Brotherhood in Death

7

The Brighton Group proved both efficient and unimposing. It held offices over a bustling deli in a squat building tossed up post-Urbans. The casually dressed staff worked together in a cacophony of noise that struck as cheerful. Some glass partitions separated the higher-ups.

Personal photos, plants, files, paperwork jumbled together on desks. The air smelled candy sweet—which Eve understood as they were offered birthday cake minutes after arriving.

“Asha’s through there.” The cake-bearer gestured to one of the glass-walled offices. “We’re all just getting back to it after celebrating Sandy’s birthday at lunch.”

“We’ll pass, but thanks.”

“If you change your mind, just dig in. You can go right in—Asha’s office is always open.”

“Cake,” Peabody mumbled as she followed Eve. “Why did it have to be cake?”

“Toughen up, Peabody.”

Eve studied Asha through the glass. The woman wore a poppy-red sweater that suited her caramel-toned skin. She had snug black trousers tucked into stubby-heeled knee-high boots, and wore her hair scooped back from her sharp-boned, big-eyed face in a mass of red-tipped black curls.

She turned from the mini-friggie where she’d taken a bottle of water, put on a professional smile when Eve stepped to the doorway.

“Hi. What can I do for you?”

“NYPSD.” Eve lifted her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We’d like a few minutes of your time.”

“Of course. It’s about Edward.” The smile faded away. “I just heard. The media flash came over my comp. Please, sit. Do you want some coffee? It’s really terrible coffee, but . . .”

She stopped, shook her head, dropped down into one of the visitor’s chairs rather than behind her desk. “He was murdered. That’s what the media flash said. I needed a minute.”

She looked down at the unopened bottle of water in her hand. “Just a minute before I looked at the details. Are you going to give them to me?”

“The investigation’s ongoing. You had a relationship with Edward Mira.”

“Yes. Briefly, stupidly. Last spring. I’m married—but you must already know that. My husband and I were having some issues, and I had an affair.” She paused again, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I knew the senator through my work, and . . . I have no excuse for it.”

“Who ended it?”

“I did, when I came to my senses. Trying to live two lives? It’s awful, and when that initial buzz wears off—and it does—the guilt and stress are huge. I couldn’t live with it.”

“You ended it? What was the senator’s reaction?”

“He was . . . What’s a couple steps down from annoyed? Irked? He’s a powerful, commanding man—that was part of the attraction—and I’d say accustomed to ending his affairs on his time clock. But it wasn’t ugly.”

She took a breath. “I want to say I liked him, personally. I hated his politics. That was another part of the appeal—those passionate debates. I can’t believe he’s gone, and this way. Murdered. The flash said he’d been hanged. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Oh God.” Asha squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t understand how anyone could . . . I don’t understand.”

“Was he irked enough when you ended things to pressure you, threaten you?”

“Oh, no.” When she opened her eyes again, they gleamed behind a sheen of tears. “Lieutenant, it didn’t mean that much to either of us, that’s the really sad part. I was lashing out at my husband, and Edward was simply taking an opportunity. I hurt Jack and nearly destroyed my marriage because I was feeling angry and unappreciated.”

“You told your husband about the affair.”

“I couldn’t live with the lie. How could we ever get things back if I tried to? I’m very lucky Jack agreed to couple’s counseling instead of walking out the door. I forgot—and since it’s my second time around, I shouldn’t have—but I forgot marriage is work, with peaks and valleys. I won’t forget it again.”

“Can you tell me where you were yesterday afternoon, from about four to six?”

“I can tell you I was right here until about six.”

“Can you verify that?”

“There were at least six of us here, and I wasn’t the last to leave. You can ask anyone. Is that when he was killed?”

“I also need to know where you were last night/early this morning. Say from midnight to four.”

“Wait.” She sipped water, blinked at the tears. “Ah . . . I met Jack and some friends for dinner, about seven, then we went to a vid, polished it off with drinks after. I think Jack and I got home about twelve-thirty. I know I was tired—Jack’s the social one, and late nights take a toll on me. I went to bed.”

“Was it a planned evening?”

“The dinner was; the rest evolved. Like I said, Jack’s social. I’d figured dinner, then home in my pj’s. Marriage is work,” she repeated with a shaky smile. “I guess everyone says this, but I didn’t kill him. Why would I? He was a mistake, but it was my mistake.”

Peabody noted down names and contacts to verify the alibis. They left Asha sitting in her visitor’s chair.

“My impression is she alibied herself and her husband,” Peabody said before Eve could ask.

“Yeah, she did. We’re going to verify, and we’re going to check out the husband, but everything she said rang the truth bell for me. Unless we feel differently after looking at the husband, my sense is if he wanted payback, he’d have killed or attempted to kill the senator way before this.”

They got back in the car. “We’ll take the next.”

“Lauren Canford.”

“Her. Run the husband on the way.”

While Eve bitched about parking in the madness of downtown, and finally resigned herself to the kick-your-ass price of a slot in an underground lot, Peabody reported.

“Family law attorney, does the pro bono thing every Friday in a legal aid clinic. First marriage for him, and no criminal.”

“I’m keeping them on the list.” Eve hiked to the grimy elevator. “But they currently hold last place. What floor is Canford on?”

“Eighteen.”

Eve debated, very briefly, then used her master to bypass the lobby.

“Woo!”

“Tired of dicking around.”

They got off on eighteen to much shinier, and worked their way down to Lauren Canford’s offices.

No casual dress here, Eve noted, and no cheerful noise in the small, glossy outer office.

Eve stepped up to reception and the man in his twenties with a bold blue tie precisely knotted at the base of his really long neck.

“Lauren Canford.”

He didn’t bother to glance up, but continued to work on his screen. “Your name?”

Eve put her badge on the counter. He glanced at it, briefly.

“I’ll also need your name.”

“It’s on the badge, right there with NYPSD. My partner and I need to speak with Lauren Canford.”

“Mrs. Canford’s in meetings all day.”

“Kid?”

He did look up at her now, all bored resentment. “One of those meetings is going to be with me, unless you want to be the one to inform Mrs. Canford that we’ll have that meeting at Central at the end of her workday. I can arrange to have it in one of our Interview rooms.”

“I don’t believe you have the authority to—”

“Law school, right? You want to test my authority, Junior?” She leaned in close. “Try it.”

Resentment went to sulk as he tapped his earpiece, swiveled around to give her his back. He muttered, but she caught police, threatened, bitch.

She found those three words very satisfying.

“Through those doors, straight back to the end of the hall. Mrs. Canford can give you ten minutes.”

“Good choice, all around.”

“And my name’s not Kid or Junior,” he called after her. “It’s Mylo.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

Most of the office doors that lined the area stood closed. She did see a man, suit jacket off, tie loosened, sweating over his ’link.

“You want to be reasonable about this, Barry.”

From the look in his eye, Eve judged the guy didn’t figure Barry for reasonable.

Lauren Canford’s office stood open. Pausing at the doorway, Eve saw the woman, black suit sharp as a blade, raven hair in an equally sharp wedge around a sternly attractive face.

A man—pinstripes, paisley tie—stood beside her desk.

“Your identification, please,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Curtis Flack, the head of this organization. I’m also a lawyer, and will represent Mrs. Canford’s interests here. Your identification.”

Eve took out her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Detective Peabody.”

“And the nature of this visit?”

“You both know the nature of this visit, so let’s cut the bull. Since you’re using your right to an attorney, I have to figure you need one. We’ll do this on the record, and I’ll read you your rights.”

Eve did the dance.

“You had an affair with Edward Mira,” she began.

“Mrs. Canford has a prepared statement on this matter.”

“Is that so?” Eve smiled, very, very pleasantly. “All prepared.”

“I believe in being prepared.” Canford spoke for the first time. “I asked Curtis to come in, and wrote this statement, as soon as I heard the media report.”

She angled just a little, to read off her screen.

“‘Senator Mira and I have been acquainted, professionally, for approximately ten years. In the summer of 2060, for between five and six weeks, we engaged in an affair. When said affair ran its course, we agreed to end it. The decisions to begin and end this area of our relationship were mutual. Senator Mira and I continued our professional relationship and casual friendship, as we share many of the same political and world views. I’m deeply saddened to learn of his death, and must hope the authorities identify the person responsible quickly.’”

Lauren folded her hands. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah, a few things. Senator Mira was married, as you are.”

“That’s correct.”

“How does your spouse feel about the affair?”

“My husband and I, like the senator and his wife, have an understanding.”

“Your husband understands you cheat on him?”

Before the lawyer could interrupt, Lauren held up a hand. “It’s all right, Curtis. My husband and I understand a sexual affair is nothing more than that. Sex. If you feel the need to speak with my husband, he will also have counsel present.”

“Noted. So you and the senator just rolled off each other one day and said, Hey, this was fun, but let’s call it quits.”

“If you persist in being crude,” Flack put in, “this meeting is over.”

“Okay. You and Ed finished up a spirited round of cards one night, and agreed to fold them.”

Canford inclined her head. “Basically, yes. With the understanding that should we both wish to reconnect, the door was open.”

“Did you? Reconnect?”

“No, and now we never will. If that’s all—”

“I need your whereabouts yesterday, between four and six in the afternoon.”

“I was here until five. My assistant can certainly verify that, as can my driver. I met Congresswoman Lowell for drinks at the Taj. I would appreciate it if you’d verify that with the lounge rather than disturb the congresswoman. My driver picked me back up and took me home. I believe I was home by six-fifteen. The house droid would have that on record, if necessary.”

“How about last night between midnight and four.”

“My husband and I attended a dinner party at the home of Martin and Selina Wendell. It began at eight-thirty. We left there around one, I believe, and returned home. Again the house droid can verify our return. We were in for the rest of the night.”

“Okay. Thanks for your time.”

“If you have any further questions for Mrs. Canford, or for her husband, please contact me.” Flack offered his card.

“No problem. Record off.”

Peabody held it in until the elevator, then spewed on the ride down. “She’s just hateful. That’s the exact word for her. Hateful. And she sent off bells all over the place. She could kill, oh yeah, she could. Then she’d go get a fricking manicure.”

“You’re right, and that’s why she hits rock bottom on the list.”

Peabody literally danced in place. “Come on!”

“If we could break her afternoon alibi, and if she’d been in that house, Mr. Mira would be dead. She’s not the type to leave a loose end.”

“Oh but . . . Damn it!” Wound up, Peabody stalked off the elevator. “What if she wasn’t there for that—she sent minions. I bet she has minions. But then . . . big dinner party. But she could fudge the time. She could.”

“Could. Didn’t. Here’s why she doesn’t pop for me.” Eve got behind the wheel, let her head rest back for a minute. “She doesn’t give a rat’s ass. Now, maybe we’ll scrape the surface and find out he dumped her and she didn’t want to be dumped. Bumps up motive, but then it falls apart. She wouldn’t have worked with anyone, and this took at least two people. She wouldn’t use a partner because a partner is a loose end.”

“Hey, I’m a partner.”

“In crime, Peabody.” Eve started the car, wound through the garage. “More than one person does a crime, the other is always a loose end. Besides, I believe her. More truth bells rung. They decided to cheat, cheated, decided they were bored with each other, and ended it. You know why they bored each other, Peabody? Because they’re so fucking much alike. Users, power freaks, and your word.”

“Heartless.”

“Yeah. That’s a bull’s-eye.”

“At least I got one right.”

“We’ll verify her alibis, but she’s going to be covered. Why do people like that bother with marriage? Her and the vic? It’s just for politics, for show, for fancy dinner parties and professional advancement. So it’s bullshit. Coppolo had it right. It’s work—it’s supposed to be work.”

“She cheated, too.”

“Yeah, but she owned it. No excuses.”

“Her husband forgave her—or they’re working for that. Could you?”

“Could I what?”

“Forgive that. I mean, it’s never going to happen, but hypothetically if, say, Roarke and I lost our minds for one wild night and had hot, crazed sex involving many multiple orgasms, then came to our senses and begged your forgiveness. Owned it, you know? Could you forgive us?”

Eve drove in silence a moment. “Well, it would be hard. It would be work, but marriage is work. So’s partnership. I think I could. It would take time and that work, but I think I could forgive both of you. After I boiled you in big vats to make it easier to peel the skin, very slowly and carefully, off your bones while I danced to the music of your agonized screams. Then I made you watch while I fashioned people suits out of your skins for a couple of sparring droids I would then beat into rubble that I’d bury along with your quivering, skinless bodies in unmarked graves. After that,” Eve said with a considering nod, “I think I could forgive you.”

“That’s good to know. It’s good to know the conditions. Except, I don’t think you can fashion people suits because you don’t know how to sew.”

“I’d learn. For something this important, I’d learn. Stupid parking, stupid parking. Wait!”

Peabody sucked in her breath as Eve punched it, went vertical, zipped, zoomed, and arrowed into a spot just vacated at the curb.

“Bagged it.”

“I might have to pee again.”

“Forget it. We’re dealing with the baby slut, then heading back to Central. I want to update my board, think, and have some goddamn coffee.”

“How did you know that car was going to pull out?”

“I’ve got a sense.”

They walked a block in busy SoHo with crowds loaded with shopping bags or hustling out of the cold into restaurants where warm scents teased out into the winter air.

The gallery display window featured an elongated sculpture of a woman bowed over backward nearly into a U with an expression of either agonizing grief or mindless ecstasy.

Either way Eve found it mildly disturbing and much preferred the painting of a city scene that mirrored the bustle going on around them.

Inside, the walls and floors were a soft cream, making the gallery feel like the inside of a fancy box.

She saw a painting of what seemed to be a series of big blue dots connected by a jagged red line.

And wondered: Why?

In the hushed reverence a woman’s heels clicked sharply.

Eve recognized Charity Downing from her ID shot. Young, several rungs up from pretty with a waterfall of blond hair, deeply blue eyes, a full and generous mouth.

She wore blue almost the same color as the dots in a slim, short dress.

“Good afternoon. I’m Charity. If I can . . . Oh God, I know who you are. I recognize you.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder, quickly came forward, dropped her voice. “This is about Edward. I heard. Please, I don’t want my boss, my coworkers to know. I can take my break. Please, can I meet you across the street? The coffee shop right across the street. I can’t talk about this here.”

“You’re not going to try to run, are you, Charity?”

“Where would I go—and why would I? I just don’t want anyone here to know I was . . . with Edward that way. It’s right across the street. I just need to get Marilee to cover for me, get my coat.”

“All right. Make it fast.”

“You don’t really think she’d rabbit?” Peabody asked as they went out again.

“No. If she killed him or if she didn’t, she had to know the cops would want to talk to her sooner or later.”

Eve jaywalked—it wasn’t hard if you were fast and agile enough—and stepped into the coffee shop.

It didn’t smell as bad as most—boy, had she gotten spoiled—so she grabbed a four-top that gave her a view of the art gallery.

Peabody studied the automated server. “Maybe I could get another latte. I missed cake twice today. No, tea’s probably a better bet, and they have jasmine. Jasmine tea’s nice. Want some?”

“Not in this life or the next. She’s coming out.”

Charity didn’t jaywalk, but hurried in her skinny heels to the corner, waited for the light. Eve watched her come in, cheeks pink from the cold and the hurry, spot them.

“Thank you. Really, thank you.” Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush. “I’m still trying to get my head around what happened. Edward, dead. Murdered. I . . . I’m going to have some tea if that’s okay. I need to settle down. I heard about an hour ago.”

“I’m going to have the jasmine,” Peabody said.

“Yes, it’s nice. I’ll have that, too.”

“Coffee,” Eve said. “You and Senator Mira were having an affair.”

“Yes. It started a couple weeks before Christmas. I know he’s married, I know it’s wrong even though he said his wife doesn’t care. Why wouldn’t she care? I don’t know.”

Charity pressed her fingers to her eyes.

“How did you meet?”

“At the gallery. I had a small show—it was exciting. He came with . . . it wasn’t his wife, she was too young, but I don’t know who it was. He said he liked my work. He bought a painting. I was flying. And about a week later, he contacted me—he asked me to meet him for a drink. I thought it was about the art, but . . .”

“He hit on you,” Peabody suggested.

“It was . . . classier than that, but yes. At first I was really surprised. He’s old enough to be my grandfather, but he’s interesting and persuasive. I ended up meeting him for drinks a second time, then he asked me to dinner, and I went. I knew what I was doing, and I knew it was wrong. But there I was in this fancy hotel suite with champagne and . . .”

She trailed off as their orders began to slide out of the automated slot.

“I knew what I was doing,” she said again. “I knew he just wanted to be with a young woman. I’m not stupid. And I also knew he could help me. He nudged his rich friends and associates to come to the gallery, and talked up my work. I sold a couple more pieces. We were using each other, that’s what it was. I let him have sex with me, and in exchange, he helped my art career.”

She lifted her tea, drank. “I’m absolutely aware of what that makes me. I’m not proud of it. And I’d do it again.”

“Any trouble in your arrangement?” Eve asked.

“No. We’d generally go to the hotel once a week. Sometimes he wanted me to stay the night, sometimes he didn’t. He ran the show, and I didn’t have any complaints.”

“Was he rough with you?”

“What? Oh, no, no.”

Composed, almost coldly so, Charity met Eve’s gaze. “Look, Lieutenant, I knew he was taking an aid to keep it all going. And for a man his age, he was in pretty good shape. But I wasn’t attracted that way. The first time, it was curiosity and the circumstances. After that, it was, just—it was what it was. I didn’t say that to him. I just pretended.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend?” Peabody asked. “Anybody?”

“No, I don’t, so I figured I wasn’t hurting anyone. It was really clear he did this a lot, so I could justify it as far as his wife went. I don’t know her, so I could pretend that didn’t matter, either. I don’t want anyone at work to know, that’s all. I don’t want the gossip, or the looks. I don’t care if I deserve them, I don’t want it.”

“You seem a lot more concerned about gossip than murder. The man’s dead.”

Defiant, Downing jutted out her chin. “And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m just scared. I’m scared I’ll lose my job. I’m scared somebody knew what I was doing—what we were doing, and killed him.”

“Did you feel threatened? Did you feel watched?”

“No. But, I mean, the staff at the hotel, they had to know. I can’t think why any of them would care, but . . . Hell.” She drank again. “It’s not about that, about me. I didn’t really matter. I’m just scaring myself.”

“Do you know anyone who’d wish him harm?”

“I really don’t, but he’d go on about it sometimes. How a man in his position makes enemies. A powerful man makes powerful enemies. He’d talk and talk about his political views—I stopped really listening. Just pretended to.”

“You’re good at pretending.”

This time a hint of a flush rose in her cheeks. “I guess I am. I had an affair with an old man because he could help my career. I pretended to enjoy the sex when I was mostly thinking I hope he doesn’t want me to stay tonight so I can just go home. I listened to him talk, and didn’t disagree out loud. You want to say I prostituted myself, I can’t say I didn’t. But I’ve sold six paintings in the last six weeks, and I know five of them were directly because of him. I was grateful to him for that.”

She knuckled a tear away. “And I’m sorry he’s dead.”

“Where were you yesterday between four and six?”

“I . . . I don’t know exactly. It was my day off. I met a friend for lunch, and after, we got our nails done, did some shopping. Well, looking. And we had a drink somewhere. We decided to go back to my place, I had some pizza in the AutoChef. We just hung out until, I don’t know, maybe nine or nine-thirty. I’m a suspect. Oh my God.”

“We’ll need your friend’s name and contact information.”

“Oh God. God. Lydia. Lydia Su—that’s S-U. She’s the only one who knows about Edward.” She covered her face, then dropped her hands and gave them the contact numbers. “I wouldn’t kill him. He was helping me. I figured he was starting to get a little bored, and all I had to do was wait for him to tell me it was done. Maybe he’d help me a little more if I didn’t make a fuss. Why would I kill him for helping me?”

“How about between midnight and four last night?”

“I was in bed! I went to bed. I did some sketching after Lydia left, but we’d had wine, and I couldn’t concentrate. I was in bed by like eleven, watched screen until I fell asleep. This can’t be happening.”

“Calm down, Charity,” Peabody told her. “We have to ask, we have to check out the information you’ve given us. It’s part of the routine. When did you last see or speak to him?”

“Ah, God, the day before yesterday. He kept it week to week. He contacted me, asked me to dinner. That’s how it worked. We were supposed to have dinner tonight. Then I heard, on the bulletin. I only saw him once a week, as a rule. I saw him last week. Last Thursday night. What should I do now? What should I do?”

“Go back to work,” Eve said.

—

Here’s what I think. You want to know what I think, right?”

“Peabody, I live to hear what you think in all things.”

Eyes narrowed, Peabody climbed back into the car. “You’re being bitchy now.”

“I’m tired of talking to whiny cheaters. I’d rather grill murdering bastards.”

“Well, sure, but you gotta do what you gotta. Anyway, she was whiny, but killing him’s the whole golden goose deal. You can’t get those shiny eggs if you kill the goose.”

“Why would she want shiny eggs? Why would anybody want shiny eggs?”

“It’s like a metaphor.”

“It’s a stupid one because shiny eggs are probably contaminated, then you die. But we only have her word about the eggs anyway.”

“Yeah, but it’s easy to check out.”

“Which we will. Just like we’re going to check out everything and everybody else on the list from today. And how about this? The old, horny goose is getting ready to move on, so no more eggs soon. She’s not ready to give them up, so she gets pushy. You don’t keep giving me eggs, I’m going to go tell everybody you’ve been putting that old thing in my young parts. Fight, blackmail, murder.”

“When you put it that way.”

“I need to think about it. I need decent coffee and thinking time because the only one I’m pretty damn sure didn’t do it is the bitch with the snotty lawyer. That just pisses me off.”

“It’d be nice if she did it.”

“It’d be nice if geese shat out golden eggs, too. But it’s all just goose crap.”