by J. D. Robb
“Binding the victims put them under his control, kept them helpless. Removing the tape from both victims’ mouths tells me he wanted, or needed, to see their faces. The whole of their faces as he strangled them.”
“Pride in his work.”
“Yes. A job fulfilled, and the acknowledgment of his power and his control. As he was able to overcome a man of Byson’s years and physical build, he’s likely in good physical condition himself. Utilizing weapons on scene—the robe tie, the binding cord—shows presence of mind and clear thinking. The lack of any DNA on the first scene indicates he took precautions. The fact that there was DNA on the second tells me he lost that control long enough to lead with temper.”
“Because he got clocked.”
“Exactly,” Mira said with a ghost of a smile. “Byson hurt him, and he reacted poorly to the pain. Copperfield was the primary target.
“And I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”
“No, but it solidifies it.”
“This was a desperate act committed without desperation. He certainly feared them, or what they could do, but there’s no indication of panic on the bodies or on the scenes. He was in control, and illustrated that control to them, to himself, by the face-to-face strangulations.”
“Watch me kill you while I watch you die.”
“Yes. And while he may have—almost certainly—experienced some sort of thrill through that, he remained controlled enough to move quickly to the secondary target and finish his job.”
“But not a pro. It’s too messy for a professional.”
“I agree. But his focus was very tight, his preparations well thought out.”
“A good sense of self-preservation can do that.”
“It can. Following that train, he may have been protecting himself, his own interests, or someone close to him. He was very careful.”
“But didn’t know enough about forensics to know that we’d be able to get his DNA off the scrapes on Byson’s knuckles.”
“Perhaps not, but I’d judge him as educated, organized, and thorough. I’d be very surprised if he hasn’t destroyed or disposed of anything he took from the scenes, anything he used to gain entry. I expect if you interview him during the course of your investigation, he’ll be cooperative. If he knew the victims, he’ll attend their memorial with every sign of sorrow for their loss. He’ll have thought all of that through as well.”
“As well as an alibi for the time in question.”
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t have one. Some in these circumstances might deliberately avoid having an alibi to add to the thrill and excitement during the investigation. The game of it. I don’t think that’s your type here. He’d have dotted all his i’s beforehand.”
Eve nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”
“I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” Mira said as Eve rose.
“What’s—oh. Oh, yeah.”
With a laugh, Mira swiveled in her chair. “I’ve never known any sort of an event at your home to be less than entertaining. Mavis must be thrilled.”
“I guess. Truth? I’m kind of ducking her. We had to do the class thing—the coach class? Which was a nightmare beyond the speaking of it. I’m afraid she’s going to tag me and do, like, a quiz to make sure I was paying attention!”
“And were you?”
“You couldn’t look away. It was like watching a horror movie. Freaky,” she muttered, and had to struggle not to shudder. “Tomorrow, I’m going to be surrounded by those women who’re brewing babies. What if one of them decides to pop?”
“Unlikely, but you will have a couple of doctors on hand. I’ll be there, so will Louise.”
“Right.” The idea relieved her. “I forgot. Okay, that’s a load off. Maybe you could be sure to hang around until all of them leave. Just in case.”
“Eleven years and counting on the force, and you’ve never delivered a baby?”
“That’s right, and I’m going to keep that record intact.”
Eve’s first thought when she entered Sasha Zinka’s office was that it rivaled Roarke’s for space, for plush, for taste. The clean lines and surprising slashes of bold color against the muted made it female without being fussy.
She thought the same of Sasha herself.
The woman could have easily passed for a decade younger than her age on her official records. Honeycomb hair was swooped back and up from a heart-shaped face dominated by clear blue eyes. She wore a suit of rusty red as restrained and subtle as the jewelry she’d matched to it.
She crossed the thick silver carpet in an easy glide in skinny heels as she held out a hand.
“Lieutenant Dallas. We met in passing at some gala or other last spring.”
“I remember.”
“Lousy way to meet again. You’re Detective Peabody. We spoke by ’link.”
Peabody accepted the hand held out to her. “Thanks for seeing us.”
“Please, have a seat. Tell me what I can do. You wanted to see Lola as well. She’s on her way. Would you like anything while we wait for her?”
“We’re fine, thanks.” Eve sat in a chair of amber leather so buttery she was surprised her butt didn’t just melt through it. “You knew Natalie Copperfield?”
“A little. Knew of her more.” She took a seat of her own. “It’s terrible, what happened to her and the young man. But I’m not sure where Lola and I come into it.”
“You’ve stated that you and Ms. Warfield had dinner with Randall Sloan on the night of the murders.”
“That’s right. Business primarily, but Lola and I enjoy Ran’s company. We were out until after two in the morning, as I told the detective when she contacted me. You don’t seriously consider Ran—”
She broke off as the door opened. Lola Warfield rushed in looking flushed and scattered with her wild brunette curls flying. Her eyes, nearly the same color as the chair where Eve sat, were full of laughing apology.
“Sorry, sorry. I got hung up. Dallas, right? I took my life in my hands and snatched your gorgeous husband for a dance at the Marquis event last spring. If he were mine I’d beat any woman who looked at him with a stick, even if she plays for the other team.”
“Then the city’d be hip-deep in bodies.”
“That’d be a problem. I’m sorry.” She flashed a brilliant smile at Peabody. “I can’t remember your name.”
“Detective Peabody.”
“Nice to meet you. Well, not nice, I guess. It’s awful, but a little exciting, too.”
“Lola glues herself to the screen for the crime reports,” Sasha explained.
“And here we are in the middle of one. Or right on the sidelines. And I’m being horrible. I met Natalie a couple of times. She was very sweet, it seemed to me.”
As she spoke, she moved to the long bar at one end of the office, took a bottle of water from a cold box. “Anyone?”
“No, thanks.” Eve waited a beat while Lola moved to perch on the arm of Sasha’s chair. “When was the business dinner set up with Randall Sloan?”
“Mmm.” Lola glanced down at Sasha. “Couple of days before, wasn’t it? We generally meet with him every quarter.”
“That’s right,” Sasha confirmed. “We’d had to postpone an earlier meeting because we were out of the country for a few days right after the first of the year.”
“Who set it up?”
“Hmm.” Lola furrowed her brow. “I guess Ran did. It’s usual for him to get in touch, set up a meeting, or an evening out.”
“In the course of your business or conversations with Mr. Sloan, did he mention any difficulties with Natalie Copperfield or Bick Byson?”
“No.” Sasha took the ball. “Their names never came up. We work directly with Ran. We did meet her, and her fiancé, as I said. At Jacob Sloan’s home. She—Natalie—was friendly with his grandson.”
“Ms. Copperfield handles your sister’s financials.”
“That’s right. When Anna and her friends went into business, I recom
mended the firm, and spoke with Ran personally on who he thought would be best for them. He assigned Natalie. She and Anna hit it off well—so I’m told—when Natalie flew out to meet with her.”
“Your sister was satisfied with Ms. Copperfield’s work.”
“I didn’t hear any complaints. And I would have.”
“Would you ever,” Lola confirmed. “Anna doesn’t suffer in silence. Are you looking inside the firm for a suspect? I assumed it was something personal and—well—passionate. Like a jealous ex or unrequited love.”
“We’re looking everywhere,” Eve told her, and rose. “If you remember anything or think of something, you can contact me at Central.”
“That’s all?” Lola’s lips moved into a pout of disappointment. “I was hoping we’d get grilled.”
“Maybe next time. Thanks for your time,” Eve added.
She waited until they were outside, hiking back to their vehicle. “Impressions?”
“Straightforward, confident, calm. Business as usual on the date for the dinner with Sloan, and they don’t strike me as the type to cover for an employee—even if they are on friendly terms. There’s Zinka’s sister’s connection to the first vic, but if I go with the gut, I can’t see either or both of them committing double murders, or attaching themselves to same to keep the sister out of a jam. And they’re way rich. If this is about money, they don’t need to cheat to make more.”
“It’s not about need, it’s about greed and power,” Eve corrected. “But I didn’t get any vibe there. If it was the sister’s account that sent up the red flag for Copperfield, and either of them knew about it, they’re damn cool. What do we have on Anna Kerlinko’s whereabouts on the night?”
Peabody took out her memo book as she slid into the car. “Figuring the time difference, she was having breakfast with her current lover when Copperfield was murdered, and in her office by nine, her time. Got wits. She couldn’t have zipped here, done them, zipped back.”
“We move on.”
Using geography as much as her own checklist, she maneuvered the six blocks east to take the New York branch of the law firm representing the Bullock Foundation. They’d been assigned to Copperfield within the last few months, Eve mused, and had yet another connection with Byson representing one of the partner’s nieces.
The firm had its offices in an elegant old brownstone with the outer office as quiet as a church and manned by a woman who sat bathed in the colored light that seeped through the stained glass of the streetside window.
She was a sharp looker with her red hair in a long, swooping curve. Eve badged her and got several surprised blinks in response.
“I don’t understand.”
“Badge,” Eve said helpfully. “Cops. Now you buzz your boss and tell him we need to speak with him.”
“Golly. I mean, I’m sorry, but Mr. Cavendish is in a meeting. I’d be happy to check his schedule with his assistant and set up an appointment.”
“No, no, you’re getting it wrong. Let me repeat. Badge. Cops.” Eve glanced around, saw the straight angle of polished wood stairs. “Offices up that way?”
“Oh, but—but—but—”
Eve left the redhead sputtering and moved with Peabody to the stairs.
The second level changed Eve’s opinion from church to museum. The carpets were old, worn, and expensive. The wainscotting the real deal, and very likely original. Paintings of country landscapes adorned the walls.
A door swung open on the left. The woman who stepped out was older than the girl at the downstairs desk, and twice as sharp.
She wore her jet hair in a no-nonsense twist that complimented a striking, angular face. The pinstriped suit might have been no-nonsense as well, but it had been tailored to mold a very fine body.
“I believe you were told Mr. Cavendish is in a meeting and unavailable at this time. What can I do for you?”
“You can get him out of his meeting and see that he’s available,” Eve returned. “That would be helpful.”
She felt an entertaining little buzz up the back of her spine at the woman’s silent, burning stare. “Got a name, sister?”
“Ms. Ellyn Bruberry. I’m Mr. Cavendish’s administrative assistant. And a paralegal.”
“Good for you. We need to talk to Mr. Cavendish in connection with an investigation.”
“Mr. Cavendish is, as you’ve now been told twice, unavailable. And as you must know, is under no obligation to speak with you without notice.”
“Got me there,” Eve said cheerfully. “We’ll be happy to give Mr. Cavendish, and you, and every one in these offices notice of your obligation to come into Cop Central for formal interviews, which—being a paralegal—you must know could take a few hours to, oh, next Christmas. Or gee, we could just talk to him now, in the comfort of his own office. And probably be out of your hair in under twenty minutes.”
She paused. “Pick a door.”
Eve actually heard the woman suck air through her nose.
“You’ll have to tell me what this is about.”
“No, I really don’t. You may want to ask your boss if he’d rather speak to me now, or come into Central in the immediate future and spend considerable time being interviewed formally. Or you can make that decision for him. Up to you.”
“But…” Peabody tapped her wrist unit. “Time’s a-wasting.”
“Wait here.”
Eve waited until Bruberry had clicked off on her sharply heeled boots. “Time’s a-wasting?”
“It just worked for me. Kind of pissy, wasn’t she? And she knows why we’re here.”
“Oh, yeah, she does. Interesting.” Idly, Eve turned to study one of the countryscapes. “How come people live and work in urban areas, then put up pictures of rural areas on the wall? Can’t they make up their minds where they want to be?”
“A lot of people find rural landscapes relaxing.”
“Sure, until you start wondering what’s creeping behind those trees, or slithering along in the grass.”
Peabody shifted uncomfortably. “Some people think bounding instead of creeping, as in pretty little fawns, and frolicking as opposed to slithering, like cute little bunnies.”
“Some people are fools. Let’s entertain ourselves, Peabody, and start a run on Bruberry. And one on Cavendish.”
“It could be fawns and bunnies,” Peabody muttered, and took out her PPC to do the runs.
Moments later, Bruberry stepped out of another door. Her back was poker straight, her tone cool and aloof. “Mr. Cavendish will see you now. Ten minutes.”
10
FROM CHURCH TO MUSEUM, EVE THOUGHT, THEN through the door into the men’s club.
Walter Cavendish presided over an office with wide-armed, port-colored leather chairs and sofas, and dark, heavy woods. The carpets were thickly padded Orientals, likely the real deal, in rich tones and complex patterns. Amber liquid swam in thick crystal decanters that would have doubled as very effective murder weapons.
A trim black data and communication center stood alongside leather and brass accessories that were arranged just so on the antique desk where Cavendish sat looking prosperous, tailored—and to Eve’s gauge—nervy.
He was in his early fifties, with a good head of the hair people called sandy in men, mousey in women. His face was ruddy, his eyes a light blue that skipped over Eve’s face, then over her shoulder. His suit was a muted brown with just a hint of a gold stripe to show he liked a little pizzazz.
He rose, and his not-quite-handsome face set in solemn lines. “I’d like to see some identification.” He spoke, to Eve’s mind, in the rounded, fruity tones of a hammy Shakespearean actor.
Both she and Peabody took out badges. “Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve said, “and Detective Peabody. Looks like your meeting broke up. Funny, we didn’t see anyone leave.”
He looked momentarily confused, and those nervous eyes slid to Bruberry even as the admin spoke.
“It was a ’link conference.”
“Ye
s, a ’link conference. With London.”
“That’s handy.” She kept her eyes on Cavendish in a way that told him she knew he was already lying. “Since you’ve got a few minutes now, we have some questions in connection with an investigation.”
“So I’m told.” He gestured, started to sit. When he didn’t offer a hand, Eve shot hers out deliberately. She wanted the feel of his.
He hesitated, and she saw his gaze dart toward his admin yet again before he took Eve’s hand in his.
A little soft, she noted, a little damp.
“What’s the nature of your investigation?”
“Homicide. Natalie Copperfield and Bick Byson. Are those names familiar to you?”
“No.”
“You don’t watch the media reports, I take it. Don’t scan the newspapers.” She flicked a glance of her own toward a wall screen framed in the dark wood that dominated the room. “These individuals were murdered three nights ago in their respective residences. Both were employed by the accounting firm of Sloan, Myers, and Kraus. And funnily enough, Natalie Copperfield handled the accounts for your home operation. But that name doesn’t ring for you?”
“I don’t retain the names of everyone I might hear of or read of. I’m a very busy man. As far as accounting, Ellyn—my assistant—deals with that area.”
“I’m aware of Ms. Copperfield,” Bruberry stated. “What does her death have to do with this firm?”
“At this point, I’ll be asking the questions,” Eve said coolly. “Where were you, Mr. Cavendish, three nights ago between the hours of midnight and four A.M.?”
“At home, in bed. With my wife.”
Eve lifted her eyebrows. “You can’t remember the names of two people who’ve been all over the media reports, but you know—without a second’s hesitation or without checking your book—where you were three nights ago?”
“At home,” he said again. “In bed.”
“Have you had any contact with Ms. Copperfield or Mr. Byson?”
“No.”
“That’s odd. Don’t you find that odd, Detective, that Mr. Cavendish would have no contact whatsoever with the person who handles his firm’s accounts?”