Brotherhood in Death

14

Knowing Su was a liar—and by association Downing and MacKensie were liars—didn’t prove them killers.

But she damn well would prove it.

Part of that process would be talking to the other men who might be part of this brotherhood.

The shortest route took her to Easterday’s townhome. What had once been two three-story row houses had been converted into one expansive home on Park Avenue.

A woman in a simple black suit with a wide, homey face answered the door.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We’d like to speak with Mr. Easterday.”

“Mr. Easterday isn’t receiving today.”

“We’re not looking for a reception. Just tell him the cops are here.”

“You can wait in the foyer—it’s very cold. I’ll ask Mr. Easterday if he’ll see you.”

White marble floors and heavy dark wood gave the generous foyer what Eve thought of as in-your-face dignity. She glanced up at the many-tiered chandelier, and thought that’s where they’d hang him if they got the chance.

Belatedly she remembered the cap, pulled it off, finger-combing her hair as she stuffed it in her pocket.

Seconds later a woman started down the long sweep of stairs.

She wore a black suit, but unlike the first there was nothing simple in this one. It fit the svelte body in a way designed to show off lines and curves, and it shimmered subtly in the crystal rain of the chandelier.

The deep blond hair had been twisted back into a knot at the nape of a long neck, leaving the face unframed. Easterday’s wife might have hit the half-century mark, Eve thought, but she knew how to turn back the clock.

“Lieutenant, Detective, I’m Petra Easterday.” She extended a slim hand with a glinting diamond to Eve, then Peabody. “My husband is indisposed. He learned of a close friend’s death this morning.”

“That’s why we’re here. That would be his second close friend in the last two days.”

“Yes, and Marshall is simply shattered. In fact, I was just upstairs trying to convince him to take a soother and lie down.”

Worry naked on her face, Petra glanced toward the stairs. “I’m happy to do anything I can to help you, but my husband simply can’t be disturbed at this time.” Even as she spoke, they heard footsteps descending. Petra sighed. “Oh, Marshall, you need to rest.”

“Petra, the police are only doing their job.”

He didn’t look shattered, Eve mused, but he certainly looked dented. Dark circles under his eyes, lines of strain around his mouth showed a man carrying grief.

While a tall man, he seemed to stoop as if his shoulders carried far too heavy a weight.

He also wore a black suit, with a black mourning band, and a quiet blue tie in a Double Windsor.

“Petra, dear, I could use some coffee.”

When she merely cocked an eyebrow, he smiled a little. “Tea then. If you would.”

“I’ll see to it. I hope you’ll both respect that my husband is grieving,” Petra said before she left them.

“She’s feeling very protective, understandably. Lieutenant Dallas, isn’t it? And Detective . . .”

“Peabody.”

“Yes, of course. Please, let’s go in, sit down.”

The front parlor continued the formality of the foyer, offset just a bit by a small, cheerful fire in a white marble hearth. The flowers here were red as blood roses; the big, boxy sofa was covered in a fussy floral print that made sitting on it feel like squatting in a garden.

Easterday took a chair with wide wings, sighed.

“It feels—it all feels impossible. I hadn’t gotten my mind around Edward, and now Jonas. Do you have a suspect?”

“We can’t discuss the details of the investigation. I’m sorry for the loss of your friends,” Eve continued, “and understand this is a difficult time for you.”

“I haven’t practiced criminal law in more than two decades—I leave that to my daughter—but I know how it’s done. Do you have questions for me that may help in your investigation?”

“Yes. You’ve lost two friends in two days, Mr. Easterday, to murder. Men you’ve known since college—about fifty years—and have stayed close to. Close enough so your name is on a short list.”

His eyes widened. “Of suspects?”

“No, sir. Of victims.”

Now he glanced quickly toward the foyer. “That sort of statement will upset my wife.”

“She’ll be more upset if I come back here to notify her of your murder.”

He shoved out of the chair. “This is ridiculous. No one has any cause to kill me.”

“But did to kill your friends?”

He sat again, spread his hands. “Edward was my friend, and has been more than half my life. As his friend I can say he could be difficult, even abrasive. No doubt he made enemies in politics, as a senator, and now through his institute.”

He’d known this was coming, Eve thought. Known there would be a list and he’d be on it. Grief aside, he’d prepared.

“And Jonas Wymann?” she asked him.

“Politics again. Surely you’ve made that connection. Jonas was brilliant, but his views were not always popular, and he’s wielded considerable influence for many, many years.”

“There are other connections,” Eve began.

Petra walked into the room just ahead of the housekeeper, who wheeled a large tea tray.

“Thank you, Marian. I’ll pour out.”

The housekeeper didn’t quite curtsy, but Eve sensed it was implied.

“I can deal with this, Petra.”

“I’m not leaving.” She spoke pleasantly, but the steel beneath was more than implied. “Cream? Sugar?” she said to Eve.

“No thanks.”

“Detective?”

“A little cream, two sugars. Thanks.”

“There’s no point in arguing, Marshall,” she continued as she poured the tea. “I’m staying. You were saying something about connections, Lieutenant.”

“The two victims have more in common with each other, and with you, Mr. Easterday, than politics.”

Petra made a sound—not quite a gasp—and passed Eve tea that Eve didn’t want. “You think Marshall . . . This person who killed Edward and Jonas, you think he might try to hurt Marshall?”

“Now, Petra—”

“Don’t placate me, Marshall. It’s something that caught me by the throat after I got over the shock of hearing about Jonas. I dismissed it, but . . .” She looked back at Eve, dead in the eye. “Is this what you think?”

“It’s something we have to consider, and have to take seriously to ensure your husband’s safety.”

“Yes. Good. Take it seriously. We’re all going to take it very seriously.”

“Petra, Edward and Jonas shared political networks and leanings I haven’t.”

She only shook her head. “You’ve been friends for decades. You socialize regularly, you golf, play poker, travel together. You lived in the same house for years back in— Oh God! Fred and Ethan.”

“That’s Frederick Betz,” Eve said quickly. “Who’s Ethan?”

“Ethan MacNamee,” Easterday told her. “One of our housemates back at Yale. He and Edward didn’t stay particularly close, and he lives in Glasgow most of the year. I only see him myself every few months.”

“And when you get together, it’s like no time’s passed,” Petra insisted. “You’re like brothers.”

“A brotherhood,” Eve said, watching Easterday’s face.

That face went stony, and his eyes cut away, just for an instant. “Yes. We’re like brothers, you could say, and I’ve lost two.”

“Three,” Petra said quietly, and took her husband’s hand. “There were six of them who shared the group house at Yale. The other was William Stevenson—Billy. He died, tragically, just before Marshall and I were married.”

“What happened?”

“He suffered from depression.” Marshall began to rub his temple. “He’d poured considerable money into a new business venture that failed, and was going through a second, brutal divorce. His father was—and is—a hard man, and berated him. It was a terrible series of blows.”

“He self-terminated?”

“He did, yes, without the legal authority, without going through the necessary counseling. He went to his family home in Connecticut, locked himself in his old bedroom, and hanged himself.”

“Hanged himself.”

“You can’t connect that to the murders. It was clearly suicide, and more than fifteen years ago. And while we were and are good friends, Edward and Jonas were the closest to each other. They shared more interests, and again, those political and social views.”

“What else did they share?” Eve asked. “Edward Mira had regular sexual relationships with a variety of women.”

Easterday struck a fist to his thigh. “I’m not going to sit here while my friends are on slabs at your morgue and impugn their reputations.”

The bluster was insult, but fear glinted through it.

“I have a list of names, of women Edward Mira had relationships with during just the past year. One of those women might be responsible for what was done to him. I need to know if Jonas Wymann shared any of those women, or shared the predilection for women.”

“Marshall.” Before he could speak, before he could release the anger Eve saw in his eyes, Petra took his hand. “They’re dead, and if this is why, you owe it to them to speak out. Please.”

“Edward made no secret of his enjoyment of women outside his marriage. And Mandy was aware.”

Easterday bit the words off.

“Their marriage was their business. Jonas was more circumspect, but . . . His habit of enjoying women outside marriage certainly led to the dissolution of both of his. However, if they shared a woman, I’m not aware.”

“And you, Mr. Easterday? Do you go outside the lines?”

“This discussion is over.”

“It’s not!” Now Petra gripped his arm. “Marshall and I have a relationship based on trust as much as love and respect. I’m fully aware he was unfaithful to his first wife. My first husband had affairs. I refused to marry Marshall for more than a year due to trust issues. We met not long after our mutual divorces.”

“I’ve never had an affair—not since you and I began.”

“I know it.” Petra laid a hand on his cheek. “I lived with a cheat,” she said to Eve. “I know the signs. Every one of them. I promised myself I’d never live with one again. I don’t break promises, Lieutenant. Marshall and I have built a strong, healthy marriage—and trust, fidelity, respect—those are cornerstones.”

“You’d know where to look,” Marshall said to Eve. “You can check my finances, my travel, you can speak to anyone at my firm. I haven’t had a relationship with another woman since I met Petra.”

“What about Betz?”

“Lieutenant, I appreciate your concern for my safety, and I respect your position, but I’m not going to gossip about my friends. Speak to him yourself.”

“I intend to. Are you friendly with Senator Fordham?”

“Not really. He’s Edward’s friend. We’ve socialized, of course, but I’d consider us acquaintances.”

“He’s not a brother then.”

“No,” Easterday said flatly, and the hand holding the teacup trembled. He set the cup down. “I’m finished with this. I don’t see how it’s in any way helpful, and you put me in the position of being disloyal to dead friends. I want to rest now.”

“Yes, you should. I’ll be right up,” Petra told him. “I’ll show the officers out, and be right up.”

To Eve, the weight on his shoulders seemed heavier as he left the room.

“We have good security,” Petra said briskly, “and I’ll make certain it’s in full use. He won’t go anywhere without me. I can hire private security to stay with him until this is resolved if you think I should.”

“I think it wouldn’t hurt. He shouldn’t keep any appointments alone,” Eve said as she rose. “That’s how both victims were lured.”

“He’s not like them—not the way you mean. He loved them, deeply, but he’s not like them. I’m not Mandy Mira, Lieutenant. Believe me.”

“I do.” Eve held her gaze. “I believe you. Thanks for your time, and your cooperation.”

Eve stepped outside, took a long breath. “Impressions, Peabody?”

“He knows things, things he hasn’t told his wife. Things he doesn’t want her to know. And he’s scared shitless. But she’d know if he cheated on her, and it came off sincere when he said he’d been faithful.”

“He didn’t use that word,” Eve pointed out. “He said he hadn’t had affairs, hadn’t had other relationships. That’s a distinction to my ear.”

“I don’t hear it.”

“He doesn’t cat around like his friends—and, yeah, she’d know if he did. She’d toss him out for it. But rolling in the sheets at a hotel, having drinks, maybe dinner, conversations? That’s different from targeting a woman, raping her, then moving on.”

“Well, Jesus.”

“Yeah. Add he knows things. Add he’s scared. Scared and angry, and defensive. He’s part of the brotherhood, Peabody, and loyalty to them, trying to hide what he’s part of from his wife, could get him or one of the others killed. Let’s see if we can shake more out of Betz.”

—

The Upper East Side home of Frederick Betz had once been a small, exclusive boutique hotel for the ridiculously rich. The ridiculously rich made it a prime target during the Urbans. It hadn’t been razed, but it had been gutted with all the original marble, stone, wood, gilt, crystal, and silver leaf chipped, hacked, pried, and hauled off.

It sat, a sad, graffiti-laced shell, for nearly two decades before Betz—an enterprising soul—bought it for a song and dance right on the edge of the revitalization trend.

He spent fully ten times the cost of the shell to turn it into his personal palace. In spending his millions, Betz proved, beyond a shadow, money couldn’t buy taste.

On the arching front door of glossy red lacquer, fat cherubs in what looked like G-strings cavorted with sly-eyed centaurs and winged horses. Three-headed dogs snarled; fierce-eyed dragons spat fire.

Some of the cherubs were armed with bow and arrow, and looked ready to use them.

Eve couldn’t decide if it was meant to be whimsical or obscene.

“It’s just creepy,” Peabody stated.

“Yeah, that’s the best word. Creepy.”

Eve glanced at the palm plate, noted it attached to the wall of the building with shiny gold fingers, and decided it took all kinds.

Of what, she’d never know. But it took all kinds.

She rang the bell, centered in a tangle of gold vines.

Good morning, the computer intoned in a rich and fruity British accent. Mr. and Mrs. Betz are not currently receiving guests. Please leave your name if you wish one of their staff to contact you.

“Scan this,” she ordered, and held out her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. It’s imperative I speak with Mr. Betz immediately.”

One moment.

The red light beamed out, scanned the badge.

Your identification has been verified, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Regretfully, Mr. Betz is not in residence at this time. If you would like to contact his personal assistant or his administrative assistant—

“I’ll take Mrs. Betz,” Eve interrupted.

Regretfully, Mrs. Betz is not in residence at this time. If you would like—

“Screw this. Who is in residence? I’ll speak to any damn human being in the house.”

One moment.

“Contact his office,” Eve told Peabody, “see if you can talk to a human. I want to know where the hell he is.”

“One moment,” Peabody couldn’t resist saying, stepping out of range as she took out her ’link.

Before Eve decided whether to snicker or snarl, she heard locks disengaging.

“Lieutenant. Detective.”

“Sila. You work here?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The cleaning contractor bobbed her head, stepped back to let them in. “For about six months now. Mrs. Betz, she fired her other cleaning company, and she got our name from Senator Mira. Is something wrong?”

“There might be. I need to find Frederick Betz.”

“Oh, golly, I don’t know where he might be. I know Mrs. Betz said how she was going to their place in Bimini, I think it is, with the baby and the nanny, and the nanny’s helper.”

“The nanny has a helper?”

A little smirk escaped. “Oh, sure. And Mrs. Betz, I think she was taking her personal assistant, too, and maybe Mr. Betz was going—she didn’t say. But we started upstairs, and well, the master suite’s a mess—that’s just usual. But I can’t say if I noticed any of his things gone, like packed up for a trip.”

“Who’s we?”

“Oh, my mama and Dara—my daughter. It takes the three of us two full days to do this house, it’s got so many curlicues and fuss, even though they have a house droid who sees to it daily. We come in twice a month, go top to bottom.”

“Do me a favor, Sila. Stop the others from cleaning anything, for now.”

“I . . . All right.” She pulled a ’link out of her pocket, tapped out a quick text. “Can you tell me why?”

“There’s been another murder, a friend of the senator’s. I’m checking in with other friends.”

“Oh my goodness. Oh my. What should we do? We’ve been working on the bedroom floor for over an hour.”

“It’s all right. Don’t touch anything else. It would help if we could talk to the house droid.”

“Oh. It’s back in the kitchen, in the storage area. I don’t know how to turn it on. Mrs. Betz, she said Mr. Betz would shut it down while they were gone, and would program it by remote to come back on, freshen the house when they planned to come back.”

“If we can’t get it on, we’ll get someone from EDD. Peabody?”

“Working my way up to his admin. Lower assistants either don’t know or won’t say where he is.”

“Keep on it. Would you show us the droid, Sila?”

“I sure will.”

She started back, out of the entrance hall—with its central koi pond and massive gold chandelier with hundreds of . . .

“Curlicues,” Eve repeated and made Sila smile.

“And folderols and gimcracks. I swear they must’ve used two tons of gold paint and a couple acres of silks and velvets. If they could put a tassel on something, they put six.”

She shook her head as they walked past art—more cavorting cherubs, women in filmy, flowing white robes, men with swords or bows—and all framed in ornate gold frames.

“I took one walk through this place, and named my price as double what I usually charge. Mrs. Betz didn’t so much as blink, so that’s fine for both of us. Lieutenant Dallas, they got themselves his and hers bathrooms off the master. Not unusual, but he’s got a full bar in his. A bar, with stools and everything, and she’s got herself a long divan in pink silk, and a wine friggie. In the bathroom. I mean to say, I don’t know anybody who does much entertaining in the toilet, no matter how fancy it is.”

They passed archways leading to rooms packed with furniture, and with furniture so loaded with pillows (hundreds of tassels) no one could possibly fit their ass on a cushion.

She didn’t know what she’d expected in the kitchen, but bright, bloody red was the signature color.

A half mile of cabinets gleamed red, as did the appliances: the two massive refrigerators, the wall ovens, the cooktop. The counters were a sea of white and the floor a spread of midnight black.

“Horrible, isn’t it? I do for a lot of people, and everybody’s got their own taste and style. But this one? My mama says it takes the cake and two slices of pie with it.”

Sila moved around the center island, took a jog left to a door—red, of course—carved with people in various states of undress gorging themselves from bowls of fruit, from fruit hanging from trees or growing fat on bushes, from fruit clutched in other figures’ hands.

“They keep the droids in here. House droid, and its backup,” Sila said as she gestured. “The vac droid, the scrubber droid, and so on. But this one’s the, well, head droid, you’d say.”

Eve approached the dark-suited droid. Tall, slim, dignified, with some whiffs of Summerset to her eye. He’d been designed with dark hair winged with silver, thin lips, and edgy cheekbones.

Eve glanced back, saw Peabody nod, hold up a finger, continue the conversation on her ’link. So Eve stepped in, angled her head, and started searching for the manual power up.

It pleased her when she found it, under the left wing of hair.

The droid made a quiet hum, then the pale blue eyes jittered, blinked, focused.

“Good morning,” it said in the same fruity Brit as the intercom comp. “I am called Stevens. I’m afraid I’m not programmed to assist you today without the authorization of Mr. or Mrs. Betz.”

Eve took out her badge. “Scan and verify. I’m here on police business. I need information. You can give me that information or I’ll have you taken into Central where EDD will extract said information.”

“One moment.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Your identification is verified. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Is there a police emergency?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Dallas.”

Eve pointed at the droid to signal wait, turned to Peabody.

“His admin says he’s expected in this morning. He plans to join his wife, but didn’t leave with her. She left yesterday morning, and as of now, his plans are to leave tomorrow or the day after.”

Eve turned back to the droid. “When did Mr. Betz leave the premises?”

“I am unable to answer accurately. Mrs. Betz shut me down at ten-thirty-eight yesterday morning at her departure. Mr. Betz had already left the residence. He departed for his office at approximately nine-fifteen.”

“His return?”

“I am unable to answer accurately as I have been on off mode since ten-thirty-eight yesterday morning.”

“Would Betz generally put you back on when he returned?”

“Most usually, yes.”

“How does Mr. Betz get to work?”

“He engages a driver. Royal Limo and Transportation Service. His most usual driver is George. I regret I have no last name.”

“Peabody.”

“On it.”

“Do you know if Mr. Betz had any appointments scheduled yesterday, appointments here, in the residence?”

“No such appointment was programmed into my calendar.”

Maybe he hadn’t had one, Eve thought, and they’d taken him by surprise.

But they’d taken him.

“I’m going to need contact information for Mrs. Betz, and I need to know where the security center is in this residence. Security center first.”

“Dallas, he didn’t order his driver for this morning.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

The droid led her through a second door, and one look told her everything.

“Hard drive and disc are gone. And so’s Betz. They’ve got him.”

She turned to see Sila in the doorway, arms clutching her middle, hands clutching her elbows. “Oh my God, Lieutenant. Oh my God. Do you think he’s . . . we haven’t been all through the house yet. Do you think he’s . . .”

“Not yet, but we’ll go through it. I want you to get your mother and . . . Dara, right? Get them downstairs, into the room at the front. I’m going to need you to tell us exactly what you touched this morning. Peabody—”

“Contacting EDD. Do you want Baxter and Trueheart?”

“Send them to the admin. Send EDD there, too. We’ll probably need a warrant, but I figure we’ve got cause at this point. Let’s have somebody sit on the Easterday house, and see about getting protection for the others. They’re probably all right for the moment, but we won’t risk it.”

It might be too late for Betz, she thought, and that would make it three for three. But she’d be damned if she’d let them add another to their scoreboard.