Pain Management

“Nothing even close. But he did have a number of images downloaded. Always of men . . . restrained in some form or fashion.”

“You think he’s gay?”

“No. A trace-back showed that he got the images from dominatrix sites. As I said, very light. If he wanted heavier, it’s out there. And if he got as far as he did, he could have gone the rest of the way.”

“Is that the only thing he browsed for?”

“Oh no. It wasn’t even the majority, not by a long shot. He was very interested in politics and crime, especially where they intersected.”

“Yeah, he’s a major-league lefty, I know,” I said, thinking of the Geronimo Pratt book he’d marked up so much.

“It would seem so.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“Not about . . . that. As I said, Mr. Carpin was something of a slob with his computer. So, if there was anything . . . bizarre about his tastes, I believe the trail would still be there.”

“Maybe he had more than one computer. Or he’s smarter than you’re giving him credit for.”

“I don’t think either one,” she said, holding up a thick stack of paper. “Because his banking records are all here.”

“Damn! You sure?”

“I cannot be certain he does not have other banking records,” she said tartly. “But his personal checking account, his savings account, his 401(k)—it is all here.”

“Did he—?”

“He paid all his bills by personal check, as near as I can determine,” she interrupted, reading my mind. “I have spent several days going over them. Here, take a look.”

I got up, moved to where she was sitting, her body covered in paper from the waist down.

“You said there was a phone in his office . . . ?” she asked.

“Yeah. Real fancy one, too. Top-of-the-line. And a lot of recording equipment connected to it, too.”

“But there is no bill for it,” she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“How do you know that?”

“Because he logs all his bills. He uses one of the accounting programs that come pre-loaded on many computers. There are four telephone lines—that is, lines with individual numbers—coming into his house. Each with numerous extensions. But the line in his office has no extensions. What you saw was the only connection. And Qwest bills him only for three of the numbers.”

“Maybe he’s got a different carrier for—”

“Not unless he is paying that bill in cash,” she said. “And, given the way he conducts his affairs, that seems highly unlikely.”

“But . . . wait a minute, Gem. His little accounting program wouldn’t show bills he’s not paying, right?”

“This is true.”

“So how do you know how many lines go into—?”

“My friend has access to more than just this man’s computer.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. But that is not what I found to be most interesting. Look at these figures,” she said, pointing with a French-tipped nail.

“What does that mean?” I asked, looking at a piece of paper with .10⁶ written at the top.

“It’s just shorthand for more than a million,” she said, impatiently. “But it is not the totals that are important. Look: see where he shows deposits. . . .”

What I saw was a long string of numbers, none less than five grand, a lot of them in the mid-five- figures.

“So?”

“So, first of all, these deposits are separate from his paycheck at the architectural firm. I don’t mean they are deposited separately—he seems to habitually commingle all his deposits without the slightest concern—I mean they represent an entirely different source of income.”

“Maybe he was consulting out. Or even working a few jobs off the books.”

“This would be some consulting job, Burke. The income stream goes back at least twenty years.”

“Christ. Who was writing the checks?”

“The checks?”

“The ones he deposited.”

“I don’t think I’ve been clear enough yet.” She chuckled. “A number of the checks are drawn on fictitious corporations—”

“Your computer pal again?”

“Yes,” she acknowledged, then went on as if I hadn’t spoken, “but the majority of the deposits were in cash.”

“Even the ones . . . ?”

“Over ten thousand dollars, yes.”

“Son of a bitch,” I said.

“It’s not possible he’s that fucking stupid,” I told Gem later. “Even a low-grade moron knows IRS would be on him like Jesse Jackson on a photo op with those kind of money drops. The banks have to report every single one. Unless he’s—”

“Everything’s with a local bank. Same branch for years. If he’s got an offshore account, it’s not on the computer you . . . looked at.”

“Why didn’t he just break them up?” I said, half aloud. “Anything under ten large, the banks don’t have to notify the federales.”

“Seemingly he did not care,” Gem said. “Most of the money came right out again.”

“For what?”

“For . . . everything. He has over a dozen mutual-fund accounts. He owns about half a million dollars’ worth of Oregon municipal bonds. His personal car apparently requires specialized upkeep, quite frequently. His wife’s vehicle is brand-new, purchased outright. And she has had very extensive plastic surgery, on several occasions. There is no mortgage on his home. On vacations, they travel first-class. In summary, his entire family lives well beyond the means of his salary.”

“So that’s another way they’d know.”

“Who do you mean?”

“IRS. Even without the cash deposits, he has to declare the income from the mutual funds. Hell, they declare it for him. Nobody’s that nuts.”

“Burke. Burke!”

“What?” I asked, shaking my head to clear it.

“You’ve been . . . that place you go . . . for a long time. Almost three hours. I cannot watch you any longer.”

“Was I—?”

“You weren’t doing anything,” she said, anger clear in her voice. “But I was afraid you’d . . . fall or something. And hurt yourself. I have been sitting here, watching you. But I am so tired, I am afraid I would fall asleep myself and you would . . . I don’t know . . .”

“I’m okay, Gem. Go to sleep.”

“Are you very tired yourself?”

“I . . . don’t think so. Not now.”

“Then would you carry me?” she said, soft-voiced.

In my life, I’ve slept next to a lot of women who’d been through hardcore trauma when they were kids. Some of them when I was just a kid myself—when you’re on the run, you look for the closest thing to a litter you can find. And I had sex with some of those women, but that isn’t what I’m talking about. One thing you get used to, sleeping with a woman who’s been through a lot, is how they startle so easy. The ones who don’t dope