Page 147 of Bonded in Death

“He likes complications, and has some skill. Some records simply don’t exist any longer from that period, as war will make things sketchy. But those that do? Two accounts under his name so far. Moderate, in the range you’d expect. A third, and very well buried, under—you’ll like this—Feeding Frenzy Productions.”

“Sharks.”

“Exactly. While the records are full of gaps, what I did find was considerably more than moderate. Its value today? Round and about twelve million.”

“A hell of a lot more than he’d make in the military or working for the cops.”

“It is, yes. Gaps, as I said, months when no records exist, but I did find those that included five- and six-figure deposits. Then, nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing?”

“No account. Closed. Gone. No record of withdrawal or transfer, which may fall into one of those gaps. I tried another tack, picking backfrom Pierce’s account. Complications. Whatever Potter lacks, he has excellent skills in hiding funds, no doubt laundering it, creating identities, backgrounds, mixing the bogus with the genuine.”

“Tell me you’re better.”

“Well now, false modesty’s so tedious, isn’t it?” He smiled, tapped a finger to the shallow dent in her chin. “It took some work, but Pierce’s payoff came from a numbered account, which bounced through two others before it landed.”

“Did you get a name, any kind of contact?”

“Bogus again, but with some persistence, I tracked one of those accounts back to Feeding Frenzy Productions. And in backtracking, circling, persisting, I found yet one more account. The name on that—tucked into the Caymans—matches the name he gave the Realtor today.”

“Which is bogus.”

“It is, yes. But I can tell you Potter came out of prison, after the payoff, with twenty-eight million and change, and whatever cash he might have secreted away. Those accounts have been active all this time, so growing.”

“He’d have been stealing and taking payoffs for years. Probably before the Urbans.”

“Very likely. I have the names for you, the addresses and contacts given. None are in New York, but may, with persistence, give you more. The accounts themselves, beginning five years ago, have records of withdrawals and transfers.”

Shifting around her, he programmed more coffee for both of them.

“I suspect he paid the cosmetic surgeon in cash. He transferred a million to an account in Bath—that’s England—under a week after his escape. Zeroed it out only days later.”

“Got the face work, paid, took the rest in cash for himself.”

“Another transfer within the month. He bought a flat in Paris. My analysis says he used primarily cash for expenses, one or two small withdrawals, and lived there about two years. Sold the flat—made a tidy profit there. I imagine he used that profit, and another transfer, for the villa on the French Riviera. Saint-Tropez. Which he sold, again at a profit, eighteen months ago.”

“That’s a trail. Those are dots to connect.”

“They are, yes. But from that point, complications I haven’t yet unraveled. He zeroed out two of the accounts, hasn’t touched the third I found. And wherever he put those funds I’ve yet to find.”

“Cash? How much would he have?”

“Not counting the six million or so in the untouched account, taking out the smuggler’s as well as what he laid out the last few years? Maybe eighteen. Possibly twenty.”

“Million. But he didn’t pay cash for the place here.”

“Highly unlikely. Even if he’s renting it… and previous pattern is buying. If it is a house, as you believe, one with a garage.”

“With top-of-the-line security, in a good neighborhood, upscale. Nothing that needed repairs—he’s not having a crew in there.”

“If it’s a purchase?” Roarke shrugged. “Depending on the square footage and a myriad of other factors? Three million to easily five times that.”

“Not the low or high end. Double, maybe triple the three. And he had to buy a car, droids, furniture.”

She pushed up to pace. “From Manchester to the Bath place, to Paris, to the Riviera, to Calais, to Maine, and finally to New York. That’s a goddamn solid trail, with a timeline, and we’ll find something on it.”

She turned back to him. “You’re way ahead of Interpol.”

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