by J. D. Robb
“He’s into something.” Or he’d have answered himself. “It’s not important. I’ll get back to him later.”
“I’m under orders to put you through anytime you call today. I . . . Are you all right?”
Jesus, did it show? “Yeah.”
“Hold on,” Caro said.
Stupid, Eve berated herself. Stupid to have interrupted him. Stupid to have needed to. What she needed to do was the job—but if she broke transmission, he’d tag her right back. Then she’d feel stupider.
“Eve? What’s wrong?”
“I shouldn’t’ve . . . doesn’t matter because I did. They got another one.”
“Today?”
“Three this morning, Central Park. I just . . . God. He hung her in the park. Used a bullwhip. And I just . . .”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m leaving the park, going over to the vic’s place. I have to check it out, find out how she was booked. I have to work it.”
“Give me the address. I’ll meet you there.”
She felt her throat burn and realized emotion was shoving against the resolve that held the anger underneath. “That’s not why I got you out of some meeting. I’m sorry about that.”
“If you don’t give me the address, I’ll just get it by other means, which you won’t like. Let’s avoid the fight over something unimportant when we’re both tired and frustrated.”
“Look, I’ve got my work, you’ve got yours. I’m sorry I—”
“Last chance to avoid the fight. You’re a little more beaten up than I am, so I’ll win.”
She cursed, but she gave him the address. “I’ll clear you with building security.”
“Now, that’s just insulting. I’ll be there shortly.”
So he’d be Peabody again, she thought as she got into her vehicle. What the hell. She could use all the eyes, ears, hands, and brains she could muster.
19
THE DOORMAN TOOK ONE LOOK AT EVE’S VEHICLE and, wincing, left his post to stride over. He plastered a smile on his face, she had to give him that.
“Something I can do for you, miss?”
She held up her badge as she got out of the car. “Couple of things. First, make sure my ride stays where I put it. Second, clear me up to Adrianne Jonas’s place. Third—”
“I’ll have to check with Ms. Jonas before I clear you. Ah—” He took another look at her badge. “Lieutenant.”
“Good luck with that. She’s on her way to the morgue.”
“Oh, come on!” The sincere shock and distress made her wish she’d been slightly more tactful. “Ms. Jonas’s dead? What happened to her?”
“You knew her pretty well?”
“Nicest lady you’d ever want to meet. Always had a word, always had a smile. Did she have an accident?”
“No, somebody made her dead on purpose.”
“Oh, come on!” he repeated. “You mean somebody killed her? Why would anybody want to kill a nice lady like that?”
“I’d like to find that out. You need to clear me.” As he had with her badge, she took another look at his nameplate. “Louis. I have a consultant on the way. You’ll need to clear him when he gets here.”
“I gotta take a minute.”
He removed his spiffy, silver-trimmed red hat, lowered his head, closed his eyes. The simplicity threw Eve off, had her slipping her hands in her pockets and giving him his moment of silence.
He let out a breath, replaced his hat. Squared it, and his shoulders. “I need to log your badge in.” He moved to the door, opened it into a quiet and pristine lobby area. “And I’ll need the name of the consultant.”
Eve pulled out her badge again. “Roarke.”
The doorman’s head snapped up. “Oh.” He gave her badge yet another, closer look. “I didn’t realize. Sorry for holding you up, Lieutenant Dallas.”
“No problem.” So Roarke owned the building. Big surprise.
“You just take Elevator Two right up to fifty-one, then . . . God, I’m not thinking straight.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, shook his head. “Ms. Wallace is already up there. She got in about a half hour ago.”
“Ms. Wallace?”
“Ms. Jonas’s assistant, and Maribelle—that’s the housekeeper—she left a little before that to do some morning errands. Should I tell Ms. Wallace you’re coming up?”
“No. Does anyone else work for her, or live in the unit?”
“There’s Katie. I guess she’s what you’d call a gofer, but she’s not here yet today. Maribelle has her own apartment next to Ms. Jonas’s.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“She’s fifty-one hundred, Lieutenant,” he said as she crossed to the elevator. “I don’t mean to tell you your job or anything, but if you could maybe gentle it up some with Ms. Wallace? It’s going to knock her back pretty hard.”
Eve nodded, stepped into the elevator. Murder was supposed to knock you back, she thought. She keyed the names the doorman had given her into her notes as the elevator rode silently, smoothly up fifty-one floors.
As she pressed the buzzer beside the wide double doors of 5100, she wondered what constituted “gentling it up.”
The woman who answered had about five pounds of madly curling black hair and skin the color of Peabody’s coffee regular. Her eyes, a spring leaf green, held Eve’s for a long beat. Long enough Eve understood she didn’t have to worry about the gentle.
“I know you.” The smoky voice was breathless. “I know who you are. It’s Adrianne. Something’s happened.” Her lips trembled, her hand squeezed the edge of the door. “Please say it very fast.”
“I have to inform you Adrianne Jonas is dead. I’m sorry for your loss.”
She swayed, but even as Eve braced to catch her, she toughened up. Tears sheened those soft green eyes, but didn’t fall. “Someone killed Adrianne.”
“Yes.”
“Someone killed Adrianne,” she repeated. “She wasn’t here when I got here. She’s not answering her ’link, and she always answers her ’link. Someone killed Adrianne.”
Just because the woman wasn’t going to faint or scream or rush into hysterics didn’t mean she wasn’t in shock. Gentle, Eve supposed, had different levels.
“I’d like to come in. Why don’t we go inside and sit down?”
“Yes, I need to sit down. Yes, come in.”
The entrance foyer led to another set of doors, open now, that connected to a large, high-ceilinged living space with a wide ribbon of windows. Seating had been cleverly built in beneath the windows, with more glass doors worked in between.
The woman chose a scroll-armed chair, lowered into it slowly. “When?”
“Early this morning. She was found in Central Park, near the Great Hill. Do you know why she would have been there?”
“She had an appointment. At three o’clock this morning.”
“With whom?”
“Darrin—” Her voice broke. She shook her head, cleared her throat. “Darrin Wasinski. A client. He wanted to arrange for his daughter to be married there, at that time of the morning. She and her fiancé had gotten engaged there, at that time.”
She put her fingers over her eyes, breathed and breathed. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to think clearly.”
“Take your time. Do you want something? Some water?”
“No. He wanted her to meet him there, to get an idea of the terrain, the look of it at that hour. His daughter wanted romantic, but unique. Something nobody else had done. He wanted Adrianne to handle the logistics. Oh, God, was Darrin killed, too? Oh, God.”
“No. Is he a new client?”
“No. He’s used us before, personally and professionally. He’s CFO for Intelicore, New York operations.”
Of course he is, Eve thought.
“I should have gone with her.” Her breath tore and wheezed as she fought for control. “Adrianne’s so self-sufficient, and God knows she can handle herself. But I should have gone with her. We were at a party la
st night, and she was going straight from there.”
“Where was the party?”
“Winston Dudley’s home. It was still going strong when I left, about one-thirty. I don’t know what time she left. Did Darrin meet her? Do you know if—”
Eve interrupted. “Did he personally book the appointment?”
“Yes. He e-mailed her yesterday afternoon. Lieutenant, Darrin wouldn’t have hurt Adrianne. I can swear to it. He’s a very lovely man, devoted to his family—which is why he’d go to such lengths to make this brainstorm of his daughter’s happen.”
“Did either you or Ms. Jonas or anyone else on staff actually speak to him about the arrangements?”
“Just by e-mail. It was very last minute, and nothing we’d have taken on except Darrin’s a regular, long-term client.”
And a booking by a regular, long-term client when Jonas would already be out—at the party Dudley had invited her to—ensured she’d be where they wanted her, when they wanted her.
“I’d like copies of the e-mails. Has Ms. Jonas ever facilitated for Mr. Moriarity, Mr. Dudley?”
“Yes. They’re very good clients. Was it a mugging?”
“No.”
“I didn’t see how it could be. She’s trained in self-defense, a black belt in several martial art disciplines, and she carried repel spray and a panic button.”
“In her purse?”
“The spray, yes. Her wrist unit had the panic button. It’s very much like mine.” Wallace tapped her wrist. “Adrianne gave everyone who works with her one. We go into unusual places, often at unusual times. We all take self-defense courses. She wanted us safe,” Wallace added, and the first tear spilled down her cheek. “Can you tell me what happened to her?”
It would be out soon enough. “She was hanged.”
“Oh, God, my God.” She blanched as her hands gripped together in her lap. “Can any of this be happening?”
“I know this is hard, but I need to see those e-mails. It would help if I could go through the apartment. Did she have workspace here?”
“Yes. Yes. We work in the adjoining unit, primarily. It spills over, of course, into the living space.”
“You and Ms. Jonas, and Katie?”
“Oh, Jesus, I have to tell Katie. She’s not due in until noon today. I should contact her. And Bill and Julie.”
“Bill and Julie?”
“Her parents. They live in Tulsa. She’s from Tulsa.”
“We’ll notify her parents. Maybe you can contact them later today after I’ve spoken with them.”
“All right. Yes. All right. I was worried, a little worried, when she wasn’t here this morning. But I thought maybe she went back to the party after her appointment, and maybe she went home with someone. It’s not usual, but she and Bradford Zander—one of the other guests last night—saw each other occasionally. But she didn’t answer her ’link, and she was fierce about always answering, or at least acknowledging a contact. But I told myself it was nothing, to give her a few more minutes, that she might be in the shower or . . .
“Then I saw you at the door, and I knew. We have a whole file on you.”
“You what?”
“Oh, that sounded wrong.” She rubbed her damp face with the heels of her hands. “Adrianne believes in being prepared. You might be a client one day. So we keep files—articles and basic data. She admired you. She believed, strongly, in women leaving a deep mark doing what they were meant to do. And as soon as I saw you, I knew why she wasn’t home, why she didn’t answer her ’link. She’s my best friend in the world, and I knew you were here to tell me she was dead.”
Wallace wiped another tear away, blinked the rest back. “You’ll find who did this to her. She’d have expected that from you. I’ll take you through to the offices.”
As they rose, the buzzer sounded.
“Will you excuse me a minute?”
As Wallace went to the door, Eve angled herself to keep it in view. She watched Roarke step in, take Wallace’s hands. He kept his voice low, so all she heard was the comfort in the tone.
When she turned back, Eve saw the tears had won again.
“I’ll take you both over. I’ll get a printout of the e-mails you wanted.”
“It would be helpful if you’d get me a list of anyone who knew Ms. Jonas was going to the park, and when.” Busywork, Eve thought, but it would give the woman something to do.
“All right.” She walked them back through the foyer and through already open doors to another large unit.
Another living space designed to Eve’s eye to keep clients comfortable. Stylish, sunny built-ins that likely housed entertainment and refreshment equipment.
Later, Eve decided, she’d need to go through the rest of the space, the more personal spaces.
“Can you tell me if she had trouble with anyone? A client who was unhappy or dissatisfied? A personal problem with anyone?”
“She never left a client unhappy. She’d find a way, and if it wasn’t exactly what they were after, she had a talent for making them think it was, or that it was better than they’d expected. On a personal level, she kept things casual. She wasn’t ready, she said, for a serious relationship. I honestly don’t know of anyone who’d do this to her. People liked her—it was part of her success. Giving people what they wanted, and being likable.
She stepped out into another, smaller living space, then turned into an office. It reminded Eve of Mira’s. Not in the decor, she realized, but in that it struck her as feminine, pretty, and efficient all at once.
“I can put those e-mails on disc for you, unless you’d prefer a hard copy.”
“Both wouldn’t hurt.”
“All right.” She sat, engaged the computer. When she’d finished, she handed Eve a thin paper file, and a disc in a case.
“I’d like to scan some of the other correspondence, some of the files.”
“I feel like I have to say this business runs on privacy and discretion. But I’m not in the mood to care about that right now. And I know Adrianne would be pissed off by what happened—that sounded stupid.”
“No, it didn’t. It sounded accurate.”
Wallace managed a weak laugh. “She’d also want you to have whatever tools you needed to do your job. I’d like you to tell me if you make copies or transfer any files.”
“No problem.”
“If you don’t need me to stay, I could really use a few minutes.”
“Go ahead. Ms. Wallace?” Eve added as she started out. “It strikes me Ms. Jonas had good judgment in friends.”
“That was a kind thing to say,” Roarke murmured.
“I’m not feeling very kind. Adrianne isn’t the only one pissed off right now. I told you I could handle this.”
“Do I interpret that as you’re pissed off at me?”
“Not especially.” Eve sighed. “A little, but mostly because you’re here and I could punch you if I needed to.”
“If I hadn’t come, you wouldn’t be pissed off at me, but then I wouldn’t be here to punch.”
“Don’t try to logic me right now. They had a really big night, splashy party, with their private entertainment on the side. Figured on using that party, and each other, for alibis—with the bonus of having a lure for Jonas. One slips out, skewers the chef, then later, the other slips out, hangs the facilitator. And they cover each other.
“You didn’t tell me you owned the building.”
“The majority share, but that wasn’t on my mind when you gave me the address. I knew her a little. Adrianne.”
“Were you a client?”
“No.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, wandered the room. “I can facilitate for myself. And if I don’t have the time, or don’t want to spend the time, I have Caro and Summerset. But she had a sterling rep.”
He touched the frame of a photo where both Adrianne and Wallace smiled, arms around each other’s waist.
“A lovely woman with a lot of style and charm,” he added, “a
nd a talent for fluid thinking. I do know several people who were clients, and worked with her, or with her through Bonita—Wallace,” he added at Eve’s blank look. “How did they get her into the park?”
She ran it by him as she scanned the hard copy of the e-mails.
“This guy, Wasinski, won’t know squat about this. I’ll have to check him out, but he’s the same as the others. Just the dupe—the difference being unlike the others he knew the vic.”
“Adding more connections,” Roarke said.
“Yeah, upping the stakes every time now. Look here, right in his e-mail to her it asks her not to contact him via ’link as he’s in meetings most of the day. Not to leave voice mail, as he wants this to be a surprise and his wife might check his messages, blah blah. Just to use this e-mail account he’s set up—not his regular account—to keep it on the down-low until they check it all out.”
“And she didn’t question it.”
“He’s a client, one she’s known awhile. He uses his daughter’s name, his wife’s name, works in just enough personal stuff. He even mentions he knows she’s been invited to Dudley’s garden party. Why would she question it? It’s probably not the weirdest request she ever got.”
Eve sat on the desk, began to scroll through the most recent correspondence. “Since you’re here and I’m not punching you, maybe you could check out the desk ’link.”
“I’ll do that, on one condition. You stop blaming yourself, right here, right now.”
“I’m not doing that. Exactly.”
She looked at the photo, and noted she’d been right. Adrianne Jonas had been a very pretty woman in life.
“I feel like I’m lagging behind in this contest, and because I am two people are dead. But I also know the contest is rigged. It’s set up so I can’t know who’s a target, and so I have to spend time checking out their dupes and alibis.”
“Why spend the time when you know they’re dupes, and you know the alibis are bollocks?”
“Because I can’t play by their rules. I have to show a judge, and eventually a judge and jury, that I investigated and verified and eliminated. That I compiled the evidence. Maybe this Darrin Wasinski got a wild hair, was carrying on an affair, or wanted to, with the vic. Maybe he decided to try to do a copycat and killed her because she wouldn’t run off to Mozambique, or because she threatened to tell his wife they did the dirty in Mozambique when he was supposed to be in Albuquerque on business.”