Brotherhood in Death

6

Eve entered their names, the case file, into the record. Recited the Revised Miranda.

“Do you understand your rights and obligations, Professor Mira?”

He gave her a vague smile at the use of his title, put a pot on top of the pot of water—What was that about?—began to add chocolate. “Yes, I do, thank you.”

“Edward Mira was your cousin.”

“Yes, first cousin, on my father’s side.”

He chose a small metal bowl, put it in the freezer.

Eve wondered if she should point out his mistake, but decided to push forward with the interview. “Would you relate, for the record, what happened yesterday, with your arrival at the property at 2314 Spring Street?”

He took them through it, the weather, the cab ride, made her wish she’d warned him not to elaborate as he stated on record he was angry with his cousin. When he said he’d heard voices, Eve interrupted.

“Can you tell me how many voices?”

“Oh.” He frowned, looked sweetly bewildered. “I’m not sure, not at all sure, but at least two, as it was a kind of conversation—I should say it felt like hearing a kind of conversation. I couldn’t hear the words, and I’m afraid I was distracted. But they stopped talking when I called out for Edward. I’m sure of that. I called out, as I didn’t want to startle anyone.”

“At least two voices. You couldn’t make out the words, but could you tell if they were male or female?”

“That’s an excellent question.” And one he looked a bit startled by. “I assumed one was Edward’s, but I wasn’t paying attention. I often don’t. I have a little trick Charlie taught me that helps me remember when I haven’t paid enough attention. It seems I’m too often thinking of something else.”

He closed his eyes, took some quiet breaths. “I’m walking into the house. It’s warm after the bitter wind. I smell lemon oil, so I know Sila’s been there to clean in the last day or so. I feel sad because I can imagine it as it was, with my grandparents. Some of the furniture’s been taken because it was left to some of us. There were always fresh flowers on the entrance table. I’m sorry they’re not there any longer, sorry it’s so dim. It’s such a raw, gloomy day, and I wish there was more light. I hear voices. I’m annoyed and sad and hear voices coming from down the hall. The study, I think, but I’m not sure. They’re . . . angry or excited. I didn’t realize, but yes, raised voices. My cousin’s, I think, yes, and someone else. A woman. I think a woman.”

He opened his eyes again. “I think a woman was with him. Is that helpful?”

“Yes. What did you do then?”

“I went back. I hated to be rude, but I intended to tell the Realtor there was no point in being there, as I didn’t intend to sell. I knew Edward and I would argue, but it had to be done. I turned into the study, and saw him. I was . . . thrown off, you could say. Primed to argue, braced for it, and he was in the chair, but the chair was in front of the desk, not behind, and his face was bleeding—at the mouth. His eye—ah . . .” His closed his own again, patted his hands in the air. “His right eye was blackened and swollen. He looked terrified. I started to rush in, to help him, and . . .”

He lifted a hand to the back of his head. “Something hit me, and the next thing I clearly remember, I was waking up—my head throbbing—on the floor of the study. Edward was gone, and the chair was back behind the desk. I might have thought I imagined it all, but my head was bleeding, and I was on the floor.”

“What did you do then?”

“I looked for him, called for him. Initially I was a little dazed, and I was confused. I went back to the kitchen, and upstairs, looking for him. When I couldn’t find him, I knew something had to have happened. I contacted Charlie. Charlotte. Dr. Mira. Told her something had happened, and could she come, bring you to my grandfather’s house. I looked some more, then you came.”

“Why didn’t you call nine-one-one? Your cousin had been injured and was missing, you’d been attacked. But you called your wife instead of the police.”

“I didn’t even think of it, not then. She works with the police—my Charlotte. She works with you. I probably should have called nine-one-one, as you say, but I wanted you. Something had happened to my cousin.”

“I’m a murder cop, Professor Mira. Did you believe your cousin had been murdered?”

“No. No, I never thought . . . I still can’t quite . . . But it’s the cop that counts the most, isn’t it? And you’re the best I know. I knew you’d find out what happened to Edward.”

“You contacted your wife,” she said again, pushing a little, “and requested a police officer you have a . . . friendly relationship with.”

“Yes, that’s true.” He measured out milk, poured it into the chocolate. And crushed some sort of bean in a little marble bowl with a little marble dowel. “But then, my wife is a renowned and respected criminal profiler, and you are a renowned and respected police lieutenant. I’d have been foolish to settle for less with such talent available.”

He added the crushed bean, sugar, and stirred methodically.

He’d given good answers, she thought. Very good, simple, logical answers. But she wasn’t done.

“Did you fight with your cousin, Professor Mira?”

“Oh, yes.” He said it so easily, without even a hint of guile. “Over the years we fought—argued, that is—numerous times. Our worldviews had shifted away from each other’s, on different orbits you might say, and we had little in common. Not like when we were boys.”

“You argued about the disposition of the property on Spring, which was left to both of you equally.”

“We did.” No hesitation, and no animosity. “We’d promised our grandfather to keep it in the family, and Edward believed that promise had an expiration date. I didn’t.”

“Did you argue yesterday, at the house?”

“No. We didn’t even get a chance to speak. I said his name, but then someone struck me. I never got to speak to him, or him to me. I believe we would have argued if . . .”

Though he continued to stir, he looked down at his pot as if he’d forgotten why it was there.

“Upon his death, what happens to his share of the disputed property?”

“I’m sorry? Oh, yes. Unless he changed his will—I can’t be sure—it would go in equal parts to his two children.”

He took the bowl out of the freezer, along with something she was pretty sure was some sort of whisk. Into the bowl he poured . . . milk, cream—something out of a small container—added some sugar. He stuck the whisk on some little hand tool.

It hummed busily in the bowl.

“What’s your relationship with the children?”

“They’re fine young people. We get along very well. We need to go see them. I hope they’re with their mother now, but we’ll go see them. They’ve lost their father, and will need family around them.”

“Will they be more inclined to keep the property in the family, Professor Mira?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

She saw he’d made whipped cream. People actually whipped cream to make whipped cream? Who knew?

He set the bowl aside, used another tool to make shavings from the remaining chocolate bar. “Eve—that is, Lieutenant Dallas, Edward, no matter how determined he was, couldn’t sell our grandfather’s house. There was nothing he could do to make me break my promise. I believe we would have remained at odds, but then, as I said, we haven’t been close since my early college days. We were together at Yale, though he was a year ahead of me. If he’d lived, we weren’t likely to ever be close again, but I would never wish him harm. And he would never have bullied me into selling.”

“Sometimes people strike back at bullies.”

“Yes, they do. I counseled my children to do just that. And I’ve done just that myself with Edward for more than forty years.”

He turned, took mugs from a cupboard. “Some mistake a mild disposition for weakness. Do you?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“I can—my family will attest—be extremely stubborn when something is important.”

From across the room Gillian made a little snorting sound that had a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

“A promise to a man I loved deeply is important, even sacred. I didn’t have to hurt Edward to keep it; I simply had to continue to keep it. I’m not a violent man.”

He poured the rich hot chocolate into the mugs. “And while I didn’t like Edward, didn’t like the man he’d become, I loved him.”

“Professor Mira, would you give me your whereabouts from eleven last night to three-thirty this morning?”

“Right here—or not right here, in the kitchen, that is. In the house. Charlie, my wife, insisted I go to bed early. I can be quite the night owl as a rule. But she was right, I was very tired. I believe I went to bed by ten. She doesn’t think I know she was checking on me every couple hours.”

He smiled, sweetly, toward the breakfast nook. “And our daughter Gillian snuck in twice to make sure I hadn’t lapsed into a coma—which is exactly what she said to her mother at about midnight. I didn’t sleep very well. I did rest,” he added quickly, with another glance toward the nook, as he piled whipped cream on top of two mugs of hot chocolate. “But I was worried about Edward, and didn’t sleep very well.”

“Okay. Okay. Thank you for your time and cooperation. Record off.”

Dennis sprinkled chocolate shavings over the cream, then put the mugs in front of Peabody and Eve.

“Stand up,” he said to Eve.

She got to her feet, braced.

“You need a hug.” He wrapped his arms around her, and melted everything inside her. “There now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“It was horrible.”

“Well, that’s all right. It’s all done.”

“I’m so—”

“Hush. You sit and drink your chocolate.”

“I could use a hug.”

Dennis beamed at Peabody, obliged. “You’re a good girl,” he told her. “Gilly, Charlie, come on now. I made enough for everyone.”

Mira walked over, framed his face with her hands. “I love you, Dennis.”

“It’s a good thing. Where would I be otherwise?”

“You sit down. I’ll put the rest of these together.”

As she dolloped on the whipped cream, Mira looked over at Eve. “You did exactly right. It was hard for you, hard for me to listen to. But you did exactly right.”

“Sorry, but will you just say it—that you know he was here during the aforesaid hours.”

“I absolutely do. He’s right. I did check on him every couple hours, and Gilly went to check on him just before midnight, and again around three. We thought he was sleeping.”

“You’d have started poking at me again if you’d known I was awake.”

“He’s right about that, too. Do you believe it was a woman?”

“There had to be at least two involved, and one of them was a woman. I’m sure of that, and Mr. Mira gave that some weight.”

“He’s never been a suspect,” Gillian put in.

“No. There’s no motive, no opportunity. I just needed it all spelled out on the record. It’s going to be a feeding frenzy in the media. With this on record, Mr. Mira is firmly, unquestionably a witness.”

“I just want to say something.” Peabody, eyes closed, took another sip from her mug. “This is the Holy Grail of hot chocolate. Mr. Mira, you’re a genius, but I don’t know how I’m going to settle for the sludge at Central ever again.”

“Knock it back, Peabody. We’ve got to get back to work.”

It took a little time—Peabody wanted to savor—but even with the extra, Eve felt lighter when Gillian walked them back, got their coats.

“I’m going to apologize for wanting to smack you even though I could see it was hard for you to push at him that way.”

“I want to smack people all the time. And he’s your father.”

“I love my husband, and one of the many reasons is he’d agree with me when I say my father is the best man I know. You’re a little bit in love with him.”

“Probably more than a little.”

“And you’re going to look out for him.”

“That’s a promise.”

“All right then. Bright blessings on both of you, and safe travels wherever the path takes you.”

As they hiked back to the car, Eve shoved her hands in her pockets, found her gloves again. Tugged them on. “Plot us a sensible route to hit the sidepieces.”

“Already done, and you can cross off Allyson Byson, for now anyway. She’s been in St. Lucia for the past week with her husband and several friends. It’s an annual thing. Spends six weeks there every winter.”

“Very tidy alibi. We’ll look into her otherwise.”

“We should start with Carlee MacKensie—he played with her right before he hooked up with Downing. Freelance writer.”

When they got into the car, Peabody plugged the address into the in-dash. “Then we’d go to Asha Coppola, to Lauren Canford, and finish with Charity Downing, the latest.”

“I want a conversation with the vic’s children before the end of the day.” Eve considered tactics while she negotiated traffic. “We keep it simple, get the how and when they met, how long the relationship went on, who ended it, that kind of thing. Right now, we’re just fishing.”

“How did he keep them straight?” Peabody wondered. “We’ve got five, and that’s only covering around a year. So there’s a lot more going back. How did he keep them all straight?”

“They were all the same to him, that’s my take. Just a score. He was a predator. Spot the prey, stalk it, bag it, play with it awhile. Then, when you’re bored or the prey no longer satisfies, discard it and go after fresh meat.”

She noted a second-level street spot, zipped over and grabbed it.

“We could maybe have gotten closer.”

“We could maybe not have.”

“Loose pants, loose pants,” Peabody chanted to herself as they clanged down the iron steps to the street.

“They’ll be a lot looser when I kick your ass up, down, and sideways.”

“I’m using the power of positive thinking. But to spare my ass the pain, what are you guys getting Bella for her birthday?”

“I don’t know.” Instant panic gripped her. “How the hell do I know what to get for a one-year-old kid? How does anybody? The kid can’t tell you, and nobody remembers being a one-year-old so it’s just a crapshoot.”

“The party’s in a couple weeks.”

“Shut up, Peabody.”

“Okay, but shutting up means I can’t tell you what I know she’d really go for—and McNab and I can’t really spring for a good one.”

“What?”

Peabody clamped her lips smugly.

“I swear, I’ll drop-kick you from this spot three blocks east so you splat in the middle of Fifth Avenue.”

“A dollhouse. She’s young for it, but we had her up for a few hours a few days ago, and I’d sent for mine. It’s just a little one my dad made me, but she went nuts for it. Played with it the whole time, and really well, too, rearranging the little furniture, pretend cooking in the kitchen.”

Eve wondered why—seriously why—anyone wanted to pretend cook.

“If dolls aren’t alive, why do they need a house?”

“That’s where pretend comes into it.”

“Does it? Does it really? Or is it when you’re sleeping or not around they start having parties in it, drinking brew, eating snacks, watching screen?”

“You’re creeping me out.”

“You should be creeped. What’s to stop them from having doll orgies in there? Ever think of that?”

“Not until right now.”

“Next thing you know, there’ll be doll weapons and vehicles.”

“They already have those.”

“See.”

Point made, Eve turned to the sturdy building that housed Carlee MacKensie’s apartment. She opted for her master—Why give the woman time to prepare?—and walked into the skinny lobby.

“I have to pee. You scared the piss out of me, now I have to pee. Don’t make me walk up four flights of steps.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” To settle it, Peabody pushed the elevator button. “I can’t get this image of a bunch of drunk dolls doing it all over the dollhouse. Gay dolls, straight dolls, threesomes. It’s my new nightmare.”

“They probably make doll strap-ons.”

“Oh God, I beg you to stop.” Peabody all but jumped into the elevator when it opened. “Loose pants, loose pants. Don’t kick my ass, I’m trying to take my mind off having to pee. And sex-crazed dolls. I’m seeing Gracie Magill with a strap-on.”

“Who?”

“My favorite doll as a kid. Loose pants, loose pants.”

“You had a doll with a last name?” Eve pressed the buzzer on the MacKensie apartment. “Why do dolls need last names?”

“For their ID, to buy the brew and the strap-ons.”

“I figured they just stole them when they climbed in and out of windows at night to burgle houses.”

“You’re just being mean now.”

“I could keep this up all day.”

The intercom buzzed. “Yes?” And Peabody breathed a quiet, “Thank you, Jesus.”

“NYPSD,” Eve announced, and held up her badge. “We’d like to speak with you, Ms. MacKensie.”

“What about?”

“Edward Mira.”

After a moment, locks clicked off, the door opened a couple cautious inches. Eve saw pale red hair messily bundled into a top bun and a pair of suspicious blue eyes.

“What about him?”

“Do you want to discuss your relationship with him out here, Ms. MacKensie?”

Eve saw the lips compress, the eyes dart left then right. “We don’t have a relationship,” she said, but opened the door.

She wore baggy sweatpants and a hoodie with thick socks. Her skin was so white it nearly glowed beneath its scatter shot of ginger-colored freckles.

“You did have,” Eve said and stepped in.

“I haven’t seen or talked to Edward in weeks, since the end of November.”

“Excuse me. I’m sorry,” Peabody interrupted. “Could I use your bathroom?”

Now Carlee bit her bottom lip, but nodded. “Ah, okay. I guess. It’s . . .” She gestured, but Peabody was already on the move.

“Thanks!”

“I guess you want to sit down.”

“I can stand if you’d rather,” Eve told her.

“I guess we’ll sit down.”

She had a couch and a couple of chairs, facing an entertainment screen—and facing away from a workstation under the window.

Carlee chose a chair, sat with her knees together, her fingers linked in her lap. “I don’t understand why you want to talk to me about Edward.”

“He’s dead, Ms. MacKensie.”

Carlee’s tightly pressed lips fell apart. “What? How? When?”

“He was murdered last night.”

“Mur-murdered?”

“You say you haven’t seen him since November.”

“That’s right. Are you talking about Senator Mira?”

“Yes. How did you meet him?”

“It was— It was a political fund-raiser. I had a media pass because I was researching an article, and . . .” She paused as Peabody came back.

“Thanks,” Peabody said again, and sat beside Eve.

“That’s okay. I, um, usually tend to observe rather than ask a lot of questions. I guess I was about the only one there with a media pass who wasn’t asking questions, so he came over to me when I was sitting, taking notes, brought me a glass of wine. He said how if I didn’t have any questions for him, he had some for me. I was a little flustered, but he was so charming.”

“How soon did you begin a sexual relationship?”

Carlee flushed brightly, hotly pink, and her eyes darted away. “I know it was wrong. He was married—I knew he was married. He said he and his wife had an arrangement, but that doesn’t make it right.”

“We’re not here to judge you, Ms. MacKensie,” Peabody told her. “We need to gather information.”

“I knew it was wrong,” she repeated. “He said we’d go have a drink, and I thought how I could get a bigger article, or maybe a couple of stories, so we left there and went to have a drink. Then two. He had his driver take me home. Nobody’s ever done that for me. And he paid such attention. I don’t know how to explain it, but he made me feel pretty and sexy.”

She looked down at her hands. “So when he contacted me the next day and said he was taking me out to dinner, I went. I knew where it was heading. He was married and, okay, a lot older, but I knew where it was heading. I went anyway. And I went with him to the hotel. The Palace. He has a suite there, just beautiful, like something in a vid. And dinner was waiting, and a bottle of champagne. I slept with him. We only saw each other like that for about five weeks, then he sent me flowers—white roses—with a card. It said how all good things had to end, and it had been lovely.”

“That must’ve pissed you off.”

“A little, but more it was hurtful. He could have told me in person. I’m not stupid; I knew it wasn’t going to last. But he should have told me face-to-face. I thought about contacting him, but I didn’t. And he never contacted me again.”

She let out a breath. “It was like it never happened.”

“Were you in love with him?” Peabody’s tone was gauged to sympathy.

“Oh, no.” MacKensie’s blue eyes rounded—guileless. “No, but it was exciting, those few weeks. Maybe, at least partly, because I knew it was wrong. I felt a little . . .” She trailed off with a quick little gasp. “Am I a suspect? You think I killed Edward?”

“Did you?” Eve asked coolly.

“Oh my God, my God.” She trembled all over, hunched her shoulders, gripped her hands together under her chin. “No. No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill anyone. You said last night?”

“That’s right,” Eve said, and left it there.

“I-I-I was here, working.” She gestured to her workstation with a hand that shook. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

“Did you see or speak to anyone?”

“No. No. I was working on a piece, and I stuck with it. I had leftover Chinese and went to bed early. I think it was around ten because my brain was tired. Do I need a lawyer?”

“That’s up to you. Have you ever been to his property on Spring Street?”

“Spring? I didn’t know he had any. We always met at the hotel. Officer—”

“Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant, I lead a quiet life, by choice, by inclination. This was a few weeks of excitement, and, and”—she flushed again—“sex.”

“Which he ended with flowers and a card.”

“You don’t kill somebody for ending an affair.”

Eve lifted her eyebrows. “You’d be surprised.”

They left MacKensie wrapped in jittery nerves, rode back down to the lobby.

“Impressions?”

“Not used to being noticed or singled out, I’d say,” Peabody responded. “A little OCD. The bathroom was as clean as an operating room, and more organized. Everything matches. Same with the bedroom. I glanced in. Bed’s perfectly made, no clothes or shoes tossed around. She’s the type who figures she’s going to get dumped, so isn’t surprised when it happens. She didn’t buzz for me.”

“She doesn’t have an alibi.”

“If I planned to kill a former U.S. senator, I’d have one wrapped tight.”

“Having absolutely none’s not a bad strategy,” Eve countered. “She asked how he was killed when we first got there. I never gave her an answer, she never asked again. How do you write articles on anything without asking questions, pushing the follow-up?”

“She seemed really flustered and embarrassed.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Right now, she stays on the list. Let’s talk to the next.”