Born In Death

9

IN THE MORNING WITH A SKY THAT LOOKED LIKE soured milk, Eve sat bleary-eyed over her second cup of coffee. It wasn’t the hours, she thought. It was the figures.

Roarke plopped an omelette down in front of her. “You need it.”

She glanced at it, then looked over at him as he sat. “Are my eyes bleeding? They feel like they’re bleeding.”

“Not so far.”

“I don’t know how you do it, day after day.” She made the mistake of looking toward the wall screen where he had the morning stock reports running. And slapped a hand over her aching eyes. “Have mercy.”

He chuckled, but switched to the morning media. “Had enough of numbers, darling?”

“I saw them in my sleep. Dancing. Some were singing. I think some might have had teeth. I’d rather lie bare-assed naked on the sidewalk and be trampled by tourists from South Dakota than be an accountant. And you.” She stabbed her fork in his direction. “You love them. The fives and twenties and the profit margins, overheads, the trading fees and tax-free fuckwhats.”

“I love little more than a tax-free fuckwhat.”

“How does anybody keep track of money anyway, when it’s zinging around all over the place? This guy puts it here for five minutes into pork asses, then whap! he kicks the asses and slaps it into gizmos, then shuffles some of that into peanut brittle.”

“It’s never wise to put all your eggs into one pork’s ass.”

“Whatever.” She had to struggle back a yawn. “Those accountant guys rake it in and spread it around.”

“Money’s a bit like manure. You can’t get anything to grow if you don’t spread it around.”

“I couldn’t find anything off, but then I think my brain fried in hour two. Lifestyles jibe with the incomes, incomes jibe with the business fees and profits, investments and blah-de-blah. If any of them are pulling some in on the side, they’ve got it buried.”

“I’ll see if I can scrape off any of the dirt there. Meanwhile, I’ve got a couple of clients that have shown fairly consistent upswings and profits over the last two years. Could be good management,” he added as he ate. “Good luck. Or good information.”

“With New York branches?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Gives me someone to harass and intimidate. Makes up for the long night with numbers.” She ate with more enthusiasm. “Roarke. Say you were doing something off the books, under the table, or in the gray area of law and ethics.”

“Me?” He gave a good imitation of insulted shock. “What a thing to imply.”

“Yeah, right. But if you were, and one of your employees tapped in. How would you handle it?”

“Denial. Complete and utter denial, and while I was denying, I’d be busy covering up anything potentially damaging, crunching numbers, altering data. Depending on how matters shook out, I’d give the employee a raise or transfer them.”

“In other words, there are lots of ways around this, if it’s a money deal. Killing two people is extreme, brings more heat. Now you’ve got cops digging.”

“A strong and foolish reaction, yes. Someone took it personally, when it’s simply business.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

Since it was something she wanted to run past Mira, Eve copied the files to the profiler’s office unit, and contacted Mira’s obsessively protective admin for an appointment.

On the way downtown, an ad blimp cruised overhead blasting the news of an INVENTORY BLOWOUT! and a RED DOT EXTRAVAGANZA! at Aladdin’s Cave at Union Square.

She wondered about people who got juiced up about blowouts and extravaganzas at places called Aladdin’s Cave. What were they after, cut-rate lamps with genies? Overstocked flying carpets?

It was too early for bargain hunters or for any but the most determined tourists. New Yorkers clipped along the sidewalks, heading to or from work, to breakfast meetings. By-the-day domestics huddled in the chill waiting for their buses to rumble up to take them to the apartments or townhouses they’d spend their days cleaning.

More, she knew, would be jammed under the streets, zoning while the subway thundered along the rails.

On corners, glide-cart operators were set up to hawk their hideous excuse for coffee and tooth-chipping bagels to the early commuters. Steam poured off the grills to accommodate those hungry enough or just crazy enough to eat the fake egg pouches the carts fried up.

A few enterprising street hawkers were spreading their designer rip-offs and gray market wares on tables and blankets. Scarves and hats and gloves would be the hot sellers, she thought, on a day with the bitter wind cutting at the bone, and the sky just waiting to dump snow.

Which it did, along with nasty little bits of ice, minutes before she turned into the garage at Central.

In her office, she got another cup of coffee, put her feet up on her desk, and stared at the murder board.

Personal, she thought again.

Jake Sloan had personal relationships with both vics.

Lilah Grove attempted to develop one with the male vic.

Cara Greene, first vic’s department head, purportedly had friendly personal relationship with both vics.

All three generations of Sloans had a personal interest in Copperfield.

And all of the above had considerable investment in the firm, its success, and its reputation.

Eve angled her head, shifted her thoughts. So what connection within the firm do or did any or all of those people have?

She plugged in the data Roarke had given her and began to look for one.

While she was working, Roarke was walking into Commander Whitney’s office. Whitney rose, offered a hand.

“I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice,” Roarke began.

“It’s not a problem. Can I offer you coffee?”

“No. I won’t keep you long.” Roarke opened his briefcase, took out a file. He’d kept his lawyers busy through the night. “I understand there’s some concern regarding the Copperfield/Byson investigation, and the ethics of my relationship with the primary.”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“All right. What you have there,” Roarke continued in the same cool tones, “is a document my attorneys have drafted that binds me from utilizing any of the data I may come across through the primary in the course of her investigation.”

Whitney flicked a glance down at the file, then shifted his eyes back to Roarke’s. “I see.”

“It also stipulates that should I be given access to any of that data, I’ll be given it blind. Figures only, without names or organizations. The document is quite detailed, and the penalties, should I break any of the stipulations therein, are quite stiff. Naturally, you’ll want your legal department to vet it, and should there be any changes or additions requested, those changes and/or additions can be discussed with my legal reps until the document suits all parties.”

“I’ll see that it’s done.”

“All right, then.” Roarke got to his feet. “Of course, legalities and documents don’t take into account the fact I may lie and cheat my way around the stipulations, and use my wife and two brutally murdered people for my own financial gain. But I would hope this department, and this office, understands – clearly understands – the primary in this investigation would never allow it.”

Roarke waited a beat. “I’d like to hear you say you don’t question the lieutenant’s integrity. In fact, I bloody well insist on it.”

“Lieutenant Dallas’s integrity is not at issue for me. And is not in question.”

“Just mine, then?”

“Officially, this department and this office must insure the privacy of the citizens of New York – that information generated or uncovered during the course of an investigation is not utilized for harm, for personal gain, or in any illegal capacity.”

“I thought you knew me better than that,” Roarke shot back, barely able to hold on to the slippery edge of his fury. “At least well enough to be sure I’d do nothing to reflect poorly on my wife, to put her reputation or her career on the line.”

“I do.” Whitney nodded. “I know you well enough to be absolutely sure of that. So, unofficially, all this is bullshit.” Whitney flicked his fingers at the file sharply enough to scoot it over the surface of his desk. “Bureaucratic, political, ass-kissing bullshit that infuriates me nearly as much as you. I can offer you my personal apology for it.”

“You should have offered her one.”

Now Whitney raised his brows. “Lieutenant Dallas isn’t a civilian, and is under my command. She knows the departmental line. I don’t apologize for informing a subordinate of a potential problem within an investigation. Nor would she, I expect, in my place.”

“She intends to bring me in, officially as expert consultant, civilian.”

“She would, wouldn’t she?” Whitney sat back, frowned. “Thumb her nose at anyone who’d question her integrity or yours. Still…” Now he tapped his fingers, thinking it through. “That would also put you under the department’s aegis throughout the investigation, which goes some way of covering us. And your document, which I’d assume is as complicated as it is detailed, should take care of the rest.

“Some media spinning if we need it.”

“That can be handled,” Roarke told him.

“I’ve no doubt about it. I’ll have this vetted by Legal, and run it through with Chief Tibble.”

“Then I’ll let you get to it.”

Whitney rose. “When you speak to the lieutenant, tell her I have every confidence this case will be closed in a timely fashion.”

And that, Roarke thought, was as close to an apology as Eve would get. “I’ll do that.”

When Peabody poked her head into Eve’s office, Eve was pinning names to the back side of her board. “Baxter and I have been through the lot,” she told Eve. “Nothing pops out of line, and Copperfield and Byson didn’t share any clients.”

“You gotta go under it,” Eve said half to herself. “Forget the numbers for now, look at names. Look at people. Numbers make you crazy anyway.”

“I kind of like them.” Peabody moved in, squeezing around the desk to view the back of the board.

“You got your big three,” Eve began, and tapped names. “Sloan, Myers, Kraus. Under Sloan you’ve got the son, then the grandson. Connect Copperfield to Jake Sloan, putting them both under Cara Greene. Under Copperfield, you’ve got the assistant, Sarajane Bloomdale. Rochelle DeLay connects to Jake Sloan, to Copperfield, and also to Byson, who comes over here, under the big three, and under Myra Lovitz, with another connect to Lilah Grove.”

“You need a bigger board.”

“Maybe. Then you’ve got your alibis. Myers and Kraus with clients.”

“And all checked out,” Peabody added.

“Jacob Sloan’s got his grandkid and the girlfriend, his wife. Doubling that back as Sloan alibiing the grandson. Handy.”

“Yet feasible.”

“Randall Sloan has clients covering his ass for the time in question.”

“Also checked. And none of the alibis were Copperfield’s clients.”

“Nope. However, the Bullock Foundation is represented in the legal world by Stuben, Robbins, Cavendish, and Mull, who were Copperfield’s. And one of the accounts – according to Greene when I contacted her this morning – Copperfield copped within the last year.”

“Aha!” Peabody hunched her shoulders at Eve’s beady stare. “I just wanted to say it.”

“The British law firm has a New York branch, which is also handy. Byson connects there, as he represented the number crunching for Lordes Cavendish McDermott – ”

“Sounds like an opera singer.”

“Socialite and widow of Miles McDermott, really rich dude. Meanwhile, other under-the-surface connections. Randall Sloan is alibied by Sasha Zinka and Lola Warfield. Zinka has a sister living in Prague, who, along with two partners, owns and runs a five-diamond hotel. And whose number crunching is done by…”

“Sloan, Myers, and Kraus. I did Copperfield’s. I don’t remember a Zinka. It would’ve clicked.”

“Sister’s name is Kerlinko, Anna. And the hotel group was Copperfield’s. Also copped within this last year.”

“Either a lot of coincidence or a lot of connections.”

“I like connections. Pull the data on these companies, and the New York-based staff for now. I’ve got a quick consult with Mira, then we’re in the field.”

Heading out, Eve stopped to scowl at a vending machine. She and Vending currently had a cold war in progress. But she wanted a damn Pepsi. In fact, if she took a tube with her to Mira’s, the doctor wouldn’t insist on pushing into her hands that flower tea she always brewed.

Eve jingled the loose credits in her pockets. She wasn’t going to just key in her code. That wasn’t just asking for trouble, it was begging for it.

She took out the credits she needed, was about to risk the annoyance and disappointment by plugging them in herself, when a couple of uniforms came her way, quick-stepping a skinny guy in restraints between them.

The skinny guy was squawking like a parrot on Zeus about harassment, constitutional rights, and someone named Shirley.

“Hey.” She held up a hand, then held out the credits. With her free hand she stabbed a finger at the parrot. “You. Zip it.”

Even with the illegals in his system whirling his eyes around in his head, the mope must have caught the tone of her voice. He went down to whimpers.

“Use this, gimme Pepsi.”

“Sure, Lieutenant.”

Because the uniform didn’t blink at the request, Eve assumed her cold war was known throughout the department.

“What he do?” she asked with a nod toward the now sniveling parrot.

“Pushed a woman down a couple flights of stairs at his flop. She didn’t bounce.”

“Slipped. She slipped. I wasn’t even there. I hardly knew her. Cops tossed me down on the street. I’m gonna sue.”

“Three eyewits,” the uniform said dryly as he handed Eve her tube. “Fled the scene. Took a little spill during pursuit.”

“Who’s got it?”

“ Carmichael ’s primary.”

Satisfied Eve nodded. “Thanks.”

The squawking renewed as she walked off to take the glides to Mira’s sector.

She supposed Mira’s area would be considered more civilized than hers. You weren’t likely to see junked-up suspects being hauled around. Here there was quiet, easy colors, and a lot of closed doors.

Mira’s was open, and the admin guarding the perimeter looked relaxed, so Eve decided she wasn’t going to have to do a dance to gain admission.

Mira spotted her from her desk. “Eve. Come right in. I’m just finishing up some paperwork.”

“Appreciate the time.”

“I have a little to spare today.”

As always, Mira looked perfectly put together without being obvious about it. She was letting her sable-colored hair grow some so that it waved softly to the nape of her neck. Her suit was a monochromatic three-piece in a rich, plummy tone worn with sparkling silver chains and little glittery hoops in her ears.

She smiled easily, a lovely face with soft blue eyes Eve knew could see right through the skull into whatever secrets the brain might hold.

“Did you get a chance to look at the reports?”

“I did. Have a seat. It’s a shame, isn’t it, all that youth and optimism cut off so abruptly.” She sat back. “Their lives were just beginning, really.”

“Now they’re over,” Eve said flatly. “Why?”

“Why is rarely straightforward, is it? On the profile,” she said in brisk, professional tones, “I agree, as you’d expect, with your conclusions and the ME’s, that you’re looking for one killer. Most likely male, between thirty-five and sixty-five. He isn’t impulsive, and wasn’t looking for thrills. He didn’t rape either victim because it wasn’t part of the business at hand. And, very likely, he doesn’t equate sex with power and control. He may be in a sexual relationship where he is accustomed to being subservient.”

“Rape takes time,” Eve added. “He had a schedule to keep, and priorities.”

“Agreed. But rape, or the threat of it, is often used in torture killings, as is mutilation. No sexual assault, no mutilation, no serious vandalism. He came prepared, and with a purpose. He fulfilled it, using brute force and physical – very likely emotional – torture.”

Mira spread the crime scene photos out on her desk.

“Binding the victims put them under his control, kept them helpless. Removing the tape from both victims’ mouths tells me he wanted, or needed, to see their faces. The whole of their faces as he strangled them.”

“Pride in his work.”

“Yes. A job fulfilled, and the acknowledgment of his power and his control. As he was able to overcome a man of Byson’s years and physical build, he’s likely in good physical condition himself. Utilizing weapons on scene – the robe tie, the binding cord – shows presence of mind and clear thinking. The lack of any DNA on the first scene indicates he took precautions. The fact that there was DNA on the second tells me he lost that control long enough to lead with temper.”

“Because he got clocked.”

“Exactly,” Mira said with a ghost of a smile. “Byson hurt him, and he reacted poorly to the pain. Copperfield was the primary target.

“And I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”

“No, but it solidifies it.”

“This was a desperate act committed without desperation. He certainly feared them, or what they could do, but there’s no indication of panic on the bodies or on the scenes. He was in control, and illustrated that control to them, to himself, by the face-to-face strangulations.”

“Watch me kill you while I watch you die.”

“Yes. And while he may have – almost certainly – experienced some sort of thrill through that, he remained controlled enough to move quickly to the secondary target and finish his job.”

“But not a pro. It’s too messy for a professional.”

“I agree. But his focus was very tight, his preparations well thought out.”

“A good sense of self-preservation can do that.”

“It can. Following that train, he may have been protecting himself, his own interests, or someone close to him. He was very careful.”

“But didn’t know enough about forensics to know that we’d be able to get his DNA off the scrapes on Byson’s knuckles.”

“Perhaps not, but I’d judge him as educated, organized, and thorough. I’d be very surprised if he hasn’t destroyed or disposed of anything he took from the scenes, anything he used to gain entry. I expect if you interview him during the course of your investigation, he’ll be cooperative. If he knew the victims, he’ll attend their memorial with every sign of sorrow for their loss. He’ll have thought all of that through as well.”

“As well as an alibi for the time in question.”

“I’d be surprised if he didn’t have one. Some in these circumstances might deliberately avoid having an alibi to add to the thrill and excitement during the investigation. The game of it. I don’t think that’s your type here. He’d have dotted all his i’s beforehand.”

Eve nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

“I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” Mira said as Eve rose.

“What’s – oh. Oh, yeah.”

With a laugh, Mira swiveled in her chair. “I’ve never known any sort of an event at your home to be less than entertaining. Mavis must be thrilled.”

“I guess. Truth? I’m kind of ducking her. We had to do the class thing – the coach class? Which was a nightmare beyond the speaking of it. I’m afraid she’s going to tag me and do, like, a quiz to make sure I was paying attention!”

“And were you?”

“You couldn’t look away. It was like watching a horror movie. Freaky,” she muttered, and had to struggle not to shudder. “Tomorrow, I’m going to be surrounded by those women who’re brewing babies. What if one of them decides to pop?”

“Unlikely, but you will have a couple of doctors on hand. I’ll be there, so will Louise.”

“Right.” The idea relieved her. “I forgot. Okay, that’s a load off. Maybe you could be sure to hang around until all of them leave. Just in case.”

“Eleven years and counting on the force, and you’ve never delivered a baby?”

“That’s right, and I’m going to keep that record intact.”

Eve’s first thought when she entered Sasha Zinka’s office was that it rivaled Roarke’s for space, for plush, for taste. The clean lines and surprising slashes of bold color against the muted made it female without being fussy.

She thought the same of Sasha herself.

The woman could have easily passed for a decade younger than her age on her official records. Honeycomb hair was swooped back and up from a heart-shaped face dominated by clear blue eyes. She wore a suit of rusty red as restrained and subtle as the jewelry she’d matched to it.

She crossed the thick silver carpet in an easy glide in skinny heels as she held out a hand.

“Lieutenant Dallas. We met in passing at some gala or other last spring.”

“I remember.”

“Lousy way to meet again. You’re Detective Peabody. We spoke by ’link.”

Peabody accepted the hand held out to her. “Thanks for seeing us.”

“Please, have a seat. Tell me what I can do. You wanted to see Lola as well. She’s on her way. Would you like anything while we wait for her?”

“We’re fine, thanks.” Eve sat in a chair of amber leather so buttery she was surprised her butt didn’t just melt through it. “You knew Natalie Copperfield?”

“A little. Knew of her more.” She took a seat of her own. “It’s terrible, what happened to her and the young man. But I’m not sure where Lola and I come into it.”

“You’ve stated that you and Ms. Warfield had dinner with Randall Sloan on the night of the murders.”

“That’s right. Business primarily, but Lola and I enjoy Ran’s company. We were out until after two in the morning, as I told the detective when she contacted me. You don’t seriously consider Ran – ”

She broke off as the door opened. Lola Warfield rushed in looking flushed and scattered with her wild brunette curls flying. Her eyes, nearly the same color as the chair where Eve sat, were full of laughing apology.

“Sorry, sorry. I got hung up. Dallas, right? I took my life in my hands and snatched your gorgeous husband for a dance at the Marquis event last spring. If he were mine I’d beat any woman who looked at him with a stick, even if she plays for the other team.”

“Then the city’d be hip-deep in bodies.”

“That’d be a problem. I’m sorry.” She flashed a brilliant smile at Peabody. “I can’t remember your name.”

“Detective Peabody.”

“Nice to meet you. Well, not nice, I guess. It’s awful, but a little exciting, too.”

“Lola glues herself to the screen for the crime reports,” Sasha explained.

“And here we are in the middle of one. Or right on the sidelines. And I’m being horrible. I met Natalie a couple of times. She was very sweet, it seemed to me.”

As she spoke, she moved to the long bar at one end of the office, took a bottle of water from a cold box. “Anyone?”

“No, thanks.” Eve waited a beat while Lola moved to perch on the arm of Sasha’s chair. “When was the business dinner set up with Randall Sloan?”

“Mmm.” Lola glanced down at Sasha. “Couple of days before, wasn’t it? We generally meet with him every quarter.”

“That’s right,” Sasha confirmed. “We’d had to postpone an earlier meeting because we were out of the country for a few days right after the first of the year.”

“Who set it up?”

“Hmm.” Lola furrowed her brow. “I guess Ran did. It’s usual for him to get in touch, set up a meeting, or an evening out.”

“In the course of your business or conversations with Mr. Sloan, did he mention any difficulties with Natalie Copperfield or Bick Byson?”

“No.” Sasha took the ball. “Their names never came up. We work directly with Ran. We did meet her, and her fiancé, as I said. At Jacob Sloan’s home. She – Natalie – was friendly with his grandson.”

“Ms. Copperfield handles your sister’s financials.”

“That’s right. When Anna and her friends went into business, I recommended the firm, and spoke with Ran personally on who he thought would be best for them. He assigned Natalie. She and Anna hit it off well – so I’m told – when Natalie flew out to meet with her.”

“Your sister was satisfied with Ms. Copperfield’s work.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints. And I would have.”

“Would you ever,” Lola confirmed. “Anna doesn’t suffer in silence. Are you looking inside the firm for a suspect? I assumed it was something personal and – well – passionate. Like a jealous ex or unrequited love.”

“We’re looking everywhere,” Eve told her, and rose. “If you remember anything or think of something, you can contact me at Central.”

“That’s all?” Lola’s lips moved into a pout of disappointment. “I was hoping we’d get grilled.”

“Maybe next time. Thanks for your time,” Eve added.

She waited until they were outside, hiking back to their vehicle. “Impressions?”

“Straightforward, confident, calm. Business as usual on the date for the dinner with Sloan, and they don’t strike me as the type to cover for an employee – even if they are on friendly terms. There’s Zinka’s sister’s connection to the first vic, but if I go with the gut, I can’t see either or both of them committing double murders, or attaching themselves to same to keep the sister out of a jam. And they’re way rich. If this is about money, they don’t need to cheat to make more.”

“It’s not about need, it’s about greed and power,” Eve corrected. “But I didn’t get any vibe there. If it was the sister’s account that sent up the red flag for Copperfield, and either of them knew about it, they’re damn cool. What do we have on Anna Kerlinko’s whereabouts on the night?”

Peabody took out her memo book as she slid into the car. “Figuring the time difference, she was having breakfast with her current lover when Copperfield was murdered, and in her office by nine, her time. Got wits. She couldn’t have zipped here, done them, zipped back.”

“We move on.”

Using geography as much as her own checklist, she maneuvered the six blocks east to take the New York branch of the law firm representing the Bullock Foundation. They’d been assigned to Copperfield within the last few months, Eve mused, and had yet another connection with Byson representing one of the partner’s nieces.

The firm had its offices in an elegant old brownstone with the outer office as quiet as a church and manned by a woman who sat bathed in the colored light that seeped through the stained glass of the streetside window.

She was a sharp looker with her red hair in a long, swooping curve. Eve badged her and got several surprised blinks in response.

“I don’t understand.”

“Badge,” Eve said helpfully. “Cops. Now you buzz your boss and tell him we need to speak with him.”

“Golly. I mean, I’m sorry, but Mr. Cavendish is in a meeting. I’d be happy to check his schedule with his assistant and set up an appointment.”

“No, no, you’re getting it wrong. Let me repeat. Badge. Cops.” Eve glanced around, saw the straight angle of polished wood stairs. “Offices up that way?”

“Oh, but – but – but – ”

Eve left the redhead sputtering and moved with Peabody to the stairs.

The second level changed Eve’s opinion from church to museum. The carpets were old, worn, and expensive. The wainscotting the real deal, and very likely original. Paintings of country landscapes adorned the walls.

A door swung open on the left. The woman who stepped out was older than the girl at the downstairs desk, and twice as sharp.

She wore her jet hair in a no-nonsense twist that complimented a striking, angular face. The pinstriped suit might have been no-nonsense as well, but it had been tailored to mold a very fine body.

“I believe you were told Mr. Cavendish is in a meeting and unavailable at this time. What can I do for you?”

“You can get him out of his meeting and see that he’s available,” Eve returned. “That would be helpful.”

She felt an entertaining little buzz up the back of her spine at the woman’s silent, burning stare. “Got a name, sister?”

“Ms. Ellyn Bruberry. I’m Mr. Cavendish’s administrative assistant. And a paralegal.”

“Good for you. We need to talk to Mr. Cavendish in connection with an investigation.”

“Mr. Cavendish is, as you’ve now been told twice, unavailable. And as you must know, is under no obligation to speak with you without notice.”

“Got me there,” Eve said cheerfully. “We’ll be happy to give Mr. Cavendish, and you, and every one in these offices notice of your obligation to come into Cop Central for formal interviews, which – being a paralegal – you must know could take a few hours to, oh, next Christmas. Or gee, we could just talk to him now, in the comfort of his own office. And probably be out of your hair in under twenty minutes.”

She paused. “Pick a door.”

Eve actually heard the woman suck air through her nose.

“You’ll have to tell me what this is about.”

“No, I really don’t. You may want to ask your boss if he’d rather speak to me now, or come into Central in the immediate future and spend considerable time being interviewed formally. Or you can make that decision for him. Up to you.”

“But…” Peabody tapped her wrist unit. “Time’s a-wasting.”

“Wait here.”

Eve waited until Bruberry had clicked off on her sharply heeled boots. “Time’s a-wasting?”

“It just worked for me. Kind of pissy, wasn’t she? And she knows why we’re here.”

“Oh, yeah, she does. Interesting.” Idly, Eve turned to study one of the countryscapes. “How come people live and work in urban areas, then put up pictures of rural areas on the wall? Can’t they make up their minds where they want to be?”

“A lot of people find rural landscapes relaxing.”

“Sure, until you start wondering what’s creeping behind those trees, or slithering along in the grass.”

Peabody shifted uncomfortably. “Some people think bounding instead of creeping, as in pretty little fawns, and frolicking as opposed to slithering, like cute little bunnies.”

“Some people are fools. Let’s entertain ourselves, Peabody, and start a run on Bruberry. And one on Cavendish.”

“It could be fawns and bunnies,” Peabody muttered, and took out her PPC to do the runs.

Moments later, Bruberry stepped out of another door. Her back was poker straight, her tone cool and aloof. “Mr. Cavendish will see you now. Ten minutes.”