by J. D. Robb
“I tried CPR, even mouth-to-mouth,” the other man said.
“Name?”
“Oh, Richie. I mean Richard Lieberman.” He swallowed, hard.
He had skin so white his freckles popped out like . . . polka dots, Eve thought. And orange hair with tips of blue—with a tiny pointed beard to match.
“I’m, uh, certified. I work summers as a lifeguard, so I knew what to do. But, man, he was gone. You know, dead. So we called the cops.”
“Did you see anyone while you were messing around, or while you waited for the police?”
“Nobody. Well, there was a sidewalk sleeper, but he was back on Fifth, before we came into the park. And well . . .”
“Well?”
“I guess we saw the beat droids back there, too, so we sort of ducked in here.”
“Got any Sober-Up?”
Their eyes shifted to each other, then down.
“Look, I don’t currently give a shit about your underage drinking.”
“There was this party—”
“Don’t care,” she told Marshall. “I’m going to need your contact information, then these officers are going to take you back to—where?”
“We’re at Berkely. We, ah, sort of snuck out of the dorm to go to the party, then—”
“Don’t care,” she said to Richie. “We’re going to get you back.” Impaired or not, she thought, they’d tried to save a life. “What are your chances of sneaking back in?”
That eye slide again. “We’re pretty good at it,” Richie told her.
“Good. Do that. Dry off, get something hot—and nonalcoholic—to drink. Here’s what I care about: You tried to help someone, and when you couldn’t, you called the cops.”
“You’re not going to rat us out?”
“I’m not going to rat you out. If you don’t have such good luck sneaking back in, have the person who busts you contact me. Lieutenant Dallas, Cop Central. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You lose points for the ‘ma’am.’” She shut the door. “Get them back,” she told the uniform. “Make sure they get back inside.”
“Dumb-asses.” The uniform shook his head. “But they got balls. Probably shriveled up right now, but they got ’em.”
In full agreement, she went back to her car for her field kit, started the hike to the jogging path and the reservoir.
The struggling sun turned the sky to a lighter, dirtier gray. In its pissy light, she spotted the beat droids—muscular issues, both male with square, serious faces. Unaffected by the wind and the wet, they stood flanking the body.
Eve held up her badge. “Report.”
Their report added little to the witnesses’ statements but for, in the way of droids, precise times. She had them stand by, then took a long look at Jordan Banks.
He lay faceup, and from the angle of his neck, the bruising harsh against the skin, she judged his neck had been broken before whoever broke it dumped his body in the water.
The droids had ID’d him with scanners, but she sealed up, took out her Identapad, made it official.
“Victim is identified as Banks, Jordan.” She rattled off the data for the record before taking out her gauge for time of death. “TOD, oh three hundred twenty hours. Witnesses notified nine-one-one at five-twelve. He wasn’t in the water long. He’s not wearing a coat, a wrist unit, or shoes.”
She searched the pockets of his pants. “No wallet, no ’link. It looks like a mugging, but it’s not. Just not.”
Taking out her penlight, she examined the bruising on the neck. “Not from a blow. Maybe a fall, but . . .” She ran the light over the left side of the face, studied as she heard Peabody’s clomping winter boots.
She rose, turned to her partner. “Turn around.”
“What?”
“Just turn around.”
When she did, Eve stepped up behind her, cupped her right hand under Peabody’s chin, pressed her left to the left side of Peabody face, gave her partner’s head a quick—but gentle—twist.
“Hey!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Eve stepped back. “Somebody knows how to kill, quick and quiet. No defensive wounds. He never saw it coming. Didn’t expect it. Knew who was behind him, and wasn’t worried. Could be they stunned him first, or had a weapon, but why kill covert, combat style, if you could just stun and toss him into the water to drown, or use the weapon?”
Peabody fussed the scarf back around her neck. “This is Karson’s ex, right? You interviewed him yesterday?”
“And he lied through his teeth. I could see it.”
“He was in this?”
“I don’t know if he knew he was, but he was. And they didn’t leave this loose end alive.”
Peabody stepped closer to the body. “His neck’s broken. Can you really break somebody’s neck with just your hands?”
“If you’re strong enough, and know how. Military, he’s going to be military.”
She shoved her hands in the pockets of her long leather coat, stared over at the skyline, gray against gray. “How the hell did they get him here? Three in the morning, he comes here, meets them. Or they come here together. No defensive wounds, no sign of struggle. He came willingly. Did he walk—he doesn’t strike me as somebody who’d walk this far. Let’s check for cabs, private car services for pickups at his address and for drop-offs in this area. Drop-offs between two and three-twenty this morning.”
She played her light over the grass, the path. “We’ll call it in, sweepers and the dead wagon. Crime scene might find something. Get that going. I’ll finish with him.”
When she had, ordered the bag and tag, she left the beat droids guarding the crime scene, and filled Peabody in on the witnesses’ statements as they walked back to the car.
“The water has to be freezing.”
“I’d say they were too young and drunk to care.” Eve got into the car, said, “Coffee.”
“Oh yeah.” Peabody programmed it. “If Banks is tied in, it gives us a lead.”
“He’s tied. So we’re going to see Karson.”
“Now? It’s pretty early.”
“Not for Banks.”
Eve dealt with the nurse—a different one but almost as disapproving—and bullied her way into Karson’s room.
The patient was awake, with the morning reports murmuring on her wall screen. The nurse fussed over her, checking monitors, fluffing pillows.
“Lilian, I’d really love some coffee.”
“I’m going to order up your breakfast now.” She gave Karson a pat on the hand before sailing out.
“It’s terrible coffee,” Karson said, “and I know it’s whining, but, God, I can’t wait to get out of here. Do you have information?”
“Ms. Karson, I regret to inform you that Jordan Banks is dead.”
“What? What?” She used her good arm to try to push up, winced, dropped back. “Jordan? How? My God.”
“He was murdered in the early hours of this morning.”
“Murdered? How could—how? Where? Oh, my Jesus. I need a minute.”
She covered her hands with her face, rocked, rocked. “Murdered. Dead. I can’t . . . I despised him. I came to despise him. He made a fool out of me, and I hated knowing I’d let him make a fool out of me. Now he’s dead.”
She dropped her hands. Her eyes shone damp, but tears didn’t fall. “We were involved, for about eight months. Up until a few weeks ago.”
“I know.”
“Of course you know. It’s your job to know. I can’t think. I just can’t think.”
“Would you like some water?” Peabody offered.
“I’d like a drink, a goddamn double of anything with a kick. I’d like for an hour to pass where people I know aren’t dead.” She closed her eyes, seemed to breathe herself under control. “How was he killed? Can you tell me?”
“The medical examiner will determine cause of death.” Eve weighed the odds. “I believe his neck was broken.”
“He was in a fig
ht? That’s just impossible. He wouldn’t know how.”
“No, not a fight. How much did you tell him about the details and timing of the merger?”
“I . . . Too much.” As her breathing pitched again, she gripped the sheet in a fist. “Are you saying Jordan had something to do with the bombing? I can’t believe that—won’t.”
“I don’t know that. You gave him details?”
“I thought I was in love with him. I thought he was in love with me. His family . . . they understand business. Jordan’s more interested in the arts—and really that’s not entirely true, either. He’s more interested in women, and how to use them—wealthy women. But I thought he had an interest in my business—a caring interest—and I shared some of my thoughts, plans, hopes with him. He had advice, sometimes it was reasonably good advice. And he listened, he was supportive. And I was an idiot.”
“I don’t think so,” Peabody put in. “You cared for him, and thought he felt the same. You thought of him as a partner, on a personal level.”
“I did. I thought . . . I really thought we had a future together. More fool me.”
“We need to be able to share with our partners,” Peabody continued. “To talk to them, to have them listen. It’s natural and human.”
“I hope I feel that way again someday—when I find someone worthy of trust. But now—I said I despised him, and I don’t say that lightly. But I can’t believe he’d have had any part in what happened. In terrorizing that family, in killing people. I might’ve died, too. We slept together for months, all but lived together.”
“Why did you break it off?” Eve asked her.
She sighed now. “He’d started to ask for money. Just a loan. The first time I didn’t think much of it. Just a few thousand—cash. The second time, those few weeks ago, it bothered me. He’d never paid back the first, and obviously didn’t intend to. I balked, he let it go. But then I found out he’d been cheating. Another woman—wealthy, of course, and married in this case. When I confronted him with it, he shrugged it off. Literally shrugged,” she added, her eyes glittery with temper.
“He’d needed the money I hadn’t been willing to give him, so he’d tapped another source. Really, it was my fault—or so he said.”
“Ballsy,” Eve replied.
“I wish I’d kicked him in them. Still, I did kick him out, then and there. It didn’t seem to bother him a bit. In fact, he said he’d finished with me in any case.”
“Despised seems kind of a wussy word.”
Karson smiled a little at Eve. “It does, doesn’t it? Regardless, he’s not a violent man. A user, an opportunist, a lazy, worthless son of a bitch, but not a man who’d kill.”
“He might have been a man who’d know others who would.”
“Oh, Christ, I don’t know. What time is it? Early.” She answered her own question as she glanced at her wrist unit. “Too early to tag up Juliette. My friend,” she added. “Someone to lean on.”
“Tell me about his friends, his associates.”
“I don’t know many of them well. I liked some of them. Fun, witty, interesting. Others? Well, fun for the short bursts, more biting than witty, and interested more in the next party or adventure. A lot of illegals—and after I made a point about that to Jordan, we didn’t go to many parties. I have a business, a reputation. I wasn’t going to get caught up and have my name and my company splashed over the media by being photographed at some party where Erotica and Buzz are offered like canapés.”
“Gambling?”
“Of course. Legal and, I’d assume, not. Most of these could afford to gamble.”
“Did any of them show an interest in your business, in the merger?”
“Lieutenant, these types—or the ones Jordan liked particularly—don’t worry overmuch about business or working. They party, they travel. I might have had a few casual conversations about Econo, but I honestly don’t remember any particular questions or interest.”
“Did you know Jordan was laundering money through his art gallery?”
Karson let out a long breath. “Was he? Of course he was. It makes perfect sense. How stupid could I possibly be? He wanted me to pay for the art I bought with cash—I wouldn’t. I bought some for the company, through the company—and there are rules. And I bought some for myself, but I wanted the paper trail.
“I told him too much,” she said dully. “I trusted him too much, and he broke that trust in so many ways. He broke it by telling someone what I’d shared in confidence. For his ego or for money, both are the same to him, really. And because of that, people are dead. Because I wanted someone to lean on, and thought I’d found him.”
“You’re not responsible.” Eve spoke briskly. “If Banks was, he paid a price for it, a high one. But you’re not responsible. And you’re very likely not the only one who shared details with someone they trusted. The men responsible found ways to exploit that.”
They left her staring through a forest of flowers to the window and the gray sky beyond.
* * *
Pearson’s Upper East Side redbrick mansion rose four stories. It stood dignified, its tall windows blank eyes as the sleet turned to rain.
“We’re a little early,” Peabody noted as Eve stepped under the portico over the grand double entrance doors.
“They’ll deal.” She noted the security, discreet but thorough as she pressed the bell.
Good morning. The computer-generated voice carried a pleasant, neutral tone. Due to a death in the family, the Pearson family is not currently receiving visitors.
“Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve began as she held up her badge for scanning, “Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We’re expected.”
One moment please.
The thin red line of the scanner swept over Eve’s badge, turned green.
Your credentials are verified, Lieutenant. The family is being notified of your arrival. Please wait.
It took under a minute for a woman in black to open the door on the right. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, please come in.”
She stepped back, a woman of about fifty with a smooth bob of dark hair. Dark eyes, red rimmed from weeping, held steady.
“May I take your coats?”
“We’re good.”
“If you’ll follow me.” She led the way, in sensible shoes, over floors of burnished gold, across a thick rug patterned in faded reds and blues. Centered on it stood a large round table, and centered on that a towering red vase of white flowers rose toward the lofty ceiling.
The woman turned to a deep arch off the wide foyer and into a room large enough to hold three conversation areas. She chose one near the fireplace where flames simmered inside a frame of black-and-gray-threaded white marble.
“If you’d care to sit, the family will join you shortly.”
“How long have your worked for the Pearsons, Ms. . . .”
“Mrs. Stuben. Thirty-three years. If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on the coffee and tea service.”
She started out, reaching the archway as a man stepped to it. Fully a foot taller, he put his hands on her shoulders, folded himself down to kiss the top of her head. He whispered something to her that had her lifting a hand to squeeze his before hurrying away.
He entered on wide strides. The black sweater and trousers added to the look of a walking stovepipe. His face, as gawky as the rest of him, carried the drawn, exhausted look of a man who hadn’t slept.
“Lieutenant, Detective. I’m Drew Pearson. The rest of the family will be just a few minutes. Please sit.”
“We’re sorry for you loss, Mr. Pearson, and know this is a difficult time for you and your family.”
“We’re shattered. People say that—like they’re glass, I used to think. Now I know what it means.”
He sat, a kind of folding again, in a chair done in an elegant blue with a print of scattered roses.
“More than anything, we need to know who, and why. We have to get through today, tomorrow, and the rest, but how do we
do that without knowing who or why? My father . . . It won’t change that, but how do we get through unless we know?”
“The NYPSD will use all of its resources to find out. You were in London.”
“Yes. I’m based there. Or was.”
“But the negotiations, the presentation yesterday and the actual deal took place in New York.”
“Yes. I did a lot of shuttling back and forth the last several months, but we also worked by ’link and holo.”
“You were in favor of the merger.”
“I brought the idea to the table, and put out the initial feelers. And I’ve been asking myself for the last twenty-four horrible hours if bringing this to my father, helping to make the deal a reality, cost him his life.”
“No. The people who made the bomb and forced Paul Rogan to detonate it cost your father and eleven others their lives.”
“Are you absolutely sure Paul didn’t—wasn’t involved?”
“Yes. You knew him?”
“Very well. I couldn’t believe . . . then didn’t want to believe.” He pinched the bridge of his nose before gripping his hands tight together in his lap. “Cecily and Melly—his wife and daughter—are they all right?”
“They will be.”
“We haven’t—just haven’t been able to reach out to them. My mother—”
He broke off, rose as three women in black came into the room arms or hands linked, so they presented a solid wall.
“Mom.” He walked to the women, took the woman in the center by the hand, then slid an arm around her and led her over. “This is Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody. My mother, Rozilyn Pearson.”
“Mrs. Pearson, thank you for seeing us. We’re very sorry for your loss.”
Her eyes, glazed from tranqs and red from weeping, slipped over Eve, brushed over Peabody before she sat. “My husband’s dead,” she said in a voice as dull as the day.
The other two women moved in, sat on either side of her. The one on the right took her hand. The daughter, Eve thought. They shared the same delicate bone structure, the same deep brown eyes. Though the daughter’s were shadowed, they weren’t glazed but hard with anger.
“My sister, Liana, my wife, Sybil.” Drew looked at his sister. “Brad?”