Echoes in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “We’re going to see what the lawyer says about that. It might be she’s got enough to buy a damn hotel.”

  “It’s not what she’s after, Dallas. I know you always look at the spouse or the partner—at whoever has the most to gain. But there’s no way that sad, scared woman put some ugly plot together to kill her rich, abusive husband.”

  “No. She’s victim, not villain. I doubt she has a clue about the terms of her husband’s will. But we need to find out.” As they hit lobby level, Eve dug in her pocket. “Take a cab.”

  “Thanks—really—but with the snow? Subway or hoofing it’ll be faster and easier. I might just beat you to the border collie. I sent the address to your PPC.”

  “Don’t play with the damn makeup,” Eve called out as they went their separate ways.

  11

  Eve found a street slot—small miracle—and decided it was worth a two and a half block hike in the snow. She imagined some cheery optimist would call the wind bracing.

  She hated cheery optimists.

  She stuck her hands in her coat pockets for warmth, was surprised as she nearly always was to find gloves. Deciding it was a day for miracles, she pulled them on.

  A woman—college aged, small stature, Asian—in a snug blue ski jacket, a blue hat with a long tail ending in a bouncing pom-pom, and fuzzy-topped blue boots jogged by with a couple of spotted dogs on the leash jogging with her, like it was summer in the park.

  Eve just bet the woman was a cheery optimist—the dogs also had that gleeful, slightly mad look in their eyes.

  Bella got that look, Eve thought, picturing Mavis’s little girl. Kids and dogs: Who knew what they were thinking?

  Plotting.

  She preferred the middle-aged, beefy woman stomping toward her in scarred and simple black boots while huddled in a thick black coat with a sour sneer on her face.

  You knew what she was thinking: Fuck the snow, fuck the city, fuck everybody.

  It made things as simple as the old black boots.

  She passed a glide-cart smelling of boiled soy dogs, hot chestnuts, and bad coffee where the vendor scowled up at the sky as if the snow was a personal insult.

  There, too, she could relate.

  She joined the jam of pedestrians at the intersection waiting for the Walk sign.

  Bits of conversation swirled around her with the snow. One woman told her companion some guy named Chip was hopeless. A man in a cashmere topcoat, with a clipped Asian accent, steadily fried whoever was on the other end of his ’link over a bungled report. A man who gripped the handle of a small rolly muttered to himself: “Gonna be late. Fuck it. Gonna be late.”

  She caught the subtle move of a guy in an oversized, many-pocketed coat toward a trio of women loaded with shopping bags, clucking like chickens about the bargains they’d just scored, about where to have lunch, about how pretty everything was in the snow.

  As their purses dangled like offerings to the god of street thieves.

  She shifted between, pulled out her badge, wagged it in the street thief’s line of vision.

  He sulked. “I ain’t do nothing.”

  “Go do nothing somewhere else.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she smiled. “Or I’ll do something with what you’ve already got in your pockets.”

  He said, “Cops is wheeze.” And he took off.

  “Yeah, ‘cops is wheeze.’” Whatever the hell that means, she thought as she crossed the street behind the oblivious shoppers.

  She’d expected Lilia Dominick’s office to be in an office building, but the address turned out to be a four-decker with three levels of apartments over a shawarma joint and a shoe repair.

  The suite in Suite 201, Eve thought as she pressed the buzzer on the residential door, was obviously an upward spin.

  The voice came tinny through the tinny speaker. “Yo.”

  “Ms. Dominick?”

  “Another yo.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas. You spoke to my partner, Detective Peabody.”

  “Right. Good timing.”

  When the door buzzed, Eve pushed in, climbed the narrow stairs in the skinny entrance to the second floor.

  Lilia Dominick wasn’t what she’d expected, either. She leaned on the doorjamb of her apartment, a woman about the same age as the cheerful optimist with the gleeful dogs. Strands of red hair bundled in a messy topknot over a friendly face slipped free as she gave Eve a casual sizing up out of pale green eyes.

  “Mag coat. It shows off in person even better than on screen. I’ve seen you do interviews and media conferences. Come on in. I’m just back from yoga—was just heading back when your partner tagged me to tell me you were on your way.”

  Which explained the sunburst skin suit covered by a flowy green topper. “I like to get a couple of real practices in every week when I can manage it.”

  She gestured Eve inside a multipurpose living area cleverly sectioned off for each purpose by the arrangement of furniture. Screen-viewing area on one side, conversation area on the other, office in the back, and every inch rigorously neat.

  “I appreciate you agreeing to talk to me so quickly,” Eve began.

  “I’ve considered committing a crime to get a meet with you, but murder seemed extreme. I’ll get it out of the way by saying if you ever need someone to organize and coordinate for you, your calendar, your social engagements, your bookings—personal, not arrests—or assist with your entertainment obligations, I’d be all over it.”

  She talked fast, a rat-a-tat-tat that came off as energetic as her smile.

  “And with that, would you like some coffee? I have a small stash of real to go with the cookies my grandmother just sent me. We’ll never tell my yogi about either.”

  “Sure.”

  “Why don’t you come on back?”

  Graceful in skids, Lilia walked back to where the living area became the office, made a jog to the left into a tiny kitchen.

  “My grandmother bakes the best chocolate chip cookies in the tristate area. She could make a living,” Lilia continued as she programmed the little AutoChef, pulled out a couple of snowy-white mugs, crisp blue cloth napkins, a white dessert plate.

  She put together an artistic-looking tray in about forty-five seconds.

  “Before we sit down and dive in, I want to tell you I spoke to Lori. My first loyalty is to her and Ira, and if she’d asked me to evade, obfuscate, play dumb, even lie, I would have. But she didn’t. She liked you and your partner, and told me to give you full cooperation. So I will. She’s not just a client, Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “Understood.”

  “Okay, we’ll settle into the parlor, and have some coffee and cookies to help this very difficult subject go down easier.”

  She carried the tray to the conversation area, set it on a table painted a glossy red in front of a pair of light gray chairs.

  “Lori told me you’ve connected the murder of Dr. Strazza and the attack on his wife to what happened to her and Ira.”

  “We’re pursuing that angle.”

  Nodding, Lilia picked up her coffee, settled back, and actually slowed down a little. “I heard about what happened yesterday from my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother.”

  “She’s addicted to the Crime Channel. She’s going to go crazy when I tell her I had coffee with you. She’s a big fan. And that’s my way of postponing talking about this. I’m not as fond of crime talk as my grandmother, and what happened to Lori and Ira, it’s still … It’s hard. How can I help you?”

  “Do you know Rosa and Neville Patrick?”

  “I’ve met her several times—before all this. I organize and coordinate for a few people. I don’t work for her, but I’ve worked for or done specific events and tasks for people she knows, and for groups she’s involved with.”

  “I imagine you’ve done business with Jacko’s Catering and Loan Star Rentals.”

  “I have. They both have excellent and well-earned reputations. They’re on my preferred
vendors list. Lori uses First Class, and that’s also on my list.”

  “What about Loan Star? Neither of the Brinkmans could be absolutely sure if they’ve used the company or not.”

  “They haven’t. I can double-check my files, but I remember details. It’s possible Ira’s company has, dealing with them through his admin, though I can’t think of any specific event where they’d have needed rentals.”

  “Okay. How about the Strazzas?”

  “I was at her wedding.” Lilia lifted the dessert plate. “Come on, try one. You won’t regret it.”

  “You’re friends with the Strazzas?”

  “No, not at all. They hired a friend and associate of mine, Darcy Valentine—real name—of Valentine Event Coordinators to do their wedding. Darcy pulled me in to help. Huge, splashy deal at the Roarke Palace.”

  “Really?” Intrigued, Eve bit into the cookie, decided she had no regrets.

  “It is the place for huge, splashy society weddings in the city. So I worked with Daphne for a few weeks, though Dr. Strazza ran the show.”

  She shrugged slightly, crossing her strong, athletic legs. “I didn’t work much with him—he met primarily with Darcy. Daphne was a spectacular bride, absolutely fairy-tale time, and the wedding was perfect. Believe me, Darcy and I weren’t working with Bridezilla on this one. Darcy had Groomzilla to deal with, and I had Dream Bride.”

  “So you worked more directly with Daphne.”

  “As it turned out, yeah. Darcy had her hands full with the groom. Dr. Strazza was very clear about what he expected, and while there’s nothing wrong with that, he was, well, let’s just term it unpleasant. Darcy—and I know this is talking trash about the dead—nicknamed him Dr. Dictator, and actually gave her entire staff a combat bonus after the wedding.

  “On the other hand, Daphne wrote Darcy and me each a personal thank-you when they got back from the honeymoon. She had a quiet class, the sort my cookie-baking grandmother would say comes from a good upbringing.”

  With a fresh smile, Lilia polished off her cookie. “I liked working with her—and she had good ideas. She had event-planning experience and it showed, but he most often either vetoed her ideas, or turned them into his ideas. Made it seem like he’d thought of it. I hate that. Don’t you hate that?”

  “As a matter of fact.”

  “Yeah. Frankly, I didn’t like him. Sorry he’s dead and all that, but I’m glad she’s not.”

  She blew out a breath. “So three women I know and like have gone through something horrific. I’m not my grandmother, but I can figure out there’s a connection somewhere. You asked about those vendors. I’m pretty well acquainted with the people who work at both companies, even tight with a few of them. I would swear, without hesitation, none of them could do what was done.”

  “You probably shoptalk with the people at both companies, what jobs you’ve done, what you’ve got coming up, what the clients are like, and so on.”

  “Sure. You can spend considerable time together, going over menus, decor choices, stemware, linens, coordinating schedules, itineraries, agendas. What worked for Client A, didn’t work as well for Client B. And war stories. Oh.” Lilia flopped back. “Oh, I get it. We talk. I just told a yoga friend about this new client who tagged me yesterday because she’d decided she wanted to go to Borneo, to this specific resort, and book this specific suite. And she wanted to leave today. That’s one day to arrange travel, bookings—and the spa treatments she reeled off. Plus, it’s a popular resort, especially this time of year, and the suite’s booked, and—never mind.”

  Lilia batted it away with both hands. “But if it’s not confidential, you talk. Now, I’m not going to tell somebody in the local market that Clients Smith and Jones on Second Avenue are leaving for Europe tomorrow and will be gone for two weeks. That’s just careless and asking to have the clients’ house broken into. But I may tell Darcy just that if we were talking and there was something interesting about it, or if we both knew the clients.”

  “Anyone ever try to tap you for information?”

  “Sure. Gossip and society reporters mostly, and that’s a line you don’t cross. Unless the client wants you to, and sometimes the client wants you to. Shit.” She put her head in her hands. “Oh God. Could I have said something about Lori’s and Ira’s trip, any of the details? I don’t know. I wouldn’t have used their last name, because they’re Lori and Ira, but could I have said something? I don’t know.”

  “You set up the trip for them?”

  “Yes, I booked their transpo to and from, had the car they keep there serviced, had the house opened, linens changed, flowers ordered, and the kitchen stocked for the arrival. I checked the guest list—who was coming to dinner, who was staying for the whole long weekend. Worked with First Class for the catering for Thanksgiving dinner. They have a branch in the Hamptons. I even made a list for the house droid on what to pack for Lori so she wouldn’t have to think about it. It’s what I do.”

  “How do you do it all?”

  “Comp primarily, so there’s a record of everything.”

  “They’ve taken this trip before?”

  “Every Thanksgiving. It’s their tradition. I can’t go as I have my own—my family in New Hampshire. It’s a lovely tradition for them, close friends, their families. I book what needs to be booked—including some of the guests’ transpo, hotel rooms or rentals, as not everyone can fit in the house. I make reservations, appointments. Ira loves to golf—there’s an indoor nine-hole, and he likes an early tee time. Things like that. And I work with the house droid on wardrobe, book Ira’s haircut for three days before the trip, Lori’s cut and color for the day before. I—”

  “I bet they have a usual salon for that.”

  “Ira goes to this fabulous classic barbershop. Lori’s used Arthur at Serenity for years.”

  “And being comfortable there, they’d probably talk about their plans, how much they’re looking forward to this trip, to having that time with friends and family.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they do.” More red strands fell as Lilia pushed at her hair. “You’re saying it didn’t have to be me.”

  “It didn’t have to be you, or them. It could have been a friend, an associate who mentioned something about them being off on their annual fall trip. One or both of them could have been stalked by this attacker before they left. People who worked for Ira knew he’d be away, when he’d be back.”

  “That’s true. That’s true. But now I want a good slug of wine instead of coffee.”

  “Let’s try this. Lori stated she’d met Rosa Patrick prior to the attacks.”

  “Yes. They didn’t really know each other, and Lori didn’t put it together as Rosa hadn’t yet married Neville when they met—very casually—a couple years ago. She was using her maiden name. It was after they started talking, after what happened, that they realized they’d met before.”

  “And Rosa knows Daphne, as they’d worked on the same charity function. Lori spoke to Daphne at a function last spring.”

  “She did? I didn’t know that.”

  “The Celebrate Art Gala. You were there.”

  “Yes, I sat at Lori and Ira’s table, with Rhia and Marshall Vicker. I didn’t see Daphne. I would have recognized her.”

  “You were in the ladies’ lounge together.”

  Lilia looked baffled, then doubtful, then gave Eve a firm shake of her head. “I’m sure I didn’t see Daphne Strazza. I don’t forget names and faces, and she has a really amazing face.”

  “Lori spoke to her. Daphne had been crying.”

  “Now that I remember. That’s who it was? Lori said she’d spoken to a beautiful woman in a beautiful dress who’d looked miserable, had tears in her eyes and a fresh bruise on her arm. I’d been sitting on the sofa, gossiping with a couple of women I knew. I never saw her.”

  “Looking back, did you notice anyone paying too much attention to Lori? Anyone who made you uncomfortable?”

  “I don’t remember anythi
ng like that, and believe me, I’ve gone over and over it in my head since Lori and Ira were hurt. It was a fun night, and there was a lot of wine going around. A lot of competition in the silent auction, celebrity guests, dancing. I danced a lot. I didn’t take a date so I could mingle—I can always use more clients. And I danced a lot.”

  “You’d have made the bookings for the Brinkmans soon after that night.”

  “Yes, I start the setup for Thanksgiving first week of May. You think that’s important?”

  “It’s a line to tug on.”

  “I can send you all the e-mails, the itinerary, everything. I sent it to the detectives before, but—”

  “I know. I have it.” And would study it again now. “That’s the third time your ’link’s signaled since I’ve been here,” Eve pointed out. “You’re not going to answer?”

  “I’ll catch up.”

  “Do you usually answer?”

  “Not when I’m with a client—or talking to the top cop in New York. And I always return contacts quickly.”

  “But otherwise. Say you’re working with a vendor or setting something up, helping coordinate an event.”

  “Sure.”

  “And say if the tag was to confirm a booking, switch something, add something, you’d deal with it right then.”

  “Usually.”

  “Or if you’re out with friends, on a date?”

  “A date, I’d excuse myself, take the tag if I felt I needed to. Out with friends, I’d check the readout, take it if I needed to. So I might have easily said something about this trip, at least some of the details, in front of someone else.” She pressed her hand to her belly. “I feel sick.”

  “None of this is your fault or responsibility. Even if the information got passed to the assailant in this way. Any more than it would be Ira’s for mentioning his plans when he was in the barber’s chair or Lori’s if she talked about it over a lunch date with a friend. He had an agenda, and he found a way to get the information he needed.”

  The buzzer sounded. “That I should get.”

  Lilia rose, went to the intercom. “Yo.”

  “Ms. Dominick?”