Money’s a bit like manure. You can’t get anything to grow if you don’t spread it around.”

“I couldn’t find anything off, but then I think my brain fried in hour two. Lifestyles jibe with the incomes, incomes jibe with the business fees and profits, investments and blah-de-blah. If any of them are pulling some in on the side, they’ve got it buried.”

“I’ll see if I can scrape off any of the dirt there. Meanwhile, I’ve got a couple of clients that have shown fairly consistent upswings and profits over the last two years. Could be good management,” he added as he ate. “Good luck. Or good information.”

“With New York branches?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Gives me someone to harass and intimidate. Makes up for the long night with numbers.” She ate with more enthusiasm. “Roarke. Say you were doing something off the books, under the table, or in the gray area of law and ethics.”

“Me?” He gave a good imitation of insulted shock. “What a thing to imply.”

“Yeah, right. But if you were, and one of your employees tapped in. How would you handle it?”

“Denial. Complete and utter denial, and while I was denying, I’d be busy covering up anything potentially damaging, crunching numbers, altering data. Depending on how matters shook out, I’d give the employee a raise or transfer them.”

“In other words, there are lots of ways around this, if it’s a money deal. Killing two people is extreme, brings more heat. Now you’ve got cops digging.”

“A strong and foolish reaction, yes. Someone took it personally, when it’s simply business.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

Since it was something she wanted to run past Mira, Eve copied the files to the profiler’s office unit, and contacted Mira’s obsessively protective admin for an appointment.

On the way downtown, an ad blimp cruised overhead blasting the news of an INVENTORY BLOWOUT! and a RED DOT EXTRAVAGANZA! at Aladdin’s Cave at Union Square.

She wondered about people who got juiced up about blowouts and extravaganzas at places called Aladdin’s Cave. What were they after, cut-rate lamps with genies? Overstocked flying carpets?

It was too early for bargain hunters or for any but the most determined tourists. New Yorkers clipped along the sidewalks, heading to or from work, to breakfast meetings. By-the-day domestics huddled in the chill waiting for their buses to rumble up to take them to the apartments or townhouses they’d spend their days cleaning.

More, she knew, would be jammed under the streets, zoning while the subway thundered along the rails.

On corners, glide-cart operators were set up to hawk their hideous excuse for coffee and tooth-chipping bagels to the early commuters. Steam poured off the grills to accommodate those hungry enough or just crazy enough to eat the fake egg pouches the carts fried up.

A few enterprising street hawkers were spreading their designer rip-offs and gray market wares on tables and blankets. Scarves and hats and gloves would be the hot sellers, she thought, on a day with the bitter wind cutting at the bone, and the sky just waiting to dump snow.

Which it did, along with nasty little bits of ice, minutes before she turned into the garage at Central.

In her office, she got another cup of coffee, put her feet up on her desk, and stared at the murder board.

Personal, she thought again.

Jake Sloan had personal relationships with both vics.