by J. D. Robb
“Oh, no.” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “No. Come on. Not Nat.”
Her voice rose and cracked. In response, the baby unplugged its mouth and wailed.
“You knew her.” Eve took a subtle side step away from the baby.
“Sure. She was here a lot. They’re getting married in a few months.” The woman’s eyes filled as she shifted to hold her baby closer. “I liked her a lot. We’re all looking forward to being neighbors. Bick and Nat, me and my husband. We…I can’t believe it. What happened? What happened to Nat?”
“We need to talk to Mr. Byson.”
“God. God. Okay, okay.” Obviously shaken, she turned to call for the elevator. “It’s going to kill him. Ssh, Crissy, ssh.” She bounced and jiggled and patted the baby as they jammed into the elevator. “They were nuts about each other—but not sickening about it, if you get me. I liked her so much. Maybe there’s a mistake.”
“I’m sorry” was all Eve said. “Did she mention any problems? Anything, anyone bothering her?”
“No, not really. Some wedding jitters, just typical stuff. They were getting married up in Cleveland, where she’s from. Hunt and I were going—our first trip since Crissy came. Hunt’s my husband. Look, I’ll go get the key,” she added when the doors opened into a hallway. “That’s his place, there. We share the floor.”
“Just the two units up here?”
“Yeah. Nice space. Good light. Hunt and I bought our apartment when I got pregnant. It’s a nice neighborhood, and we’ve got three bedrooms.”
She unlocked her own door, tirelessly jiggling the baby who now had the slack-jawed, glaze-eyed look of a satisfied junkie. Holding the door open with one hip, she snatched a set of keys from a bowl on a table by the door.
“We didn’t get your name,” Eve told her.
“Oh, sorry. Gracie, Gracie York.” She turned the key in the lock, typed a code in on a minipad over it. “Maybe Bick had errands to run or something. I didn’t hear him go out before, so he must’ve left early. Crissy’s been fussy so I slept in a little this morning. She’s teething.” Gracie started to open the door, but Eve held up a hand to block her.
“Just a minute.” Eve knocked. “Mr. Byson,” she called out. “This is the police. Open the door, please.”
“I really don’t think he’s home,” Gracie began.
“Even so, we’ll wait a minute before going in.” Eve knocked again. “Mr. Byson, this is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. We’re coming in.”
The minute she opened the door, Eve knew Byson was home, and that his neighbor’s earlier words had been right on the mark. Natalie Copperfield’s murder had killed him. Or, Eve was banking, her murderer certainly had.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!” Gracie babbled the words so that they came out in a single high-pitched hysterical stream as she pressed her baby’s face to her shoulder and stumbled back from the doorway.
“Ms. York, go back inside your apartment,” Eve ordered. “Go back in, lock your door. Either my partner or I will be over in just a minute.”
“It’s Bick. Is it Bick? Right across the hall. We’re right across the hall.”
At a wordless signal from Eve, Peabody took the woman’s arm. “Take Crissy back home,” Peabody said gently. “Take her on in. Nothing’s going to happen to her. Just go inside and wait.”
“I don’t understand. He must be dead. Right across the hall.”
Peabody got the neighbor inside, turned back to Eve with a resigned look on her face. “I guess you want me to take her.”
“You’re damn right. Call it in first, Peabody, then go in, get a formal statement from the neighbor. I’ll get the field kits and start on the scene.”
3
ONCE SHE’D RETRIEVED THE KITS, EVE SEALED her hands, sprayed sealant on her boots. With her recorder engaged, she entered the crime scene.
Side window, she noted, facing the neighboring building, and with a narrow balcony. “South-facing window is open,” she said for the record, and moved around the outer edge of the room for a closer look. “Appears to have been forced open from the outside. Emergency evac here, probably used to gain access. Possibly exited by the same route.”
Safer that way, Eve thought. No chance of the next-door neighbors catching you coming or going.
She turned from where she believed the killer had entered. “The body’s face up, hands and feet bound with duct tape, as previous vic. Second vic is mix-race male, late-twenties, wearing only a pair of white boxers. Woke up, didn’t you, Bick, heard somebody out here. Gave him some trouble. Signs of struggle apparent. Overturned table, broken lamp. Not all of this blood’s going to be the victim’s, so there’s a break for our side. Victim’s face and body show bruises and lacerations.”
She worked her way in, then crouched by the body. “Some burn marks here, too, but these look like contact burns from a stunner mid-chest. They fight, killer incapacitates Byson with a stun, binds him, beats him. Questions him? Blue plastic cord of some kind used for strangulation.”
Hunkered where she was, she scanned the room again. “There are some building materials in the north corner of the room, tied with blue plastic cord, like that around the vic’s neck.”
She took the prints for confirmation of ID, bagged his hands. “Time of death,” she said as she read her gauge, “two forty-five A.M. Came here after doing Copperfield.” She bent closer. “Traces of adhesive around the mouth, as per previous victim. Why yank it off? Needed you to tell him something? Wanted to hear you choke as he strangled you? Maybe some of both.”
She straightened to move from the body into the room off the living area. Bachelor’s bunking area, she deduced. Probably not the master, but where he was sleeping during the rehab. Mattress on a pallet, and the mate of the broken lamp on one of the two tables by the bed. Clothes strewn around, but in a way that said messy guy rather than search.
“Woke up. Grabbed one of the lamps for a weapon. The woman, she grabs for her ’link and tries to run, but the guy’s got a different instinct. Protect the cave. Goes out, tangles with the killer. Surprises him maybe. Fight. Bruising on vic’s knuckles indicate he got a couple hits in anyway. Full-contact stun, and he goes down.”
She walked back out, studied the positioning again. “Killer tapes hands and feet, gags him. Doesn’t kill him straight away, then. Why gag him if he’s stunned? Has something to say or do first, then. Questions to ask. Did you tell him what you did to Natalie? Bet you did.”
She did a quick preliminary walk-through. The loft had three bedrooms, as the neighbor said hers did. The largest of them was empty but for more building supplies. The last was set up as an office. But there was no comp unit. She could see where there’d been one, probably covered with a protective cloth when construction was on the slate. There was a coat of dust on the folding table standing as a desk, and a clear spot on it where a computer would have stood.
She was back in the living area studying the open window when Peabody came in.
“Neighbor’s shook, but she’s solid. I let her contact her husband, ask him to come home from work. He left, by the way, about seven this morning. Wit says her husband and the vic here sometimes hit the health club together before work. They obviously didn’t hook up this morning.”
“His TOD’s about an hour after Copperfield’s. Same MO. No comp on premises, no discs.”
“They had something on someone,” Peabody concluded. “Work-related probably. Knew something, heard something, worked on something. That how he got in?” she asked, lifting her chin toward the window.
“It’s been forced. Evac’s here on this level, but he likely exited that way. Could have sent it back up from the ground. We’ll want the sweepers to dust the controls. Won’t be prints, but it keeps them busy.”
She ran through the scene, and her take of it, for her partner.
“Maybe some DNA on the pieces of the lamp, some on the vic’s fists.” Peabody looked down at the body. “Guy was in good shape. Look
s like he gave his attacker some trouble.”
“Not enough.”
They left the crime scene in the hands of the sweepers and headed for the accounting firm.
“You know, seeing the kid back there reminded me. How’d the coaching class go last night?”
“It’s not to be discussed,” Eve said. “Ever.”
“Aw, come on.”
“Ever.”
To hide a smirk, Peabody glanced out the side window and looked longingly at a corner glide-cart. “Baby shower’s coming right up. You set?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Or she hoped she was.
“I made her this sweet baby blanket while I was in the weaving mode over the holidays. It’s all rainbow colors. I’m doing these cute little booties and a hat, too. What’d you get her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t gotten her shower gift yet? Cutting it close.”
“I got a few days.” Considering, Eve glanced over. “You could go buy something to cover it. I’ll pay you.”
“Uh-uh. It’s not right.” Peabody folded her arms. “She’s your oldest friend, your best pal, having her first baby. You have to buy it yourself.”
“Damn it. Damn it, damn it.”
“I’ll go with you, though. We can swing by this baby place she’s been haunting after we hit the offices. Grab some lunch, too, maybe.”
Eve imagined the process of shopping in a baby boutique, and had to fight off a shudder. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars to go on your own.”
“That’s hitting below the belt,” Peabody replied. “But I’m too strong to be bribed. You have to do the thing, Dallas. It’s Mavis.”
“Coaching classes, baby showers, now shopping. Is there no end to the price of friendship?”
Eve put it aside—buried it—and made her way to the main reception area of Sloan, Myers, and Kraus.
In keeping with their service of high-end clients, the area was plush, glass-walled, and full of green, leafy plants. The wide stone-gray counter served as a work area for three receptionists, all of whom wore headsets and worked busily on keyboards. A trio of waiting areas fanned out like sunbeams, boasting deep chairs, media screens, and a selection of entertainment discs.
Eve laid her badge on the counter in front of a three-piece-suited man with streaked blond hair worn in short, tight curls. “I want to see someone in charge.”
He gave her a cheerful smile. “That certainly wouldn’t be me. In charge of a specific department, or altogether in charge?”
“Let’s start small. I want Natalie Copperfield’s and Bick Byson’s supervisors.”
“Let’s see. Copperfield’s Senior Account Exec, Corporate, Foreign and International. That’s this floor. You’ll want Cara Greene. And ah, Byson, Byson. Byson, Bick,” he all but sang as he read his screen. “Vice President, Personal Finance, Domestic. That’s up a level, and it would be Myra Lovitz.”
“We’ll take Greene first.”
“She’s in a meeting.”
Eve tapped her badge. “Not anymore, she’s not.”
“Okay by me. I’ll call through. You want to have a seat?”
“No, just Greene.”
Swank place, Eve thought as she waited. A lot of money came through these doors. And nothing tempted murder so much as lots of money.
Cara Greene wore a dark red suit, and though it buttoned to the throat, it was cut in such a way that showed she had a nice, perky rack. She also had an impatient expression on a smooth, caramel-toned face, and clipped out into reception on ice-pick heels.
“You’re the police?” she demanded and shot an accusing finger at Eve.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. You’re Greene?”
“That’s right, and you’ve just pulled me out of an important meeting. If my son’s hooked school again, I’ll deal with him. I don’t appreciate the cops coming to my office.”
“We’re not here about your son. We’re here about Natalie Copperfield, and if you’d prefer, you can come to my office. Now.”
The irritation shifted immediately to wariness. “What about Natalie? You’re not going to tell me she’s in any trouble. She’d never break the law.”
“Can we take this into your office, Ms. Greene?”
The expression changed again, and this time there were hints of fear in bottle-green eyes. “Something happened to her? Was there an accident? Is she all right?”
“Your office would be best.”
“Come with me.” Moving fast, Cara skirted around the reception desk, through a pair of glass doors that swished open on her approach. She kept up the brisk pace, past a jungle of cubes where the drones slaved away, past offices where accountants crunched their numbers, to the corner office that suited her position.
She shut the door behind them, turned to Eve. “Tell me fast. Please.”
“Ms. Copperfield was murdered early this morning.”
Her breath hitched, a quick in and out before she held up a hand. She moved, not so briskly now, to a refreshment station along one wall, pulled out a bottle of chilled water. And sank to a chair without opening it.
“How? How? I don’t understand. I should have known something was wrong when she called in sick yesterday and didn’t make this meeting this morning. I should have known. I was so mad at her. This meeting…” She held up her hand again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s such a shock.”
Before Eve could speak, she lurched to her feet. “Oh, God, Bick. Her fiancé. Does he know? She’s engaged to one of the vp’s in personal finance. He should be upstairs. Oh, God. They’re getting married in May.”
“She worked for you directly?”
“She’s one of my senior account execs and on a fast track. She’s good. I mean…Oh, God, oh, God, she was good. Excellent. Personable, smart, hard-working. I planned to promote her, offer her a vp slot.”
“You were friends,” Peabody put in.
“Yes. Not best pals. I have to keep some distance being her boss, but yes.” Closing her eyes, she pressed the chilled bottle to her forehead. “We were very friendly. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Why don’t you tell us where you were between midnight and four this morning.”
“You don’t think…” Cara sat again, and this time she opened the water bottle and drank. “I was home, with my husband and our twelve-year-old son. My husband and I went to bed just after midnight. God, how was she killed?”
“We’re not releasing the details of that at this time. Since you were friendly, and you were in a position of authority, did she say anything to you about being worried or bothered? Threatened?”
“No. No. No. I’d say she seemed a little off the past couple of weeks, but I put that down to distraction. Wedding plans. She’d have told Bick if someone was bothering her. She told him everything.”
Yeah, Eve thought, most likely she did. And that’s why he was dead.
“What was she working on?”
“She had several accounts, heads quite a number and is on teams that hold others.”
“We’re going to need a list of all her accounts, and we’ll need to see her files.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t. We have to protect our clients’ privacy. We’d be sued up the butt if I turned confidential files over to the police.”
“We’ll get a warrant.”
“Please do. I mean that, sincerely. Please get a warrant and I’ll personally see that you have any and all data the law demands. I need to contact Mr. Kraus,” she continued as she got back to her feet. “I need to tell him what’s going on. What’s happened. And Bick. You’ll need to talk to Bick.”
“Bick Byson was also murdered early this morning.”
She lost all of her color, every drop of it. “I—I can’t think. I don’t know what to say. This is horrible.”
“I’m sorry. I understand it’s a shock. We need to speak with Mr. Byson’s supervisor.”
“Um, that’s—oh, God, I can’t t
hink. Myra. Myra Lovitz. I can contact her for you.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t talk to her until we have. Who else would have worked on accounts with Ms. Copperfield?”
“I’ll get you a list of names. Sorry.” She clipped to her desk, yanked open a drawer, pulled out a tissue. “Sorry, it’s starting to sink in. I can call upstairs, have Myra’s admin tell her you’re coming. Would that help?”
“That’d be good. Thanks for your cooperation. We’ll be back, with a warrant, for the files.”
Upstairs, they were met by the admin and escorted straight back into an office similar to Cara’s.
Myra Lovitz sat behind a desk covered with files, discs, notes. She was into her early sixties, Eve judged, and had let her hair go stone gray in a way that suited her tough, sharp-angled face. She wore a suit—blue pinstriped and all business. She smiled sourly as Eve and Peabody came in.
“Okay, what is this, a raid?”
“We’re here concerning Bick Byson.”
Even the sour smile faded. “Something happen to the boy? We’ve been trying to reach him all morning.”
“He’s dead. He was murdered last night.”
Her lips folded in, her hands fisted on the desk. “Goddamn city. Goddamn it. Mugged?”
“No.”
Eve let Peabody take point on this one, ask the questions, get the statements. It was nearly a replay of the first interview, but with Myra’s more acerbic style.
“He’s a damn good kid. Smart, reliable. Knows how to schmooze the clients when they need it, how to be all biz when they want that. Good reader of people, you know? He and that sweet kid from accounts downstairs? Both of them? God, what a world.”
“What were they working on?” Peabody asked her.
“They? Bick and Natalie didn’t work on the same accounts. He did individuals, domestic, she did corporate, primarily foreign.”
“How did he seem to you the last couple of weeks?”
“A little jumpy, now that you mention it. Wedding coming up, and they just bought a place in Tribeca. Having it rehabbed, doing decorating, furniture shopping. Man’s bound to be jumpy.”
“He didn’t mention any concerns to you?”