Connections in Death (In Death, #48)- J. D. Robb Page 0,64
Marcus Jones?” Eve asked.
“Through a client.”
“That would be former client seeing as you’ve been disbarred.”
In his eyes came a quick, keen rage. “That’s neither here nor there, and is something I intend to rectify. My relationship with Jones is strictly business. I learned he had an interest in purchasing the property downtown, and as I was looking for an investment, we formed the partnership. There’s nothing more to it.”
“You were aware of his criminal history and gang affiliation?”
“Neither here nor there,” he repeated with another flick of his hand. “Strictly business.”
“It’s both here and there that Jones gets his money to invest with you through criminal activities.”
“Then prove same and arrest him.”
“When did you last see or speak with Mr. Jones?”
“We have no need to communicate unless it concerns one of the properties.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He aimed a stony stare at the wall. “I can’t recall.”
“You can’t recall the last time you saw or spoke to a business partner with whom you own several millions dollars of real estate?”
“Millions,” Eldena breathed out.
“That’s on paper, sweetie. You don’t understand how business works. I know nothing about Mr. Jones’s personal life, and since I can’t help you with your investigation, I have nothing more to say.”
“Try this. Where you were last night between six and ten P.M.?”
“This is outrageous! And I was home, with Eldena.”
“He was from six to at least eight,” Eldena confirmed. “I left about eight—to work for a living. But he was here at least until then.”
“What time did you get back home, Ms. Vinn?”
“About three. Sam was in bed, as usual, when I got home after I spent hours naked or getting naked, and giving lap dances to assholes because I get a percentage of the fee.”
“That’s all going to be over soon,” Cohen began.
“Too bad for you.” Eve decided to twist the knife. “Since you and Jones, and apparently Ms. Vinn, own the club where she works.”
“You—” Eldena lost her breath, pushed the heel of her hand up her chest as if to find it. “How could you? How could you do that.”
“I’ll explain it all, I’ll explain.”
“So you have no alibi between the hours of eight P.M. and three A.M.?” Eve interrupted.
Cohen sent Eve a disgusted look, or tried, as panic jittered in his eyes. “I was home, and have no need for an alibi.”
“Think again,” she advised.
“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Roarke said conversationally. “That someone with a legal background, however nefarious, would enter into multiple partnerships with someone they claim to know little to nothing about? It would make that person either a fool or a liar.”
“Could be both,” Eve added.
“It could, yes. Plus, one more. This person may also have a financial interest in the partner’s—also nefarious—other business ventures. Of the illegal sort.”
“This interview is over.” Cohen surged to his feet. “If you want to speak to me again, it’ll be through my lawyer.”
“You can count on it.” Eve rose, dug out a card, handed it to Eldena. “If you think of anything more, you can contact me.”
“Thank you. I’ll walk you to the door.”
“There’s no need to—”
Eldena rounded on Cohen. “Now you be quiet.”
When she opened the door, Roarke touched a hand to her arm. “The lieutenant likely feels unable to give you any advice at this time. I’m not as hampered. You should get your own lawyer. A good one.”
“Thank you. You can count on it.”
As they walked away, Eve glanced over at Roarke. “That last bit—to him, not her? Good timing on that. And nice, what is it, derision.”
“Heart felt.” He paused by the car. “You know how you often say, after I’ve done a bit of something, that you owe me one.”
“Yeah.”
“I’d like to collect.”
“How exactly?”
“You need to let me dig into this bloody bloke, and bury him once I have. He’ll have more tucked away here and there, and possibly some of that will help your case. Regardless, I want to dig and deep. I shouldn’t need the unregistered, but if I do, I do. That’s the payment.”
“If you need the unregistered, tell me. If you get anything there that does play into the investigation, I need to know how to deal with it.”
“Agreed. You drive. I’m going to get started.”
Since he pulled out his PPC as soon as he got into the car, she gave him quiet to work. She had plenty to think about.
She had no doubt Cohen was as dirty as they came—a liar, a cheat, very likely into some fraud, tax evasion. It wouldn’t surprise