Brotherhood in Death

13

Eve checked out Wymann’s second wife, and crossed her off. The woman had married again, and again aimed for the older and the wealthy. She was now sitting pretty in a villa in the south of France.

Still, she poked a little more, and came up with an alibi, as wife number two had been cohosting a winter gala in Cannes at the time of Senator Mira’s abduction. The international style and society pages were full of reports and photos—and fashion critiques.

Reading them made Eve’s brain ache.

Not the wives, she thought, angling to study her board. They’d moved on. But others hadn’t.

She toggled back to Charity Downing. And Downing took her to Lydia Su, who’d attended Yale and, like MacKensie, Inner Peace. Time to talk to Downing’s alibi.

Before she did, there was something she could do from her desk. She contacted Edward Mira’s daughter.

The woman looked pale and drawn, but fully awake. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Sorry to disturb you this early.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re not getting a lot of sleep around here. Have you found my father’s killer?”

“Working on it. If I ask you who are his closest friends—for now stick with his age group—who comes immediately to mind?”

“Oh, well. Jonas Wymann. They go all the way back to Yale.”

“Right. Anyone else?”

“Ah, Frederick Betz. He and my father and Mr. Wymann—and Marshall Easterday—all went to Yale together. They had a group house together. And there’s Senator Fordham. They became good friends when my father was a senator. Is that helpful?”

“Yeah, it is. Mrs. Sykes, the media reports are going to start hitting soon. Jonas Wymann was murdered early this morning, in the same manner as your father.”

“What?” Her eyes went blank. “What? I don’t . . . Why? Why is this happening?”

“I’m working on that, too. Can you think of anyone who would want to cause your father and Wymann harm? Who might link them together?”

“I don’t understand any of this. I’m sorry, I don’t understand this. He—Mr. Wymann—he used to sneak Ned and me little chocolates when we were kids. He’s dead. Murdered. Like my father?”

“I’m sorry. If you or your brother think of anything that connects them, of anyone who might have a grudge against them, let me know.”

“I need to contact Ned. I don’t want him to hear about this on screen. The others, the others you asked about. You think someone might do this to them?”

“It’s something we need to consider. I’ll be speaking with them. If anyone else comes to mind, contact me. Anytime.”

“I will. I’ll ask Ned. Thank you for telling me. I need to . . . I have to go.”

Eve pulled up addresses, started to push away from her desk when her ’link signaled. She might have ignored it, but she saw Baxter on the display.

“Dallas. What’ve you got?”

“A lot of shock from the work contacts we’ve pulled out of bed so far, and a handful of names we pried out. Ladies he’s dated in the last year or so. For an older guy, he gets a lot of touch. We’ve talked to two of them so far. More shock. Shaky alibis all around for TOD as everyone we’ve talked to claimed to have been home in bed. Some spouses or cohabs to corroborate, but that stays shaky in my books.”

“Find out if any of the sidepieces went to Yale, or has a connection to Yale. Any of them do a stint at a place called Inner Peace.”

“Can do. None of the names we’ve got cross with the ones on the senator’s list. Looks like they didn’t poach each other’s forest.”

A man who’d poach on his cousin’s fiancée would poach on a friend’s skirt, Eve thought. “We’ll see about that. Any Yale connection, any Realtors, anybody looking for inner fricking peace, tag me.”

“Got it. One more thing. We rousted his admin out of bed, and once we’d calmed her down, we got she’d spoken to him via ’link at about three in the afternoon. He was pretty broken up about his pal, taking the day at home. And she confirmed he had plans to see his grandson’s performance last night. But here’s something. He had a four o’clock on the books. She asked him if he wanted her to cancel, and he decided to go ahead with it.”

“What appointment?”

“A writer. Somebody doing a biography on him—or planning to. Meet was at four, his home.”

“Tell me you’ve got a name.”

“I’m telling you I’ve got a name. Cecily Anson, age fifty-eight, married, one offspring, female. Lives in SoHo. Ah, let me look here . . . No Yale. Went to Brown. Her wife, that’s Anne C. Vine, age fifty-nine, MIT—software designer. And . . . daughter, Lillith, age twenty-six, Carnegie Mellon, architect with Bistrup and Grogan, a Midtown firm.”

“I’m heading out, so I’ll take them on the way to where I’m going. First vic’s admin didn’t have the name of his appointment. Feels too pat to have all this with number two.”

“Sometimes you get lucky.”

“Mostly you don’t. Keep at it until we do.” She cut him off, grabbed her coat. When she hit the bullpen, she said, “Peabody,” and kept going.

Peabody, puffing a bit, caught up with her at the elevator. “Did we get a break?”

“Maybe. Wymann’s admin spoke with him at three, so he was still at home and under no duress. But he had an appointment at four, at home, with a biographer. Cecily Anson.”

“We’ve got a name.”

“Name, address, basic data. She’s late fifties, so old for the vic’s taste, and since she’s got a wife probably not sexually oriented to be his sidepiece. Got a grown daughter who might be, and a place in SoHo. We’ll hit that before we go talk to Lydia Su.”

Peabody pulled on a hat—candy green with icy blue edging. “It doesn’t feel like they’d leave us such a direct line.”

“No, it doesn’t. But whoever kept that four o’clock is likely the one who abducted, tortured, and killed him. Check in with Morris. Let’s see if he can give us a ballpark on when Wymann incurred the injuries. And let’s get some uniforms back out, canvassing neighbors with that specific time frame. It might spark something.”

Within two minutes the elevator was jammed with cops, sad-eyed civilians, and a couple of shady characters Eve made as cops undercover.

But she stuck it out, telling herself the stupid elevator would be quicker than the glides.

“I got more names from Gwen Sykes—tight friends. We’re going to talk to them—in person or by ’link.”

“You think they’ll try for three?”

“We’re not going to risk it. Two go back to Yale where they and the two vics had a group house together. That may prove interesting. The other made pals with the senator when they were both in East Washington. Senator Fordham.”

She muscled off the elevator at her garage level, sucked in air. In the car she plugged in the Anson-Vine address, considered her options, then contacted Whitney as she drove out.

“Sir,” she began. “I had additions to the report I sent on Jonas Wymann. Peabody and I are en route to interview a person of interest. Earlier I spoke with Senator Mira’s daughter and she gave me three names, close friends of her father. While we will contact them, one is Senator Fordham. I believe his security detail and staff should be informed of a possible threat.”

“Agreed. I’ll see to it.”

“Commander, I may need to interview Fordham, and under the circumstances, I can’t be overly delicate about it.”

“Understood. But some delicacy will be called for. Either I or Chief Tibble will set up the interview if and when it’s necessary. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jeez.” Peabody goggled. “You really think a sitting senator is involved in some sort of sex club? If that’s what’s going on. I mean . . . What am I saying?” Peabody shook her head. “Sex and politics, right?”

“I don’t think the sex has anything to do with politics. It’s brotherhood. It’s power. Do a run on the names I’ve got. Frederick Betz and Marshall Easterday. Both Yale alumni, same time frame as our two vics. All four sharing a house during college. Find out if Fordham went to Yale.”

She navigated traffic while Peabody worked, spied a street spot and bagged it.

“Betz,” Peabody told her. “As in Betz Chemicals—everything from household cleaners to rocket fuel. He’s third generation. Stands as current president. Currently on wife number three, who’s younger than his youngest daughter at twenty-nine. They’ve been married three years. He has four kids, including a three-year-old courtesy of the current wife.

“Why would a guy cruising seventy want to procreate?”

“Must I repeat?” Eve asked. “The penis.”

“Okay, the penis has no shame. Easterday, Marshall. Lawyer, and that’s third generation. Senior partner of Easterday, Easterday, and Louis. On wife number two, but that’s stuck for . . . fifteen years, and she’s actually fifty-two. Two kids, both from the first marriage. Daughter is the second Easterday in the firm. Son is a neurosurgeon in Philadelphia.”

“Okay, we’ll roll on them this morning.”

“And Fordham went to Ole Miss—no Yale connection.”

Eve got out of the car, studied the five-story building. The old post-Urban squat and square had been refaced, whitewashed. The double-wide entrance doors looked old in a rich, important way, but she noted on closer inspection they were reinforced steel, done up with some illusionary fancy paint.

The security was first-rate.

“Anson has the first floor.” Eve considered, pressed the buzzer for the main floor unit.

It took a minute, then a sleepy female voice came through the speaker. “It’s way too early for anything you’re selling.”

Eve held up her badge. “NYPSD,” she began.

“Mike? Is it Mike? Oh God.”

Before Eve could answer, the buzzer for the locks sounded. As she pushed open the door, a woman came flying out of a door at the end of a smart-looking foyer.

Heavily pregnant, barefoot, and clad in penguin-covered pajamas, she moved with astonishing speed.

“Something happened to Mike.” She grabbed Eve’s shoulders in a vise-grip, her big brown eyes glassy with fear. “Tell me fast.”

“We’re not here about Mike. Take a breath.”

“You’re sure? It’s not Mike.” She pressed a hand to her swollen belly, swayed a little.

Peabody caught her arm. “Ma’am, let’s go sit down, okay?”

“You’re not grief counselors? You’re not making a notification?”

“Nothing like that at all.” Peabody used her most soothing voice as she gently steered the woman around.

“Sorry. It’s probably hormones. Everything’s hormones right now. It’s just Mike—my fiancé—he’s on the job, so I thought . . . whoosh. Yeah, let’s just sit down.”

“You’re not Cecily Anson,” Eve said as Peabody supported the woman into the door of a living area as smart as the foyer.

“No, she’s my mother. Oh God, did something happen to the Moms?”

“No.” Eve said it firmly before hormones could kick in again. “As far as we know, everyone’s fine. Lillith?”

“Yes.” Lillith levered herself into a big red chair in the middle of the smart space and bold colors. She shoved a hand through a mass of curling brown hair. “Lil, mostly. And I’m sorry for the hysteria. I know better. I’m carrying a cop’s kid, after all.” She smiled—a dazzler—and some color came back into her face. “Mike Bennet—Detective Bennet, out of Central. Maybe you know him.”

“I do.” Judging the crisis had passed, Peabody sat down. “He’s a good guy.”

“He really is.”

“How far along are you?”

“Just hit thirty-one weeks, so I’ve a ways to go.” Lillith folded her hands on the penguin-covered mountain. “I don’t know how.”

Neither did Eve. Could that mountain actually get bigger? How was it possible?

“Is your mother at home?” she asked.

“No. The Moms are in Adelaide—Australia. Mike and I have the third floor, but we’re having some remodeling done due to . . .” She patted the mountain. “So we’re staying here while they’re away. He’s on nights right now. He should be home pretty soon. Sorry, can I get you something?”

“We’re good. How long has Ms. Anson been out of the country?”

“Just over three weeks. They’ll be back next week, plenty of time to fuss over me before the baby comes. What’s this about? I should’ve asked that right away.”

“Do you know if Ms. Anson is working on, or planning to work on, a biography of Jonas Wymann—the economist?”

Lillith frowned, absently rubbed her mountain. “I don’t think so. She’s working on a bio of Marcus Novack right now. That’s why they’re in Australia. He built schools and health centers in the Outback. She sometimes has something else in the works—or in the planning stage—but I never heard her mention that name.”

“Taking a monthlong trip to Australia takes some planning, I guess.” Peabody kept her voice, her smile easy. “They must’ve been planning it for a while.”

“Since last summer, though Mike and I had to convince them to go. I had to swear I wouldn’t go into labor until they got back. Look, I’m steady now, and like I said, engaged to a cop. What’s this Wymann have to do with my mother?”

She looked steady now, Eve judged—considering the penguin mountain. Clear-eyed and calm.

“Mr. Wymann was murdered. He had an appointment on his books for yesterday at four P.M. with your mother.”

Lillith just shook her head. “He couldn’t have. Mom doesn’t make mistakes like that, and honestly I’ve never heard her mention that name. She talks about her projects. I understand why you’re here now. She’d be a suspect, but she’s halfway around the world. You can contact her. I’ll give you the information you need to contact her.”

“I’d appreciate that, but not because she’s a suspect. I believe you,” Eve said. “But her name was on the victim’s appointment book, so someone used it to get to him. You said she talks about her projects. I bet she talked about this trip.”

“To anyone who’d listen. The Moms love to travel. And I follow you. Someone who knew she’d be gone, out of contact, used her name. God. She’ll be so upset.”

Lillith shoved up from the chair, belly first, when the door opened. The way she said “Mike” told Eve the seed of fear planted by the early morning visit had rooted.

“Hey, babe, what’s—” He all but came to attention when he spotted Eve. “Lieutenant.”

“Detective. There’s no problem here. We’re looking for Ms. Anson to assist in an investigation.”

“CeCe?” He wrapped an arm around Lillith, his eyes on Eve.

“We believe someone used her name, may have impersonated her, to gain access to Jonas Wymann.”

“Wymann. I heard about that. Hey, Peabody.”

“Hey, Mike.”

“Come on, Lil, sit.”

“I’m just glad to see you.” She rubbed a hand on his cheek, a little scruffy after his night shift. “Just glad to see that face. I want my one measly cup of coffee for the day. How about I make some all around?”

“That’d be great.”

“I’ll do that and the lieutenant can fill you in. I didn’t even ask your name,” Lillith remembered, and Mike shoved the dark watch cap off a messy thatch of sandy hair.

“Man, Lil. It’s Dallas.”

“It’s— Oh!” Lillith held the belly and laughed. “Hormones ate my brain. Of course it is. Dallas and Peabody. We’ve seen the vid three times. Mike loves it. Well, I’m going to stop worrying about the Moms right now. If Mike thinks you’re the best, you are. I’ll get the coffee. He can help,” she added as she walked away. “He’s a really good cop.”

“She has to say that. But I’ll help any way I can.” He pulled off his coat, a man with a slim build and a cop’s keen eyes. “Edward Mira, Jonas Wymann. Pretty high-powered targets. I can’t see how CeCe, or either of the Moms could connect. They’re solid as they come.”

“Lillith said they’d had this trip planned awhile.”

“Yeah.” He sat on the arm of the chair Lillith had vacated. “We had to give them a boost out the door because of the baby, but CeCe really wanted to go, to absorb the place, to talk to people who’d known this guy she’s writing about. So we compromised. They were going for six weeks, but cut it down to four. And we talk to them every day. Sometimes a couple times a day.”

“Did they book the trip—the travel, the lodging—themselves or use a service?”

“Annie handles all that. CeCe and Annie—the Moms.”

“Can you give us a list of people they’d talk to, people who’d know they’d be gone?”

He puffed out his scruffy cheeks. “It’d almost be easier to give you a list of who wouldn’t know.” He popped up when Lillith came back in with a tray, took it from her.

“Do they belong to any clubs, any groups?” Peabody asked. “You know, women’s groups?”

Eve saw the quick understanding flicker in Mike’s eyes. They were looking for female killers.

“Oh Lord, yes.” Obviously amused, Lillith sat while Mike passed around the coffee. “I remember how you like it, if the vid’s factual. Anyway, Femme Power—that’s a lesbian-based activist group. They’re charter members there. They go to a book club that’s pretty much all women, and help out at a couple of shelters for battered women, rape victims. C-Mom teaches writing as therapy, as an outlet for self, and A-Mom does the same with art. She does bad watercolors. I mean not horrible, just bad. But it makes her happy.

“Now the three of you are wondering what you can say in front of me. I can go in the other room, but it’ll annoy the crap out of me.”

“It’s okay.” Mike rubbed her shoulder. “You’re thinking someone they know through their hobbies or volunteer work used CeCe as a ploy.”

“It’s possible. I’d like as many names from those areas as possible.”

“They won’t betray the women who they’ve met through the shelters or in the therapy sessions,” Lillith said, and her shoulders squared under Mike’s hand. “You can’t expect that.”

“I’m looking for names that are already on my list of suspects,” Eve explained. “Someone used your mother to get close enough to kill someone. She’s killed twice. I believe she’ll kill again.”

“Let me work on that, Lieutenant.” Mike kept rubbing Lillith’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to them, explain. It’s doubtful they have full names, not from the shelter or the sessions anyway.”

“Staff,” Eve added. “We might be looking for other volunteers or staff.”

“They run what they call Positive Forces on Wednesday nights at Community Outreach on Canal,” Mike told them. “The social worker who coordinates is Suzanne Lipski. Twenty-five-year vet, tough and sharp. And clean. I ran her.”

“You did not! Mike!”

“Once I hooked you, they became my moms, too. Bet your ass I ran her. She’ll protect her women, Lieutenant, but she won’t protect a killer. She knows me, so maybe I can get something there if there’s something to get. Or at least pave the way for you some.”

“The more names, the better. And the sooner the better,” Eve said as she rose. “I appreciate the time, the help, the coffee. How do you live on one cup a day?”

Lillith took a tiny sip. “I ask myself that every day when I’ve finished the one cup. And somehow I do.”

—

They look good together,” Peabody commented when they walked back to the car. “Come off solid. And since he’s got an in, he might be able to wrangle some names.”

“Maybe. It’s worth giving him a shot at it first. Clearly somebody connected to Anson knew she’d be out of the way long enough to use this ruse, and wasn’t worried about cops following up.”

Once in the car, Peabody unbundled herself a little. “Those groups—support groups—they’re like priests in the confessional. Absolute confidentiality. So whoever tapped Anson counted on that. A lot of it’s just first names, or code names.”

“Everybody’s got a face,” Eve said and pulled away from the curb. “We show pictures, get reactions. We may not get confirmation, but we’ll get reactions.”

And that’s what she was looking for with Lydia Su.

—

Eve had to settle for a crappy little parking lot and a two-block hike in wind that decided to swirl up and kick through the city canyons. Peabody rebundled, and Eve yanked the snowflake cap on.

It made her think of Dennis Mira.

“We need to get Mr. Mira’s impressions of the three names I got from the senator’s daughter. We’ll notify them first, talk to them, but I want his take.”

“He usually has good ones.”

“Yeah, he does. But Mira told me he’s got a blind spot where his cousin’s concerned. She taps Edward Mira as a sociopath—highly functional. Said he was always a bully, and a sexual predator.”

“Harsh. But if we’re following the right line, it fits.”

“It’s the right line.” Eve stopped in front of Su’s building. A slick high-rise, probably along the lines of what Nadine was after.

No doorman, she noted. An auto-scan that accepted a scan of her badge with minimal fuss.

Identification verified, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Please state the nature of your business and/or the party you wish to visit.

“That would be police business seeing as you scanned the badge, and we’re here to speak with Lydia Su, unit 2204.”

Thank you for that information. The resident of unit 2204 is being notified. You are cleared to step inside and wait.

Eve walked into a generous lobby of white and silver with some bold blue chairs, verdant potted trees, and a moving map of the building.

It boasted its own market, both a men’s and women’s boutique, a business and banking center on its mezzanine level (for residents and their guests only). It held a fitness center, two bars, and three restaurants. Building management and administration had offices on level three.

By the time she’d scanned the map, noted the location of 2204—corner unit, facing south and east—the computer cleared them to an elevator.

Guests cleared to twenty-second floor, the elevator announced. Have a pleasant visit.

“Why can’t they ever just shut up?” Eve wondered. “Who needs a comp to wish them a pleasant visit? Su cleared us pretty quick,” she added and, glancing around the silver box, noted the security cams. “Maybe expecting this follow-up to your conversation with her yesterday, verifying Downing’s alibi.”

“She breezed through that. Just the right amount of surprise, and all cooperation.”

“I bet if we checked her ’link, she alerted Downing we’re here.”

Eve stepped off on twenty-two. She walked down the wide hallway carpeted in muted silver, past glossy black doors to 2204. She pressed the bell with one hand, held up her badge with the other.

The minute Lydia Su opened the door, she thought: You’re in this.

It was only a flicker, there then gone, an angry awareness that lit the long, searing brown eyes before Lydia offered a polite if puzzled smile.

“Good morning. Is this about Senator Mira’s murder? I spoke with a detective yesterday.”

“This is a follow-up. You spoke with Detective Peabody,” Eve added, gesturing to her partner.

“Oh, yes. Well, please come in. I’m a little befuddled. I was sleeping. I had to work quite late.”

“Sorry to disturb you. We won’t take up much of your time.”

“Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”

“We’re fine.”

“Please, sit.” She led the way into an airy living area with two curved chairs, a long, low sofa with a central pillow fashioned as a peacock, tail feathers spread. Some sort of exotic flowers speared out of a clear, square vase with shiny black pebbles layered in the base. Filmy shades flowed down the windows.

Lydia hit about five-two and crossed to the sofa on small feet clad in house skids. She wore a lounge set in creamy white with a long black cardigan.

She might have been sleeping after a long night, Eve thought, but she’d taken the time to groom her hair—straight as rain—back into a sleek tail.

She sat, graceful as a dancer. “How can I help?”

“You spent your day off with Charity Downing. Day before yesterday.”

“That’s right. We had lunch, did some shopping, had our nails done. We were enjoying ourselves, so we stopped for a drink, then decided to go back to Charity’s, have some dinner, watch some screen. I left around nine, I think. It was a nice day with a friend.”

“Sounds like it. How did you come to be friends?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t seem to have much in common.”

Eve shrugged as she looked casually around the room. And at the fancy bronze riot bar on the door.

Fancy or not, a riot bar was overkill in a place like this.

“The struggling artist,” she continued, “and the Yale alum, the scientist with the doctorate. How long have you been friends—the intimate sort of friends you must be, as Charity said you were the only one she’d told about her relationship with Edward Mira?”

“We found we have a great deal in common. An appreciation of art, we enjoy—for the most part—the same music, enjoy watching vids at home, in the quiet. We like each other’s company. I like to think I was supportive and nonjudgmental when it came to the choices she made with Edward Mira. As a friend should be.”

“Right. How’d you meet again?”

“I went into the gallery where she worked one day, and we simply hit it off, as some do.”

“Lucky chance. I figured you had that whole insomnia thing going together.”

“Excuse me?”

“The studies you both volunteered for.”

“I . . . Yes. But . . . We weren’t in the same study, and didn’t know each other until after.”

“What a coincidence. So you were looking for some art?”

It came again, that flicker. But only anger this time. “I was,” Lydia said coolly. “Browsing, really, and Charity was knowledgeable and personable. We ended up going for coffee on her break, and simply became friends. Is that so unusual?”

“Like I said, lucky chance—just like the insomnia. So, did you buy anything?”

“Yes. That painting.” She gestured to a large study of a trio of bushes flowering in deep, deep pink, and a woman in the background, facing away, head bowed.

“Lucky chance for her, too. So you left Charity’s place about nine. And then?”

“I came home, caught up on some reading, and went to bed.”

“How about last night?”

“Last night? Why?”

“Jonas Wymann, a close friend of Edward Mira’s, was murdered. Were you and Charity hanging out again?”

“No. I was at work until nearly ten, then came home and put another three hours in on a project. At least three. I didn’t go to bed until after two.”

“Did Charity ever mention Wymann to you?”

“No. I don’t recall the name. I don’t believe she met any friends of Edward Mira’s, or she would have told me.”

“Even if she’d slept with him, too.”

The muscles in Lydia’s jaw tightened, as did—for just an instant—the fingers of the hands she’d calmly folded in her lap. “As I wouldn’t have judged her, I believe, yes, she would have told me. And if you see Charity as whorish because she was foolish enough to sleep with a powerful, married man who appears to have made it a habit to prey on foolish women, you judge far too harshly. His death is, undoubtedly, difficult for his friends and his family, but to my mind he victimized Charity and others like her.”

“That’s pretty judgmental, isn’t it, Peabody?”

“Leans that way.”

“But we all have our own scale, don’t we? How about Carlee MacKensie?” Eve threw out the question on the heels of the other, and got a reaction. More than a flicker—a quick flash of shock.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s pretty simple. Carlee MacKensie. But I can refresh you. You both spent some time at Inner Peace.”

Anger burned low and sharp in her eyes, but her voice remained coldly controlled. “My visit to Inner Peace is personal.”

“Nothing stays personal with murder. Did you meet Carlee MacKensie there?”

“As the conditions of Inner Peace are headlined by confidentiality, we used only first names while in residence. I recall no one there named Carlee.”

“I’ve got a photo,” Peabody said helpfully, and took one out.

Lydia glanced at it, then away. “I don’t recognize her.”

“You know what’s another coincidence?” Eve kept her eyes on Su’s face. “MacKensie went to Yale, too. Just like you. Just like Senator Mira, like Jonas Wymann. School ties, insomnia, and Inner Peace. Yeah, that’s a lot of . . . what’s the word, Peabody?”

“Maybe happenstance.”

“Hmm. Not the word I had in mind, but we can go with it. Happenstance.”

Lydia pulled back, folded her hands in her lap again, palm to palm. “I suppose it’s a necessary part of your job to be suspicious. How unfortunate for you.”

“Unfortunate? Nah. It’s what gets me going in the morning.” Eve smiled then, deliberately predatory. “It’s more unfortunate for people who think they can get away with murder.”

“I can only tell you Charity and I spent the day together, as described. Now. Is there any other way I can help?”

“No, that ought to do it.” Eve rose. “Thanks for your time.”

She paused at the door. “Oh, you can let your good friend know we’ll be following up with her, too. Suspicions not only get me going in the morning, they keep me going all day long.”

They went out to the elevator. Eve glanced back down the long, elegant hallway. “She’s lying, right down the line.”

“I gotta say, oh yeah on that. You got under her skin and more than once. She nearly flubbed it when you brought up MacKensie. She absolutely recognized her, and never saw it coming.”

“No question about it. Interesting she said Edward Mira preyed on Charity and women like her. Nonjudgmental, my ass,” she said as they stepped into the elevator. “That one was part judge, jury, and executioner. And she took a lot of pride in it. We’re going to start peeling the layers off.”