by J. D. Robb
Gold Star ran its base out of Astoria. Peabody relayed the salient data as they drove. Houston and his partner, Michael Chin, had started the business fourteen years before with a single secondhand limo, and had run it primarily out of Houston’s home, with his wife serving as dispatcher, office dogsbody, and bookkeeper.
In less than fifteen years, they’d expanded to a fleet of twelve—all gold, high-end luxury limos with premier amenities, and had earned a five-diamond rating every year for nearly a decade.
They employed eight drivers, and an office and administrative staff of six. Mamie Houston continued to keep the books, and Chin’s wife of five years served as head mechanic. Houston’s son and daughter were listed as part-time employees.
When Eve pulled up in front of the streamlined building with its mammoth garage, a man of about forty in a business suit was watering a long window box full of red and white flowers. He paused, turned his pleasant face toward them with an easy smile.
“Good morning.”
“We’re looking for Michael Chin.”
“You’ve found me. Please come in, out of the heat. Barely nine in the morning and already sweltering.”
Cool air and the scent of flowers greeted them. A counter held the flowers and a compact data-and-communications unit. On a table glossy brochures fanned out. A couple of cozy scoop chairs ranged beside it while a gold sofa and a couple more chairs formed a conference area.
“Can I get you something cold to drink?”
“No, thanks. Mr. Chin, I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody. We’re with the NYPSD.”
“Oh.” His smile remained pleasant, but edged toward puzzled. “Is there a problem?”
“I regret to inform you your partner, Jamal Houston, was found dead this morning.”
He face went blank, like a switch turned off. “I’m sorry, what?”
“He was found in one of the vehicles registered to this company.”
“An accident.” He took a step back, bumped into one of the chairs. “An accident? Jamal had an accident?”
“No, Mr. Chin. We believe Mr. Houston was murdered at approximately ten-twenty-five last night.”
“But no, no. Oh, I see. I see, there’s been a mistake. I spoke with Jamal myself shortly before that time. Minutes before that time. He was at the airport, at LaGuardia, driving a client, and picking up the client’s wife.”
“There’s no mistake. We’ve identified Mr. Houston. He was found in the limo, parked at LaGuardia, early this morning.”
“Wait.” This time Chin gripped the back of the chair, swayed a little. “You’re telling me Jamal is dead? Murdered? But how, how? Why?”
“Mr. Chin, why don’t you sit down?” Peabody eased him into the chair. “Can I get you some water?”
He shook his head, kept shaking it as his eyes, a brilliant green behind a forest of black lashes, filled. “Someone killed Jamal. My God, my sweet God. They tried to steal the car? Was that it? We’re supposed to cooperate in a jacking. It’s firm company policy. No car is worth a life. Jamal.”
“I know this is a shock,” Eve began, “and it’s very difficult, but we need to ask you some questions.”
“We’re having dinner tonight. We’re all having dinner tonight. A cookout.”
“You were here last night. You were running dispatch?”
“Yes. No. Oh, God.” He pressed the heels of his hands to those wet, brilliant eyes. “I was home, running dispatch from home. He had this late run, you see. He took it because Kimmy had two night runs in a row, and West was on an early one this morning, and it was Peter’s son’s birthday, and . . . it doesn’t matter. We flipped a coin, winner chooses dispatch or the run. He took the run.”
“When was it booked?”
“Just that afternoon.”
“Who was the client?”
“I . . . I’ll look it up. I don’t remember. I can’t think.” He dropped his head into his hands, then jerked it up again. “Mamie, the children. Oh, God, oh, God. I have to go. I have to get my wife. We have to go to Mamie.”
“Soon. The most important thing you can do for Jamal right now is give us information. We believe whoever was in the car with him killed him or knows who did. Who was in the car, Mr. Chin?”
“Wait.” He rose, went to the unit on the counter. “It doesn’t make sense. I know it was a new client, but he just wanted to surprise his wife by picking her up in style at the airport, then taking her out to a late supper. I remember that. Here, here it is. Augustus Sweet. The pickup was in front of the Chrysler Building. He was going to work late, and wanted to be picked up at his office. I have his credit card information. We always take that information in advance. I have everything here.”
“Can you make me a copy?”
“Yes, yes. But he was going to pick up his wife at the airport. He did request our best driver, but he didn’t even know Jamal, so I don’t understand. I could have been driving. Any of us could have. It was just . . .”
The flip of a coin, Eve thought.
He fell apart when Eve allowed him to call his wife in. Sobbed in her arms. She was six inches taller with flaming red hair, and was hugely pregnant.
Eve watched tears run down her cheeks, but she held together.
“We need to go with you,” she said to Eve. “She shouldn’t hear this from strangers. I’m sorry, that’s what you are. She needs family with her. We’re family.”
“That’s fine. Can you tell us the last time you saw or spoke with Mr. Houston?”
“Yesterday, about five, I guess. I’d gone over to Mamie’s because she was watching Tige—our son. His babysitter needed the day off. He came in just as we were leaving. He had that run later, and he went home for a few hours first. And I guess you need to know, because that’s the way it is. Michael got home about six-thirty, and we had dinner with our boy. Michael gave him his bath and put him to bed just before eight, because I was tired. He ran the dispatch from home. He came to bed about eleven. I know because I was still awake. I was tired,” she added, rubbing her belly. “The baby wasn’t. I don’t know the exact times, but that’s close.”
Eve ran them through a few more routine questions, but she already had the picture, had a sense.
The Houstons had a large and pretty suburban house with big windows, a rolling lawn, and a front garden that made Eve think of Ireland. Mamie Houston, a wide-brimmed straw hat protecting her face from the sun, stood snipping long-stemmed blooms and putting them in a wide, flat basket.
She turned, started to smile, to wave. Then the smile froze, and her hand dropped slowly to her side.
She knows something’s wrong, Eve thought. She’s wondering why her friends, her partners would drive to her house with a couple of strangers.
She dropped the basket. Flowers spilled out on the green lawn as she began to run.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Mamie.” Michael’s voice cracked. “Jamal. It’s Jamal.”
“Has there been an accident? Who are you?” she demanded of Eve. “What’s happened?”
“Mrs. Houston, I’m Lieutenant Dallas with the NYPSD.” As Eve spoke, Kimmy Chin moved to Mamie’s side, put an arm around her. “I regret to inform you your husband was killed last night.”
“That’s not possible. That can’t be true. He’s out for his run, or at the gym. I . . .” She patted her gardening pants. “I don’t have my ’link. I always forget my ’link when I come out to work in the garden. Michael, use yours, will you? He’s just gone out for his run.”
“He came home?”
“Of course he came home.” She snapped it at Michael, then bit her lip. “I . . .”
“Mrs. Houston, why don’t we go inside?”
She rounded on Eve. “I don’t want to go inside. I want to talk to my husband.”
“When’s the last time you did?”
“I . . . When he left last night for work, but—”
“Weren’t you concerned when he d
idn’t come home?”
“But he must have. It was late. He was going to be late and said I shouldn’t wait up, so I went to bed. And he got up early, that’s all. He got up early to take his run and go by the gym. We have a gym in the house, but he likes to go there, to socialize. You know how he likes to take his run, then go to the gym to gossip, Kimmy.”
“I know, honey. I know. Let’s go inside. Come on now, we’re going inside.”
Inside, Kimmy sat beside her, holding her close in a sun-washed living area. Mamie stared at Eve, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re going to do everything we can to find out what happened. You can help us. Do you know anyone who’d want to cause your husband harm?”
“No. He’s a good man. Tell her, Kimmy.”
“A very good man,” Kimmy soothed.
“Any trouble with employees?”
“No. We’ve kept it small. Exclusive. That . . . that was the whole point.”
“Has anything been troubling him?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Any money problems?”
“No. We have a good life, the business has given us a good life. We like the work—that’s why he still drives, why I keep the books. He’s always wanted to be his own boss, and the business is everything we wanted. He’s proud of what we’ve all built. We have two children in college, but we planned for it, so . . . the children. What will I tell the children?”
“Where are your children, Mrs. Houston?”
“Benji’s taking summer classes. He’s going to be a lawyer. He’ll be our lawyer. Lea’s at the beach for a couple days with friends. What should I tell them?” She turned to weep on Kimmy’s shoulder. “How can I tell them?”
Eve kept at it a while longer, but—for now at least—there was nothing here but shock and grief.
Stepping out into the drenching heat was a relief.
“Let’s check out the business financials, get a background on the partner and his wife, the rest of the employees. We’ll check this gym, verify his early-morning habit.”
“I’ve got it started. Doesn’t feel like it’s there,” Peabody commented. “They really do seem like family.”
“We closed a case recently where everybody was friends and partners with the dead guy.”
“Yeah.” Peabody sighed. “It can sure make you cynical.”
“Did you run this Augustus Sweet?”
“Yeah. He’s a senior VP, internal security, Dudley and Son, pharmaceuticals. Chrysler Building HQ.”
“Let’s go pay him a visit.”
5
DUDLEY AND SON SPREAD OVER FIVE PRIME floors of the landmark building, with its lobby areas done in what Eve thought of as swanky urban excess. The steel and glass counters meant that none of the half dozen working reception could forget to keep their knees together, while the polished silver wall behind them shot out reflections and shimmered with light zeroing in from a multitude of windows.
Weird glass sculptures hung from the ceiling over a high-gloss floor in unrelieved black.
Visitors could bide their time on long, backless benches padded with black gel cushions and watch a wall of screens hype the company’s self-proclaimed innovations and history.
Eve chose a receptionist who looked bored, and laid her badge on the glass counter. “Augustus Sweet.”
“Name, please.”
Eve laid a finger on the badge.
“One moment.” She danced her fingers on a screen behind the counter. “Mr. Sweet is in meetings until two. If you’d like to make an appointment, I’d be—”
Eve tapped her badge again. “That’s my appointment. You’re going to want to interrupt Mr. Sweet and tell him the cops are here. Oh, and one more thing? If you send his admin or some other minion out here to ask me what my business is, I’m going to take it the wrong way, and I’m going to take that wrong way out on you.”
“There’s no reason to get snippy.”
Eve merely smiled. “You haven’t seen snippy yet. Get Sweet, then we can both do our jobs.”
She got Sweet. It took nearly ten minutes, but he walked through a set of glass doors. He wore a dark suit, dark tie, and an expression that said he probably wasn’t a fun guy.
His hair, a pewter gray, was cut short and bristling around a tough, square-jawed face. His eyes, hard and blue, held Eve’s as he walked.
“I assume this is important enough to interrupt my schedule.”
“I think so, but then I rank murder pretty high on the list.”
She’d projected just enough to draw attention. Sweet’s jaw tightened as he turned, gave Eve an impatient come-with-me gesture, then strode back to the glass doors. She followed with Peabody down a wide hallway that opened into a secondary lobby. He turned, eating up the ground beyond offices to a corner space with an important desk ranged in front of an important view of the city.
He closed the door, folded his arms over his chest. “Identification.”
Both Eve and Peabody took out their ID. He took out a pocket scanner, verified them.
“Lieutenant Dallas. I know your reputation.”
“Handy.”
“Who’s been murdered?”
“Jamal Houston.”
“That name’s not familiar to me.” Now he drew out a communicator. “Mitchell, check my files for any information on a Houston, Jamal. He doesn’t work in my department,” he said to Eve. “I know the names of everyone who works in my department.”
“He didn’t work here. He’s the co-owner of a limousine service, one you booked last night for transport to LaGuardia.”
“I didn’t book any transportation last night. I used the company service.”
“For what?”
“For transportation to and from a dinner meeting. Intermezzo, eight o’clock, party of six. I left here at seven-thirty, arrived at the restaurant at seven-fifty-three. I left the restaurant at ten-forty-six, and arrived home at eleven. I had no business at LaGuardia last night.”
“Picking up your wife?”
He smiled, sourly. “My wife and I separated four months ago. I wouldn’t pick her up off the floor, much less at the airport. In any case, as far as I know she’s spending the summer in Maine. You have the wrong man.”
“Maybe. Your name, address, and credit card were used to book the service. The driver picked up the passenger at this location.” Wanting his reaction, she pulled out the hard copy Chin had given her, offered it.
And watched his eyes, saw them widen. He pulled out the communicator again. “Mitchell, cancel all my credit cards, initiate a search on the accounts, and arrange for temporary secure replacements. ASAP,” he snapped. “I want Gorem to do a sniff on all my electronics, and for Lyle to do an all-level sweep. Now.”
“Who’d have access to your information?” Eve asked when he shoved the communicator back in his pocket.
“I’m in the business of security. No one should’ve been able to access that credit information. That’s a company card. How was this booked?”
“Via ’link.”
“The sweep will include a check of all ’link logs in this department.”
“The Electronic Detectives Division will be doing a sweep of its own, which will include your personal ’links.”
She didn’t think it was possible, but his jaw tightened a few more notches. “You’ll need a warrant.”
“No problem.”
“What is this about? I need to take care of this breach of security immediately.”
“It’s about murder, Mr. Sweet, which may prove to be connected to your security problem, but still ranks higher on the food chain. The driver’s body was found early this morning, in his ride, at LaGuardia.”
“Killed by someone who used my name, my information.”
“It appears.”
“I’ll give you the names and contact of everyone at the meeting last night, and every one of them can and will verify my presence. I only use co
mpany vehicles and drivers, again for security. To my knowledge I don’t know this Jamal Houston, and I don’t appreciate having my data compromised this way. Or having my personal logs and electronics sniffed over by the police.”
“I think Jamal’s probably even more pissed off.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Your PA, some of your staff, would have your information, and probable access to that card number.”
“A handful, yes, who hold the necessary level of security clearance.”
“I’ll want the names of that handful,” Eve told him.
She split the interviews with Peabody and took Mitchell Sykes, the PA, first. He was thirty-four and looked slick and efficient in what she thought of as an FBI-lite suit.
“I coordinate Mr. Sweet’s schedule.” He had a prissy, I-am-efficient-and-educated voice and kept his hands folded on his left knee. “I confirmed the reservation for the dinner meeting last night, and arranged for Mr. Sweet’s transportation to and from.”
“And when did you do all that?”
“Two days ago, with follow-ups yesterday afternoon. Mr. Sweet left his office at seven-thirty. I left at seven-thirty-eight. It’s in the logs.”
“I bet. You have access to Mr. Sweet’s company credit card?”
“I do, of course.”
“What do you use that for?”
“Expenses incurred by company business, at Mr. Sweet’s direction. All use is logged and screened. If I use it, the expense must include a purchase order or signed request, and also includes my passcode.”
“Anything in the log about its use last night?”
“I looked, as requested. There’s no entry. If there had been a charge against the account, it would have sent up an auto notice, but as it was simply used to hold a reservation, there’s no flag. The security code on the account is changed every three days, again automatically. Without the code, even a hold would be denied.”