Page 21 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

“Rowdy O’Leary is deceased,” she says. “His badly decomposed body was recovered today from the Potomac River at twelve-fifteen p.m. It had been carried by the current nine miles downstream and was discovered by someone walking his dog. The body was halfway submerged, caught in rocks and debris.”

“Yes, we know,” Benton answers.

“His software design company is a shell,” Janet goes on. “Since he was struck by a car while jogging, he has conducted no business despite what he told people, most of all his family. From time to time, he’s indicated in text messages to his wife that he’s busy consulting. This wasn’t true.”

Janet has just hacked into Rowdy O’Leary’s phone. Or Reba’s. Maybe both.

“For the past six years he’s reported zero income on his tax returns while receiving payments of ninety thousand dollars annually,” Janet informs us. “He owes three times that on credit cards and loans from the bank.”

“If he wasn’t doing consulting, how was he earning ninety grand a year?” Benton asks her.

“There is no indication that he earned it, no evidence of a work product in any of his electronic communications. The money was wired to him in three separate transactions at the same time of year. February, July, and December. Always the tenth day of the month, the amounts identical.”

Clearly, she’s hacked into Rowdy’s email and bank accounts.

“Any idea who was paying him?” Benton asks.

“The wires to his bank were from an account in the Cayman Islands.”

“Can you trace it?” Benton looks at me, and we’re thinking the same thing.

Whatever Rowdy was being compensated for wasn’t legitimate.

“The account wiring the money belongs to West Bay Software Solutions, which doesn’t exist,” Janet says. “As you’re aware, the Caymans are a haven for money laundering and other financial crimes.”

“Was he receiving these payments prior to the hit-and-run?” I ask.

“They started two months after he was struck by a car six years ago on the night of December thirtieth,” Janet informs us.

“Who was paying him. And for what?” Benton asks.

“I don’t have that information. I’m very sorry, Benton. There’s no mention of these payments in any online data. There is nothing in Rowdy O’Leary’s legal records at Constable, Birch and Goldberg,” she explains, and it would seem she’s now hacked into a law firm.

“I wonder if his wife knew about these payments?” I ask.

“Text messages to her indicate she assumed any money her husband had was from consulting fees or gambling. I find nothing to make me think she was aware of wires from the Cayman Islands, the most recent one two weeks ago.”

“Most likely where he got the cash to buy an expensive emerald ring,” I suspect.

“He made ATM withdrawals totaling three thousand dollars after receiving the wire,” she says.

“Thank you, Janet. I need nothing further,” Benton tells her.

“It was so nice talking to both of you,” she replies with a touch of emotion that’s just like her. “I’m sorry Lucy isn’t with you tonight. I know she can be melancholy at Christmas, and I do what I can to comfort her.”

“Unfortunately, she’s stuck in Quantico,” I reply, but Janet knows that.

“I’ve been talking to Dorothy this evening, at least I was before Marino got home,” the avatar goes on in a tone that portends trouble. “I didn’t mean to cause them to squabble. Does Benton know what Marino got you for Christmas, Kay…?”

Before I can answer, Benton closes the app, placing his tablet facedown on the table. It’s the same thing he always does when Janet starts violating our personal airspace.

“What is she talking about?” He looks at me.

I tell him about the awaiting spa package at our London hotel.

“Ouch,” he says.

“Ouch is right. You can imagine Dorothy’s reaction when Janet made a big thing about how personal the gift was,” I explain, carrying our empty dishes to the sink.

“I can imagine all too well.” Benton refills our wineglasses.

“It sounds like Rowdy O’Leary was involved in something beyond his control.” I scrape plates into the sink disposal.

“That might explain why he’d gotten increasingly paranoid.” Benton carries in our wine, setting my glass on the counter. “He might have had reason to be. By all indications, someone started paying him off after he was hit by the car.”

“Paying him off for what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ninety K a year is quite a tidy payoff.” I turn on the hot water in the sink, handing Benton a dish towel.

“Someone might have been giving him hush money,” he suggests. “If so, there’s a reason the hit-and-run was never solved. It’s not supposed to be.”

“Maybe it relates to the government somehow? Maybe he was targeted? Deliberately taken out?”

“Wouldn’t make sense.” He begins drying as I wash. “If the government needed him neutralized for some reason, he wouldn’t have been left alive to collect payments.”

“I hope you can get your hands on the records and backup drives in his office safe before someone else does,” I reply. “Seems the Secret Service, the FBI might want to know what’s there. Especially if there could be a nefarious government connection. Or even money laundering or fraud.”

“I’m going to make sure that happens,” Benton says. “Contacting Lucy as we speak.”

Using the secure messaging app on his phone, he sends a text to her while I send one to Fabian about the injured raccoon. Maybe he can swing by when able and help catch the poor thing so we can get it to a wild animal rehab center. He answers right away with emojis of a thumbs-up and a stethoscope.

“Rowdy O’Leary’s safe will be handled,” Benton tells me, and I don’t want to know the details.

“Is she all right?” I ask about Lucy.

“She wishes she were here,” he says.

We leave the kitchen, thunder rumbling, the snow turning to a rainy sleet that smacks against the side of the house.

“She’s with Tron,” Benton says.

Sierra “Tron” Patron is Lucy’s FBI investigative partner. She’s also a friend of the family, and I’m glad they’re together right now.

“It’s a shame they have to be in a dorm on Christmas Eve, but at least they’re together,” I reply as we head back through the house. “What was for dinner?”

He says they had cheeseburgers and beer in the FBI Academy’s Boardroom, and I remember the times Lucy and I were there together. I turn off the Christmas tree lights, ignoring the plastic Santa hailing us.

“… MERRY CHRISTMAS…! HO! HO! HO…!”

Inside the bedroom, the fire I built earlier is a pile of white ashes over coals glowing orange. Small flames jump as I add more fatwood and another log. It’s a few minutes past midnight when Benton and I slip under the covers.

“Merry Christmas, Kay,” he says. “I could give you one of your presents now if you’d like?”

“Depends on what present you’re talking about.” I move closer, feeling him in firelight.

“I think you know.” He begins unbuttoning my pajamas.