Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) by Lisa Fernow

laptop, Jackson had dispatched a midmorning cinnamon roll popover and was halfway to pounding down a “moosed” caramel cooler with whipped cream. Eating like he still played football—no wonder the guy struggled to stay in shape.
    Jackson pulled out a sheet of paper and consulted it. “In Buenos Aires there were thirteen individuals and seventeen companies on the antique store contact list and a bunch of restaurants and bars, at least I think that’s what most of them are. When I compared these numbers with calls Rothenberg made I got four matches; one to a guy named Eduardo Sanchez Jar – oh shit, what’s this name, J-A-U-R-Y, and three to antiques dealers. All in—,” he balked again, “San Telmo. Is that a neighborhood?”
    “Sounds like.” Morrow scrolled through his e-mails to see if the tox results had come through yet, half hoping they hadn’t.
    “What do you expect Guest was up to in Buenos Aires before? And what’s he doing going there again?”
    “You tell me.”
    “Drug dealing? He could be bringing cocaine to Ms. Blakeley’s class and selling it there. Anyone can take a dance lesson.” Jackson’s face brightened. “Miss Muir works for an airline; think she could be sneaking stuff out of Argentina for her fiancé?”
    “Not unless the ground crew was in on it. The flight attendants go through security with everyone else.”
    “How about prostitution?”
    Morrow laughed. “I like your drug idea better.” He found one of the e-mails he had been waiting for, a response to his inquiry into Rothenberg’s finances. “Looks like Miles Rothenberg made a substantial withdrawal from one of his business bank accounts the day he died. Wired two million, seven hundred ninety-five thousand dollars to the Argentine Central Bank. They don’t know where it went after that, yet.”
    Jackson said, “I thought you couldn’t wire money without knowing who’s who on the other end.”
    “Branch manager is out sick, apparently. They’re talking to him tomorrow.”
    “Do you think Guest knows about the transfer?”
    “He ought to. According to this, one of the tellers remembers he came in to make a deposit late on Friday.”
    Jackson said, “So Guest could have known the money was gone but not where it went.”
    Guest didn’t seem worried last night, Morrow thought. In fact, he acted like a man who’d just beat a rap. “Why do you think Guest didn’t say anything about this when I interviewed him at the dance studio?”
    “He might have thought Rothenberg was doing some sort of business deal for the company. For all we know, maybe he was.”
    While Morrow stared at the screen a new e-mail popped up. Tox screen results were in. He opened the e-mail and scanned the report. “Rothenberg had wine in his system but nothing else. Death’s an accident. I’ll notify Lauren Weiss Rothenberg.”
    Jackson said, “So that’s it. It’s Fraud’s case now.”
    Morrow held his fire. Jackson was new. He still took the rules literally.
    ***
    Morrow spent the rest of the day on the phone to Latin America. He saved the call to Horatio Ruiz of the Policía Federal Argentina for last. Ruiz was one of the good guys. It had been six years since their last contact so when Morrow called he wasn’t sure whether Ruiz would remember him.
    To Morrow’s pleasant surprise, Ruiz did.
    “The man who never quits. They’re still talking about you here. ¿Qué tal? ”
    They shot the shit for a few minutes. When Ruiz began to reminisce about how Morrow had helped him track down and ship a reluctant government witness back to Argentina by tricking him into thinking his rich mother was about to elope with a gigolo, Morrow sensed it was time to get down to business. “I need to find an Argentine national named Jaury. Eduardo Sanchez Jaury. I’ve called the number we have for him but there’s no answer. Looked in the online paginas blancas and there’s no other number or address.”
    “Did you look under