by J. D. Robb
“That music is making my teeth ache.” Eve ran her tongue around them, then turned as Carmichael Smith made his entrance.
He was tall, about six three with a well-toned body he was currently showing off in a fluid white vest that left his pecs and abs on display. His pants were black and snug, so he could display his other attributes. His hair was dramatically streaked black and white, and worn back in a queue to leave his face—wide, high-boned, and narrowed to a sharp, pointed chin—unframed.
His eyes were deep, melted chocolate brown, his skin the color of coffee light.
“Ah, Lieutenant Dallas. Or do I call you Mrs. Roarke?”
Eve heard Peabody’s smothered snort, ignored it. “You call me Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Of course, of course.” He strode in, vest streaming, and took the hand she’d yet to offer in both of his. “It’s just that I only made the connection this morning.” He gave her hand an intimate squeeze, then turned his charm on Peabody. “And who might you be?”
“My aide, Officer Peabody. I have some questions, Mr. Smith.”
“More than happy to answer them.” He took Peabody’s hand as he had Eve’s. “Please, please, sit. Li’s bringing us some tea. I have a special morning blend for energy. It’s simply fantastic. Call me Carmichael.”
He lowered smoothly to a peach-colored cushion and took the little cat into his lap. “There now, Snowdrop, did you think Daddy had forgotten you?”
She didn’t want to sit on one of the cushions, nor did she want to remain standing and towering over him. So she sat on the table.
“Can you tell me where you were, early yesterday morning, between midnight and three A.M?”
Like the cat, he blinked. “Well, that sounds very official. Is there some problem?”
“Yes, the murder of a woman in Chinatown.”
“I don’t understand. Such negative energy.” He breathed deep. “We try to keep a positive flow in this house.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Jacie Wooton found being sliced up a pretty negative experience. Can you verify your whereabouts, Mr. Smith?”
“Li,” he said as the black woman in flowing white streamed in. “Do I know anyone named Jacie Wooton?”
“No.”
“Do we know where I was night before last, between midnight and three?”
“Yes, of course.” She poured pale gold tea from a pale blue pot into pale blue cups. “You were attending the dinner party hosted by the Rislings until ten. You escorted Ms. Hubble home, had a nightcap with her in her apartment, and returned here about midnight. You spent twenty minutes in your isolation tank to eliminate any negativity before retiring. You were in bed by one-thirty, and had your usual wake-up call at eight the following morning.”
“Thank you.” He picked up the teacup she’d set on the table. “It’s difficult for me to keep all those details in my head. I’d be lost without Li.”
“I’d like the names and addresses of the people you were with, to verify this information.”
“I’m feeling very unsettled about this.”
“It’s routine, Mr. Smith. When I confirm your alibi, I can move on.”
“Li will provide you with anything you need.” He made a gesture with his hand. “It’s important to my well-being, to my work, to keep my senses stimulated by the positive, by love and by beauty.”
“Right. You have a standing order from Whittier’s in London for a certain type of stationery. Your last purchase of it was four months ago.”
“No. I never purchase anything. I can’t go into shops, you see. My fans are so enthusiastic. I have things brought in to me, or Li, or one of my staff goes into the shops. I do enjoy good stationery. I feel it’s important to send personal notes, on good paper, to friends or those who’ve made some contribution.”
“Cream-colored, heavy-eight bond. Unrecycled.”
“Unrecycled?” He ducked his head, smiling into his cup like a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I’m ashamed to say I have been using something like that. Not very green of me, but it’s gorgeous paper. Li, does my writing paper come from London?”
“I can check.”
“She’ll check.”
“Fine. I’d like a sample of it, too, if you don’t mind, and the names of any staff members who were authorized to make purchases for you in London.”
“I’ll take care of that.” Li glided out again.
“I don’t quite understand how my writing paper could interest you.”
“There was a note, written on that style of paper, left with the body.”
“Please.” He lifted both hands, drawing them up his own body as he breathed in, pushing them outward as he exhaled. “I don’t want that sort of image corrupting my senses. That’s why I listen only to my own music. I never watch the media reports, except for specially selected features on entertainment or society. There’s too much darkness in the world. Too much despair.”
“Tell me about it.”
When Eve left, she had a sample of his writing paper, and the names of his staffers in London.
“He’s weird,” Peabody commented. “But he’s built. And he just doesn’t seem like the type who’d go hunting LCs.”
“He likes to have multi-partner sex, occasionally with minors.”
“Oh.” Peabody wrinkled her nose as she glanced back toward the house. “So much for my instincts on this one.”
“Maybe he figures underage groupies have less negativity, sexually speaking, than any grown woman who could listen to that crap he plays and not run screaming after five minutes.”
She got into the car, slammed the door. “If that stinking ‘Love Lights the World’ sticks in my head, I’m coming back here and beating him with a club.”
“Now that’s positive,” Peabody decided.
Chapter 5
Knowing the security at the U.N. was tight, Eve decided to avoid a possible pissing match with guards and parked in a second-level street ramp on First Avenue.
The little cross-block hike would help work off the doughnuts.
They still allowed tours—she’d checked—but they were stringently regulated with the threat of terrorism always a thunderhead ready to storm. But nations throughout the world, and the recognized off-planet factions, had their meetings and assemblies, their votes and their agendas, inside the huge white building that dominated its six-block stretch.
The flags still waved, a colorful symbol, Eve supposed, of man’s willingness to get together and talk about the problems of humanity. And occasionally do something about them.
Even with their names on the visitors’ list, she and Peabody went through a series of checkpoints. At the first, they surrendered their weapons, a requirement that always made Eve twitchy.
Their badges were scanned, their fingerprints verified. Peabody’s bag was scanned, then hand-searched. All electronics, including ’links, PPCs, and communicators, were taken through analysis.
They passed through a metal detector, an incendiary device detector, a weapon identifier, and a body scanner, all before being cleared through entry level.
“Okay,” Eve declared. “Maybe they’ve got to be careful, but I’m drawing the line at a cavity search.”
“Some of these security levels were added after the Cassandra incident.” Peabody stepped with Eve and a uniformed guard into a bomb-proof elevator.
“Next time we need to talk to Renquist, he comes to us.”
They were escorted off the elevator and directly to another checkpoint where they were scanned, analyzed, and verified again.
They were passed from the guard to a female aide who was equally military in bearing. The aide’s retina scan and voice command unlocked a bomb door. Through it, they moved from paranoid security to daily business.
It was a hive of offices, but a very big hive with very efficient chambers. Here, the high-level drones wore conservative suits and headsets, with heels that clicked briskly on tiled floors. The windows were triple-seale
d and equipped with air-traffic detectors that would slam down impact shields at any threat. But they let in the light and a decent view of the river.
A tall, thin man in unrelieved gray nodded at the aide, smiled at Eve.
“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m Thomas Newkirk, personal assistant to Mr. Renquist. I’ll escort you from here.”
“Some security you’ve got here, Mr. Newkirk.” She spotted cameras and motion sensors along the corridor. Eyes and ears everywhere, she thought. Who could work that way?
He followed the track of her gaze. “You stop noticing. Just a price to be paid for safety and freedom.”
“Uh-huh.” He had a square face, a jaw so sharp and straight it might have been sliced off with a sword. Very pale, very cool blue eyes and a ruddy complexion under short, bristly sandy hair.
He walked very erect, with a purposeful stride, his arms straight at his sides.
“You former military?”
“Captain, RAF. Mr. Renquist has a number of former military on staff.” He used a key card to access another door, and Renquist’s suite of offices.
“Just one moment, please.”
While she waited, Eve studied the area. Another warren of rooms, most separated by glass panels so that the staffers were exposed to each other, and the cameras. It didn’t seem to bother them as they worked away at keyboards or headsets.
She glanced in the direction Newkirk had taken and saw that it ended in a closed door with Renquist’s name on it.
It opened, and Newkirk stepped out again. “Mr. Renquist will see you now, Lieutenant.”
It was a lot of buildup for an ordinary man, which was her first impression of Renquist. He stood behind a long, dark desk that might have been wood, might have been old, with an East River view at his back.
He was tall, with the kind of build that told her he used a health center regularly or paid good money to a body sculptor. She also figured his build was wasted in the dull gray suit, though the suit had probably cost him a great deal.
He was attractive enough, if you went for the polished and distinguished type. He was fair-skinned, fair-haired with a prominent nose and a wide forehead.
His eyes, a kind of sooty gray, were his best feature, and met hers directly.
His voice was clipped, and oh-so-British she expected crumpets—whatever the hell they were—to come popping out of his mouth along with the words.
“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve read and heard quite a bit about you already.” He held out a hand, and she was treated to a firm, dry, politician’s shake. “I believe we met once, some time back, at a charity function.”
“So I’m told.”
“Please have a seat.” He gestured, and sat behind his desk. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
She sat in a sturdy cloth chair. Not a comfortable one, she noted. Busy man, can’t have people sitting around in his office taking up too much of his time.
His desk was another hive of industry. The data and communication system with the screen blinking on hold, a short stack of discs, another stack of paper, the second ’link. Among the work was a duet of framed photographs. She could see a slice of a young girl’s face and curly hair—both fair like her father’s—and assumed the other shot would be of his wife.
She knew enough about politics and protocol to at least start out playing the game. “I’d like to thank you, for myself and on behalf of the NYPSD for your cooperation. I know you’re extremely busy and appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.”
“I believe strongly in assisting the local authorities, wherever I am. The U.N. is, on an elemental level, the world’s police force. In a way, we’re in the same profession, you and I. How can I help you?”
“A woman named Jacie Wooton was murdered the night before last. I’m the primary investigator.”
“Yes, I heard of the killing.” He leaned back, but his eyebrows lowered. “A licensed companion, in the Chinatown district.”
“Yes, sir. In the course of my investigation, I’ve had reason to research and trace a certain brand of stationery. You purchased this brand of writing paper six weeks ago in London.”
“I was in London this summer for a few days, and did, indeed, buy stationery. Several different types, as I recall. Some for personal use, some for gifts. Am I to understand that this purchase makes me a suspect in this woman’s death?”
He was cool, she thought. More intrigued than worried or annoyed. And, if she wasn’t mistaking that faint curve of mouth, he was a little amused. “In order to expedite my investigation, I need to check all the names of purchasers, and verify their whereabouts on the night in question.”
“I see. Lieutenant, can I assume this line of investigation is secure and discreet? Having my name linked, however loosely, with a licensed companion and a murder would generate considerable unwanted media attention on myself, on Delegate Evans.”
“The name won’t be made public.”
“All right. Night before last?”
“Between midnight and three.”
He didn’t reach for his book, but instead steepled his fingers, watched Eve over the tips. “My wife and I attended the theater. A production of Six Weeks by William Gantry, a British playwright. At Lincoln Center. We were in the company of two other couples, left the theater at about eleven, then had a post-theater drink at Renoir’s. I believe we left there, my wife and I, around midnight. We’d have been home by twelve-thirty. My wife went to bed, and I worked in my home office for perhaps an hour. It might’ve been a little longer. Following habit, I would have watched about thirty minutes of news, then retired for the night.”
“Did you see or speak with anyone after your wife went to bed?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t. I can only tell you that I was home, tending to my work when this murder took place. I’m confused how buying this paper connects me to this woman, or her death.”
“Her killer wrote a note on that stationery.”
“A note.” Now Renquist’s eyebrows lifted. “Well. That was rather arrogant of him, wasn’t it?”
“He’s not really covered for the time of the murder either,” Peabody pointed out as they walked back to the car.
“That’s the problem when somebody buys it at two in the morning. Most of the suspects are going to claim they were home, innocently tucked into their own beds. They got their own security, or a way around hotel or apartment security, it’s tough to call them a stinking liar.”
“Do you think he is a stinking liar?”
“It’s early yet.”
She tracked Elliot Hawthorne down on the eleventh hole of a private club on Long Island. He was a sturdy, tough man, with a shock of white hair fluttering around under a tan cap, matched by the luxurious white mustache that set off his tanned face. There were lines scored around his mouth, fanned out from his eyes, but the eyes themselves were sharp and clear as he drove the ball off the tee.
He passed the driver back to his caddy, hopped in a small white cart, then signaled for Eve to join him. “Talk fast” was all he said as he sent the cart zipping forward.
She did, giving him the details as Peabody and the caddy followed on foot.
“Dead whore, fancy writing paper.” He gave a little grunt as he stopped the cart. “Used whores from time to time, never kept track of their names.” He jumped out, circled his ball, studied the lay. “Got a young wife, don’t need whores now. Don’t remember the paper. You got a young wife, you buy all sorts of useless shit. London?”
“Yes.”
“August. London, Paris, Milan. I still got my fingers in some business, and she likes to shop. If you say I bought the paper, I bought the paper. So what?”
“It’s tied to the murder. If you could tell me where you were between midnight and three, night before last—”
He let out a bark of laughter, stood from where he’d crouched by the ball and gave her his full attention. “Young lady, I’m more than seventy. I’m fit, but
I need my sleep. I play eighteen holes every morning, and before I do, I have a good breakfast, read the paper, and check the stock reports. I’m up every morning at seven. I’m in bed every night by eleven unless my wife drags me out to some shindig. Night before last I was in bed by eleven, and after making love to my wife—a process that doesn’t take as long as it once did—I was asleep. Can’t prove it, of course.”
He brushed her back, turned to the caddy. “Gimme the seven iron, Tony.”
She watched him set, sight, then smack the ball into a pretty arch. It bounced on the green and rolled to within about five feet of the cup.
From Hawthorne’s wide grin, she assumed it was a good shot.
“I’d like to speak with your wife.”
He shrugged, handed the club back to the caddy. “Go ahead. She’s over at the courts. Got a tennis lesson today.”
Darla Hawthorne was dancing around on a shaded court in a candy pink romper with a flippy skirt. She was doing more dancing than actual connecting with the ball, but she looked damn good doing so. She was built like a teenager’s wet dream, lots of soft, jiggling breast barely contained, and long, long legs shown off by the little skirt and matching pink shoes.
She was so evenly tanned, she might have been painted.
Her hair, which must have hit her waist when unrestrained, was tied back in a ribbon—pink, natch—and scooped through the hole in her little pink visor. It swung happily back and forth as she pranced over the court and missed the bright yellow ball.
When she bent over to retrieve it, Eve was treated to the sight of her heart-shaped butt in tight, high-cut panties under the skirt.
Her instructor, a hunky guy with lots of streaky hair and white teeth, called out direction and encouragement.
At one point, he came over to stand behind her, nuzzling her back against him as he adjusted her swing. She sent him a big, lash-fluttering smile over her shoulder.
“Mrs. Hawthorne?” Before the balls could start flying again, Eve stepped onto the court.