Echoes in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Another yo.”

  “This is Detective Peabody.”

  “Tell her I’ll be right down,” Eve said.

  “Detective, Lieutenant Dallas says she’ll be right down.”

  “Thanks. I’ll wait.”

  Eve got to her feet.

  “Is there anything else I can do?” Lilia asked. “Anything?”

  “You move in the various worlds. The client, the vendors, the staff, the friends, the events, and the parties. Give it all some thought, see if anything or anyone starts to float to the surface. Something out of step, a little off, anyone just a little bit too curious.”

  “I will. Believe me, I will.”

  Eve went downstairs, found Peabody on the sidewalk, face upturned to the snow with a goofy smile. Jesus, a cheerful optimist.

  “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  “Hey. It’s so pretty.”

  “It’s cold, it’s wet, and it makes many, many people behind the wheels of vehicles behave like morons.” She jerked her thumb. “We’re this way.”

  “How’d it go with the border collie?”

  “She’s smart, personable, efficient. And she’s really fond of Lori Brinkman. It came through. She also worked behind the scenes on Daphne’s wedding.”

  “Oh, boy, that’s a big bell ringing.”

  “They talk,” Eve continued as they walked. “The vendors, the coordinators, the servers, and so on. Shoptalk. Easy, so easy for little details to get passed along. When and where, how many, and like that. He knows how to listen, knows how to pick up tidbits. Maybe he was smart enough to stalk Lilia, too, and pick up those tidbits. Maybe he hacks her ’link or comp—he could have those skills. No real security on her building or apartment. Basic stuff. He could’ve gotten in there, gone through the files, found what he wanted that way. Lots of ways.”

  “Do you think he knows her—she knows him?”

  “I think she brushes up against an awful lot of people doing what she does. I think it’s a pretty good bet he was there at the Celebrate Art Gala, and he started selecting his targets.”

  “All three.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he stopped at three. All those women. Plenty of remarkably beautiful women, I’m damn sure, who happened to be married. Plenty of very rich couples who fit his requirements. And however many he might have earmarked that night, he’s had other nights, other opportunities. One way or the other, he moves in that world.”

  When they reached the car, she got behind the wheel. “Either nobody notices him—staff—or he’s one of them. Either way, he’s in a position to select targets and pull out the information on them that he needs.”

  She glanced in the rearview before pulling out, watched a car take the corner too fast, fishtail, barely miss spinning into an oncoming car, which swerved and spun as its driver overcompensated.

  “Snow,” Eve grumbled, pulling out. She glanced at the address Peabody plugged into the in-dash. “That’s Roarke’s building.”

  “Aren’t most of them?”

  “Ha ha. That’s his HQ.”

  “Oh, right. It’s the lawyer. I didn’t put it together. I just think of it as the big black tower looming powerfully over Midtown. And woo! Underground, VIP parking for us!”

  Eve considered opting for street parking, just to be contrary, scowled at the thickening snow. Might as well take what made the next stop easier.

  It did loom, she admitted as the sleek black tower came into view. And looked dramatic and important, especially rising up against the white sky.

  The man did enjoy making an impact.

  “What did you find out about the bartender?” Eve asked as she maneuvered through the increasingly deplorable road conditions.

  “A couple of bumps, but nothing major or violent. Arrested twice during animal-rights protests, went peacefully, charges dropped. He’s worked at Jacko’s for just under three years. Lists his height as five-eight and a half. Interestingly, he’s a member of the East Side Community Players, and though most of his income comes from bartending, he lists his profession as actor.”

  “That is interesting. We’re going to want to talk to him.”

  “We can try bringing him into Interview today, but this storm’s now predicted to dump fifteen to eighteen inches in the city, and the wind’s going to take it into blizzard territory before evening.”

  “Who decides that?” Eve demanded, sorely irked at having the weather interfere with procedure. “Who decides this is the blizzard line, or fifteen to eighteen? Why not sixteen to nineteen?”

  “The weather wizards?” Peabody suggested.

  “Wizards, my ass. A real wizard would say you’re getting hammered with fifteen-point-six inches because I say so.”

  “It’s going to be worse in the ’burbs—and I don’t know why,” Peabody said quickly. “But they’re already advising people to stay off the roads barring emergencies.”

  “They can say whatever the hell they want. Nobody listens to them.”

  Annoyed, she pulled into the garage entrance. The gate lifted as it scanned her license plate. Gate security flashed green as the computer engaged.

  Good afternoon, Lieutenant Dallas. Your priority parking is Level One, Slot Two. Please turn right, proceed thirty-two feet.

  “VIP,” Peabody said, executing a little shoulder bump.

  Eve said nothing, simply drove into the slot. “What floor for the lawyer?” Eve asked.

  “Wythe, Wythe, and Hudd have the entire eighteenth floor.”

  Eve headed for the closest elevator. Before she could call for it, she noted the quick scan. This security comp spoke silkily.

  Welcome, Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. You are cleared for all levels in express mode.

  The doors opened, as did Peabody’s mouth until Eve shot a finger at her.

  Peabody followed Eve into the elevator, mouthing VIP and doing the quick shoulder bump behind her partner’s back.

  “Eighteen,” Eve ordered, and the elevator immediately began its smooth, rapid rise.

  Law offices of Wythe, Wythe, and Hudd, the elevator announced, and seconds later, the doors opened.

  A single female, with hair piled high and white like the snow outside, manned a long counter of all-business black. There were two empty stools flanking her, along with slick data and communication centers.

  A standard, upscale waiting area spread on one side of the room. The other side held the surprising choice of potted dwarf trees, fruiting with little oranges and lemons, around a pair of black stone benches.

  “Good afternoon.” The woman offered a quick, professional smile. “The traffic must be horrendous.”

  “It isn’t good.” Eve laid her badge on the counter. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, to see Randall Wythe.”

  “Yes, Detective Peabody arranged for an appointment. Just let me check with Mr. Wythe’s office.”

  She tapped her earpiece. “Yes, Carson, the police officers are here for Mr. Wythe. Of course.” She tapped it again. “Mr. Wythe should be available shortly. His administrative assistant will come out to escort you back if you’d like to take a seat.”

  “Okay. Where’s everybody else?” Eve gestured to the empty stools.

  “We sent some of the staff home. This storm’s supposed to be a bruiser.”

  “But you’re sticking it out.”

  “I grew up in Wisconsin,” the woman said with an easy smile.

  “I guess you see pretty much everyone who comes in. Have you met Daphne Strazza?”

  The woman’s smile faded. “I haven’t, no. It’s terrible what happened. I hope she’s going to be all right.”

  “She’s improving. You’ve met Dr. Strazza?”

  “Yes, I have. He’s been a client for a very long time. Was, I should say.”

  “Can you remember the last time he was in?”

  “Not offhand, no. Some time ago. He and Mr. Wythe often meet at the club rather than here. Here’s Carson.”

  Cars
on—skinny, long-necked, with short brown hair meticulously side parted—stepped through a wide doorway.

  “Lieutenant, Detective, I’ll take you back to Mr. Wythe’s office. Ms. Midderman, Mr. Wythe said to tell you to switch to auto on the desk anytime you want to leave today.”

  “Thank you, Carson, I’m fine for now.”

  They followed Carson’s long, somewhat gawky strides down a wide corridor of offices, hushed as a church, past a meeting room or law library where a couple of young staffers huddled over laptops and talked in reverent whispers.

  They turned beyond a break room, complete with kitchen and Vending, and continued down to glossy wood doors.

  Carson knocked, waited for a quick buzz before pushing the pocket doors open.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, Mr. Wythe.”

  “Yes, yes. Carson, get us some lattes, then cancel anything I have for the rest of the day. I’m damn well going home.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Carson went through a side doorway. Wythe leaned back in the big leather chair behind his massive desk, sizing up his visitors.

  12

  He had a scholar’s mane of shining silver hair around a ruddy, lived-in face with sharp, hard blue eyes and a beak of a nose. He wore his lawyerly suit—deep, dark blue with gray chalk stripes—with a precisely knotted red tie and the corner of a red handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket.

  “I knew Anthony for more than twenty-five years,” he said in a voice that seemed to hover on the edge of a boom. “I was just trying to calculate, and I believe I actually liked him about ten days out of that time. That said, I’m appalled by what happened to him, and to his wife.”

  Wythe gestured, a flick of his hand, to the visitors’ chairs—leather, the color of port—facing his desk. “You might wonder at a lawyer volunteering that sort of information, but I knew him for nearly a third of my life, have no motive, and was in Miami—a friendly, annual golf tournament—from Thursday until Sunday evening. It’s easy for you to verify.”

  “We will, if we find it applicable.”

  Carson stepped back in with a tray holding three oversized cups. He served them competently, even as he sent sidelong glances toward the snow falling outside the window wall.

  “Now cancel those appointments, Carson, and go home. Then you can cast worried glances out your apartment window instead of out of mine.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carson stepped out, shut the doors.

  “Why did you dislike Anthony Strazza?” Eve began. “Except for those ten days?”

  “The short answer would be: He wasn’t a likable man. Surely someone with your skill and experience has already gleaned that. However, when I broke my leg and shattered my elbow several years ago in a skiing accident, I had myself airlifted to St. Andrew’s, and Anthony’s OR.”

  Wythe lifted his arm, bent and unbent his elbow. “Not just good as new, better than. Same with the leg. I’d like to inquire about Daphne. I’ll need to speak with her before long, as the trustee and executor of Anthony’s estate.”

  “She’s in good condition at this point, under a doctor’s care. I can tell you she has no desire to go back to her residence.”

  “Understandable.”

  “She’ll be clear to leave the hospital by tomorrow or the day after. At that time she’ll require funds.”

  “Require funds?”

  “She indicated she has none.”

  “But…” He caught himself, sipped his latte. “I see. I can, of course, authorize that.”

  “Why do you suppose Mrs. Strazza finds herself without the means to pay for a hotel, or whatever medical expenses she’s incurred over her insurance?”

  “I can’t speak to how Anthony set up his household finances, Lieutenant.”

  “But as his lawyer, the trustee and executor of his estate, you can speak to the terms of his will and his wife’s inheritance.”

  “If she’s close to being released from the hospital, she should be well enough to speak with me.”

  “I can clear that from my end, but you’d have to go through her doctors. Physically she’s improving. She’s young, healthy, and—though her injuries and trauma were severe—she’s gotten excellent care.”

  “Anthony may be dead, but there remains a matter of privilege and confidentiality. And I have a responsibility to look out for the welfare of his surviving spouse as well as his estate.”

  Eve’s gaze remained as cool and direct as his. “We can sit here and talk about privilege and court orders while the person who killed your client, beat and raped his wife is snuggled in somewhere planning who he’s going after next. We can keep doing that while the traumatized spouse of said client adds to her current anxiety as she is apparently without funds, resources, or a credit line. Or we can cut through it.”

  Wythe frowned, drummed his fingers, then rose, walked over to a small putting green on the side of the room. “Do you play?”

  “No,” Eve said. Peabody shook her head.

  “Helps me think.” He sank a ball, scooped it out, set it back on the narrow green, sank it again. “I’m going to give you some broad strokes,” he said. “Some, we’ll say, hypotheticals. Clients who come to me for estate planning generally have complex finances, so the paperwork is rarely simple and straightforward. Still, some want just that.”

  He walked back to his desk, picked up his latte. “You’ll also have those who, sometimes for spite, sometimes for good reasons, wish to disinherit a family member, or set aside that inheritance with restrictions. Some wish to leave the bulk of their estate to an organization or a charity. It might be, we’ll say, the hospital where they’ve been attached for a number of years, and the bequest might be on the terms it’s used for a specific purpose, with specific naming instructions from the benefactor.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. The client may have a spouse or partner. He may, if there is real property, such as a home, leave that property to the surviving spouse, along with gifts given during their marriage or partnership. Jewelry, for instance, clothing, furs. It may be this client is very exacting, very precise in his bequests, naming pieces of art, furnishings, and so on that may be left to the spouse or partner, or must be sold at auction to benefit the charity the client has already designated.

  “As a lawyer, one who handles a great many estates, I would advise, of course, that a trust be established for the spouse or partner, at the very least to help this individual maintain the real property, certainly to pay off any existing liens on same. My advice is sometimes dismissed.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me also point out that even expediting, an estate like this hypothetical example would take up to two years to settle. This real property could not be sold until that time, in the event there were any challenges to the terms. If you speak to Daphne before I’m able to do so, will you ease her mind, tell her this office will advance her what she needs?”

  “All right. You did their prenup.”

  Now he sighed—a sound almost like a bull snorting. “I did. Again, I can’t discuss specifics. I will say that while I strongly advised Daphne to engage her own attorney to vet the agreement, she didn’t do so. And the period of time it took to write the prenup to Anthony’s specifications was not inside the ten days I liked him.”

  “What would you say if I told you there’s evidence coming to light that Anthony Strazza abused his wife? That the abuse was emotional, verbal, physical, and potentially sexual.”

  Wythe shoved away from the desk, stared hard at his putting green. “That’s not going to do it this time.”

  He turned his back, looked through the glass at the curtain of snow.

  “I didn’t socialize with Anthony, though we belonged to the same club—stuffy, old-fashioned place I’m fond of here in the city. We had very little in common otherwise. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d said he bullied her—verbally—domineered, pressured her to be and behave in a certain manner.
But you’re saying he used violence?”

  “I can’t discuss the details.”

  “Touché,” he countered. “I only met her a handful of times. Young, fresh, ridiculously lovely. I never expected the marriage to last, frankly. I assumed one or both of them would become bored and walk away from the marriage. But I never, even saying I didn’t like the man, I never suspected he’d be violent with her. I’m not sure what I’d have done about it if I’d known.”

  He came back, sat again. “I have a daughter. She’s the second Wythe in the firm. She married about three years ago and is about to give me my first grandson. I think the world of the man she married. Absolutely the world. And if I learned he’d raised his hand to my daughter, I’d break both his arms. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d known Daphne was being abused. No, I’m wrong.”

  He sat back, nodded. “I have a son. Our black sheep, as he opted not to follow me as I followed my father, my grandfather into law. Instead, he’s one of you.” Wythe smiled as he said it. “If I’d known, I’d have gone to Nelson, asked him to look into it.”

  “Detective Nelson Wythe,” Eve said, “under Lieutenant Mercer. He’s a good cop.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  “What about the first wife?” Eve asked.

  “I didn’t know her well. As I said, I didn’t socialize with Anthony. I didn’t handle the divorce, but passed that to one of our associates. It’s my understanding Anthony’s ex-wife accepted a monetary settlement and moved out of the country.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell Daphne that I and this firm are at her disposal, and that I would like to speak with her at the earliest opportunity. As for her medical bills, those can be paid out of the estate. I can work that, and we can and will advance her what she needs for lodging and living expenses.

  “Now, unless there’s more, I’d very much like to go home and have a very large whiskey.”

  * * *

  “He was pretty okay for a lawyer,” Peabody commented as they left. “And that was a really good latte.”

  “Another check mark in the Disliked Strazza column.”

  Stepping out into reception, Eve noted the woman still manned the desk. And was currently being charmed up to the eyeballs by Roarke, who leaned casually against the counter.