Golden in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “If this is a problem,” Eve continued, “we can interview Headmaster Grange off campus. Say, Cop Central in New York. Detective Peabody, contact the prosecutor’s office, request a warrant.”

  “If you’d wait here a moment.” Stone-faced, Mulray stepped toward the glass. It opened for her, either signaled from a device on her person or through the security guards.

  “Way to get in her face right off,” Peabody said in a low voice.

  “I’m betting Grange wanted to try a little power play.”

  “Should I really contact Reo?”

  “Hold off until we see what she does next. If she wants to screw with us, we’ll go talk to Hayward first, come back with a warrant.”

  Mulray walked back through the doors, and the doors remained open. “I apologize, Lieutenant, Detective. I misunderstood Headmaster Grange’s directive. You are, of course, authorized to maintain your service weapons.”

  The words, clipped as her walk, didn’t quite hide a simmering flash of temper. Grange had dumped responsibility and embarrassment on her assistant, Eve concluded.

  And she bet it wasn’t the first time.

  “No problem.”

  Eve stepped through and into the spacious entrance hall. The founder’s gold-framed portrait greeted them. Lester Hensen sat in judge’s robes—looking, well, sober and judicious.

  It didn’t smell or feel like a school, Eve realized, and indeed she saw no signs of classrooms, or students. So administration only, she thought.

  No mixing.

  They passed another glass wall. Behind it a number of people worked at a number of stations. There a portrait of the founder, and one of the current headmaster, graced the walls.

  Eve figured it would be like being spied on by the brass.

  They moved past a number of offices, doors closed, then up a wide flight of stairs.

  Light poured in from skylights, through graceful windows over the blue marble floor.

  Eve wanted to ask Mulray just how much her feet and legs ached after a day walking in heels on the unforgiving surface.

  Grange’s dominion also rated double doors. When Mulray opened them, pale gold carpet replaced the marble. A couple of drones who’d obviously been chatting got quickly busy at their desks.

  Images of the campus graced the walls, along with another portrait of the headmistress. A waiting area held two sofas, four chairs. They kept going—and Eve saw the drones give each other a quick grin behind Mulray’s back.

  Through another door they entered the assistant’s office. A single desk, fully ordered, a small wall screen, a couple of visitors’ chairs, a recessed refreshment center.

  Mulray used a swipe key to access the next door.

  “The headmaster would like you to wait in her office,” she began. “As I said, she hopes to be with you very shortly. In the meantime, is there anything I can get you? Some coffee perhaps?”

  Eve let the question hang while she looked around the office.

  About triple the size of her assistant’s, it had walls done in a quiet green with a generous sitting area holding a sofa done in the same green with thin stripes that echoed the carpet. The facing chairs reversed the pattern.

  On the wall, along with art of the school hung several photos of the headmistress with what Eve assumed were donors, luminaries, VIPs.

  The desk with its mirror gloss angled so anyone sitting in the chair—high backed, dark gold leather—behind it had a full view of the door and the trio of graceful windows.

  Mementos rather than books or work supplies on a set of floating shelves.

  It had its own bath through a side door, tiled in marble with a shower and a long counter where the big-petaled lilies scenting the air sat in a crystal vase.

  “Do you handle Ms. Grange’s travel?”

  “Dr. Grange,” Mulray corrected. “Her professional travel, yes.”

  “Any recent trips to New York?”

  “I— None that I recall.”

  “I’m going to need you to check on that. How long have you been Dr. Grange’s assistant?”

  “I wasn’t aware you intended to interview me.”

  Eve just stared through her. “Do you need time to come up with the answer?”

  “Five years.” Mulray snapped it like a salute.

  “You weren’t assistant to the headmaster when she came to Lester Hensen?”

  “I took the position in August of 2056, after my predecessor retired.”

  “Were you already on staff?”

  “I was, as administrative assistant to the dean of students. I’ve been a part of Lester Hensen for nine years.”

  “Then you were here when Stephen Whitt was a student. He would have graduated in ’53.”

  “We have between nine hundred and nine hundred and twenty students in this school every year. I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly remember every one of them.”

  “Even the son of a major donor?” Eve walked over to a framed photo on the walls. “That’s daddy right there.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  “Me, too.” Eve checked her wrist unit. “Why don’t you see how much longer Dr. Grange intends to keep the NYPSD waiting?”

  “Please have a seat.” Back straight, Mulray walked out.

  “I wonder how she walks around without wincing, given how stiff her neck is.”

  Eve smiled. “Practice. Somebody, I’m betting, was in the military before she got into administration. And somebody wasn’t telling us the truth, was she, Peabody?”

  “No, sir. She knew Whitt’s name. You know what else?”

  “Do I want to?”

  “I think you’d find it interesting that the fabric on that couch, those chairs? That’s going to go for about six hundred a yard.”

  Eve gave them another look. “That’s a lot, I assume, not being updated on fabric prices.”

  “Figuring about fourteen yards—maybe fifteen—for the sofa, another twelve to fourteen for the chairs … Add some more yardage for the piping. You can do the math.”

  “No,” Eve said, “I really can’t.”

  “Well, you’re going to hit over twenty-couple thousand, and that’s before labor, before the fancy custom pillows, before the fricking sofa and chair bases you’re covering. Before, because look around, the fancy interior decorator fee. Just the sofa and chairs? I’m betting forty large.”

  “For a sitting area in a headmaster’s office? Seems … excessive.”

  “Oh yeah.” Warming to the theme, Peabody gestured with both hands. “Add that desk? That’s cherrywood, the real deal, and so are those shelves. Plus, it looks custom. That’s going to go for a good ten large right there.”

  “You can be handy, Peabody.”

  “I know my wood and fabric. You put it all together, with the tables, the lamps, those custom valances over the windows—and yeah, add the custom cherry frames on all the photos…” She poked her head in the bath. “Jesus, the Egyptian cotton towels and all that? You’re cruising toward a couple hundred grand, Dallas.”

  “That’s some decorating budget. You know what else, Peabody?”

  “I don’t know if I can take any more. I have wood and fabric envy.”

  “There’s not a single book, not in here, in the assistant’s area, not in the assistants to the assistant’s area. Not a single file or disc on the desk, the shelves. This office is all about her.”

  “Yeah, it is. And even though I admire her taste, I don’t like her already.”

  “Just channel that into looking intimidated. To start, anyway.”

  Eve turned as the door opened. She’d studied Grange’s photo a number of times already, but she had to admit the woman was impressive. She wore her deep brown hair in short, fashionable waves, masterfully highlighted. Though she stood on the soft side of seventy, her skin glowed smooth, telling Eve she’d had masterful work there, too.

  With the heels, she hit a statuesque five-eleven, with a curvy body shown to perfection in a
tailored suit of blazing red.

  Her eyes, a green as pale as the walls, studied Eve as coolly as she was studied.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, I’m Dr. Grange. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Teesha should have offered you coffee. Let me order some.”

  “We’re fine. Since we’re running behind schedule, we’d like to get started.”

  “Of course. Please have a seat.”

  She took the sofa, waited while Eve and Peabody took the chairs. Peabody cleared her throat.

  “Dr. Grange, I’d just like to say your office is really lovely.”

  Grange offered Peabody a cool smile, and a flick of a glance at the pink boots. “Thank you. I find attractive and ordered surroundings conducive to focus and concentration. The responsibilities of headmaster at a school of Lester Hensen’s import and reputation are many.”

  She crossed long legs.

  “But I believe you’re here to speak to me about my tenure at Theresa A. Gold Academy, in New York. I was very sorry to hear about the death of Dr. Rufty’s partner.”

  “Husband,” Eve corrected.

  “Yes, of course. I believe I met Dr. Abner very briefly during the transition period. But given so much time has passed, I don’t remember him well.”

  “Dr. Rufty replaced you at Gold.”

  Grange arched her eyebrows at the term replaced. “Dr. Rufty accepted the position of headmaster after I resigned.”

  “Right. And why did you resign?”

  “I was offered the position as headmaster here. While Gold Academy is a very fine school, the board of trustees made me an excellent offer and opportunity here. We are a prep school for grades nine through twelve rather than an academy for kindergarten through twelve. I wanted to focus my skills on those vital years before college.”

  “So the move to East Washington didn’t have anything to do with your divorce?”

  Her eyes went steely. “I don’t base my professional decisions on relationships. Reginald and I agreed our marriage had run its course, and parted without acrimony.”

  “Really? I got the sense he had some acrimony left over from the pile of it when he learned you were having an extramarital affair.”

  Now the jaw tightened. “My private business can’t be relevant to the murder of the partner—husband,” she corrected, “of the person who serves as headmaster of a school I left eight years ago.”

  “You’d be wrong about that.”

  “I find you very flippant, Lieutenant.”

  “I find you very evasive, Headmaster. Untangling your private affairs—make that business—while you lived and worked in New York is a key component of this investigation. And when you were headmaster at Gold, there was a teacher on staff, a Jay Duran. I’m sure you remember him, as Professor Duran filed complaints against you, along with some other members of the faculty.”

  Grange tapped a finger, tipped as red as her suit, against her thigh. “I remember Mr. Duran. He and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on my methods, my policies. The fact remained, I was in charge; he was not.”

  “Elise Duran, Professor Duran’s wife, was killed two days after Dr. Abner, and by the same method.” Eve nodded slowly. “This isn’t news to you.”

  “When the board insisted I take this meeting, I, of course, did my research. I’m sorry about Mr. Duran’s wife, and for him, for his children. But he was no more than a slight irritation from years ago. I believe he left the academy in any case, not long after I did. Perhaps he also disagreed with Dr. Rufty’s methods.”

  “He got his doctorate,” Peabody said, very quietly. “He teaches at Columbia.”

  “How nice for him. And still, nothing to do with me.”

  “As primary investigator into these murders, I disagree. Both murders connect to the Gold Academy, and to you. Both victims were married to individuals who had issues with your methods and policies and sought to change them. Why don’t we start with your whereabouts on the dates and times in question?”

  Fury sparked, stiffening Grange’s already rigid posture. “You’re insulting.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am.” Peabody played the wide-eyed conciliator. “That’s not our intention. We—”

  “You would come here and accuse me of murder?” Grange snapped back. “And claim you’re not insulting?”

  “No one’s accusing you of anything yet.” Eve put the emphasis on the last word to draw Grange’s attention back to her. “Determining your whereabouts, corroborating same is routine. Now—”

  “You will not impugn my reputation with your ridiculous routines.” She sprang up, marched to the door. Flung it open. “Teesha, pull up my calendar and tell these women where I would have been on…”

  Enjoying herself now, Eve somehow survived the molten stare and reeled off the dates and times.

  “Yes, Dr. Grange. On the evening of April twenty-sixth you attended a dinner party at Congresswoman Delaney’s home, with an arrival time of seven-thirty, a departure scheduled for ten-thirty. Mr. Lionel Kramer escorted you. On the evening of April twenty-seventh, you attended a performance of Swan Lake at the Kennedy Center with Mr. Gregor Finski. Curtain at eight.”

  “There. Satisfied?”

  “I will be when we verify that data. As our investigation leads back to the period where you and Dr. Rufty transitioned, we need the name of the staff member with whom you had an affair while serving as headmaster.”

  “Teesha, I want Kyle Jenner from legal here asap.” Grange slammed the door. “How dare you?”

  “It’s really easy. It’s called doing my job.”

  “It’s just we were given information,” Peabody began, pulling off intimidated like a champ. “And we have to follow up.”

  “Gossip isn’t information.”

  “Statements given to investigating police officers aren’t gossip,” Eve corrected. “Are you going to deny you engaged in sexual relationships outside your marriage to Mr. Greenwald? Think first,” Eve warned, “as we have statements from Mr. Greenwald as well as others regarding this. It was part of Mr. Greenwald’s statement,” Eve continued, “that your marriage included a mutual agreement that either or both of you could engage in sexual relationships outside the marriage as long as you maintained discretion. Do you dispute that?”

  “I do not. Why would I?” Haughty, not bothering to hide contempt, Grange took her seat again.

  “A few months before you left Gold, your ex-husband received compromising photographs of you with an unknown … partner. Which shoots discretion all to hell. In addition, you were engaged in sexual activities with a teacher at Gold, inside the school, when another teacher walked in. Oops.”

  “I was fending off an advance, and the incident was misinterpreted.”

  “Fine. I need names.”

  Now Grange sat back, sent Eve a look simmering with that contempt, and with smugness. “If you can recall the name of everyone you’ve had a sexual encounter with, I’m sorry for you.”

  “If you judge your worth by the number of people who’ve banged you, I’m sorry for you. But I don’t need all the names. Start with the name of the teacher—the one you were ‘fending off.’ I’m sure you remember that name, just as you remember the name of the one who walked in.”

  She let out a sigh. “It was a misunderstanding on the part of both instructors. The first who misread my interest in his work as something more personal, and the second who jumped to erroneous conclusions.”

  “Names.”

  “Van Pierson who taught history, middle grades. I believe he resigned shortly after I left. I’m afraid I don’t know where he went or his position or location at this time. Wyatt Yin, who was young, excitable, and problematic. I believe I heard he decided the rigors of private education weren’t for him after all, and opted to move into public education.”

  “Decided that all on his own?”

  “That is my recollection. Now, if that’s all.”

  “Any other names you can remember? A discarded lover often looks fo
r payback.”

  “If you’re intimating I’m in some sort of jeopardy—”

  “I’m intimating nothing. I’m saying, very clearly, two people are dead, loved ones of two people some might see as responsible for you leaving Gold and New York—and this lover. We’ve concluded that these murders spring from that.”

  “You conclude? Really?” Grange recrossed her legs, twisted her lips into a sneer. “You conclude I’m somehow indirectly responsible for two murders because I exercise my sexual freedom? I take considerable issue with your conclusions, and the hypotheses upon which they’re based. I left Gold eight years ago, cut all ties with the school, with New York. And you, somehow, believe that after eight years someone I may have slept with is punishing those who disagreed with my administrative methods.”

  Eve let the silence hang a moment. “In a nutshell.”

  On a look—very deliberate—of smug pity, Grange brushed at a wave of her hair. “You had a state-based education, correct, Lieutenant?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you had, sadly, a bare-bones, limited education. It’s an unfortunate foundation for true critical thinking.”

  “You think?” Eve said mildly.

  “One rarely finds the brightest minds with such an educational disadvantage. And you, Detective? You were raised and educated by Free-Agers?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A pity, and a shame your parents didn’t afford you a real education. Being raised in the foster system didn’t allow Lieutenant Dallas much choice regarding her limitations, but your parents, Detective? How foolish and selfish of them to put their own odd lifestyle ahead of the welfare of their children. Still, considering your disadvantages, I suppose you’ve both made the best possible career choice by becoming police officers.”

  Eve started to speak, but Peabody jumped to her feet.

  “You arrogant, entitled, condescending snob. You think your Ph.D. makes you better? I’ll tell you what I learned in my Free-Ager education. Besides all you teach in a high-priced tomb like this, I learned to plant and harvest, to cook, to weave, to sew. I learned woodworking, mechanics. I learned about compassion and tolerance and kindness.”