Leverage in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “That’s an upside. It’s really chewy,” Peabody managed around the next bite of bar. “About three out of ten on the taste scale, but really chewy.”

  “Swallow your underwear,” Eve ordered, and pressed the buzzer on the next apartment.

  “Trying,” Peabody muttered as Eve studied the apartment security.

  Not top grade, she noted, but close. And the comp response came smooth and female.

  Good afternoon. Please state your name and the purpose of your visit.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD.” Eve held her badge up for the scan. “Police inquiry.”

  Thank you. Your identification has been verified. Mr. Iler will be with you in a moment. Please wait.

  Lucius Iler, Eve thought. Age forty-four, third-generation money—antique trade. No marriage, no offspring. Registered day trader. Brother (deceased), uncle, grandmother, two cousins, and a stepsister in the military.

  A lot of boxes checked, she mused as she heard the locks disengage.

  Vid-star polished, she thought when Iler opened the door. Chestnut waves spilling artfully around an angular face sporting the perfect (and deliberate) amount of scruff. Turquoise eyes heavily lashed, transmitted interest and curiosity as a little dimple winked on the right side of his mouth with his polite smile.

  “How can I help you, officers?”

  “We’d like to come in and speak with you, Mr. Iler.”

  “What about?”

  “Jordan Banks.”

  “Who? Oh, oh, of course. I don’t know how I can help with that.”

  “Can we come in?”

  “Sorry, sure.” He backed up. “I’m a little distracted. I wasn’t expecting cops at the door. I guess no one does.”

  “Criminals sometimes do,” Peabody said, earning the little dimple.

  “I hadn’t thought of that. So . . . I guess we should sit down.”

  Eve supposed it was only natural for someone with a family antique business to fill his home with them. The generous space offered plenty of room for large tables, freestanding cabinets, fussy chairs, and sofas. A lot of gleaming wood and rich fabrics with an enormous, softly faded rug centering the space.

  Like Banks’s, this unit boasted a fireplace. Silver candlestands and a tall painted vase graced the mantel over it.

  Behind them a long, oval mirror, framed in more gleaming wood, reflected the room.

  Most of the art showed landscapes that struck Eve as European. Sunbaked houses jogged up and down hillsides, charming cottages sprang out of woods and gardens.

  He didn’t offer refreshments, but after gesturing to chairs, sat—a slender man in a white cashmere sweater and tailored black pants.

  He tapped his fingers together. “What can I tell you?”

  “Did you know Jordan Banks?”

  “I did—slightly. We met some time ago. I’m not sure when, exactly. Maybe a year or so? At a party. We had mutual friends, it turned out. Thad and Delvinia. And somehow or other it came out we lived in the same building. New York’s really a small world. We chatted awhile. He owned an art gallery, and my business is arts and antiques, so—”

  “I thought you were a day trader.”

  “Oh.” His fingers tapped together again. “That’s more a hobby I enjoy. My family business is arts and antiques, so as Jordan and I had that mutual interest, we talked shop for a while, exchanged business cards.”

  “Did you follow up on that?”

  “‘Follow up’?”

  “Connect again?”

  “I did visit the Banks Gallery—his art shop—and we had a drink. His gallery focuses on current art and artists, and my interests are in older works. But we had a drink once or twice, or I might see him at a party and chat.”

  “Ever been to his apartment here?”

  “Yes, actually, to see his art collection, and naturally, I reciprocated. We might have been art lovers, but our tastes didn’t strike the same chord.”

  “Were you at the party on Monday night hosted by your mutual friends, Thad and Delvinia?”

  “No. I was sorry to miss that. I was on a road trip—only returned that evening, and much too tired to pull it together and head out to a party.”

  “A road trip?”

  “North. Through New York State, into New England. Antiquing—really I suppose more of a busman’s holiday.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “I took a long weekend. Frankly, I wanted a little break, so I drove north.” He spread his hands, tapped his fingers back together. “No real plan other than to stop here and there, look at antique and collectible shops. I don’t, in general, do any of our buying, but I do scout now and then. Primarily our antiques come from Europe, but we do buy and sell Americana as well. You never know what treasure you might stumble on in some little shop.”

  “And did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Stumble on any treasures.”

  “Not this time. But, as I said, it was really a busman’s holiday. An excuse to get out of the city.”

  “And you got back Monday evening.”

  “That’s right. I’m not sure what time. I unpacked, had a drink to unwind.”

  “And then?”

  He shifted, looked mildly annoyed. “I can’t tell you exactly. Took a shower, puttered about, read a little, as I recall. I went to bed early. It’s lovely to get away, but there’s nothing quite like your own bed.”

  “Did you speak to anyone, let them know you were back? Answer messages that might have come in while you were away?”

  “No. As I said before I was tired. I really don’t understand why you need to know all of this.”

  “Jordan Banks was murdered in the early hours of Tuesday morning.”

  “Yes, so I heard. What does it have to do with me?”

  “You knew him. He was murdered after leaving a party of your mutual friends. These are routine questions in a murder investigation.”

  “I wouldn’t know as I’ve never been questioned by the police.” His tone cooled, considerably. “Frankly, it feels intrusive.”

  “I’m sure it does. Do you know Hugo Markin?”

  “Hugo? Yes, I know him and Delores—his wife.”

  “Willimina Karson?”

  “I met her when she was involved with Jordan. I wouldn’t say I know her, but I’ve met her.”

  “Paul Rogan.”

  He stared into Eve’s eyes, tapped his fingertips. “No, that’s not a familiar name.”

  “Wayne Denby.”

  “I don’t think so. I meet a lot of people.”

  “Angelo Richie.”

  “No, I don’t think . . . wait. The artist. I know of him and his work. He was just killed, wasn’t he? It’s tragic.”

  “For him,” Eve agreed. “For an art collector who bought his work before he started to rise—that would mean increased value. Wouldn’t it? Speaking as someone in the arts and antique business.”

  He shifted again. “That’s a cold and calculating perspective.”

  “But accurate?”

  “Yes, very likely.” His fingers tapped, his gaze strayed, fixed over her shoulder. “I don’t see what that has to do with Jordan’s murder.”

  “Banks had a Richie figure study in his apartment.”

  “Did he? I doubt I’d have recognized the work. But surely you’re not suggesting Jordan was killed over a charcoal figure study by an emerging artist.”

  Eve smiled. “People kill for all kinds of reasons. Do you gamble, Mr. Iler?”

  “Gamble? Occasionally. Who doesn’t?”

  “Did you ever gamble with Banks?”

  “Not that I recall. Lieutenant, I met the man a handful of times over the last year or two. We weren’t close friends. If that’s all, I—”

  “Just a couple more. You have a number of family members in the military.”

  His lips quivered a little so the dimple flickered like a nerve twisted. “You looked into my family?”

/>   “Standard procedure, Mr. Iler. I want to say I’m grateful for their service, and very sorry for the loss of your brother.”

  Even as his shoulders relaxed, Eve saw genuine emotion come into his eyes. “Thank you. We’ve very proud of our long family history of serving. My brother, Terry . . . Captain Terrance James Iler gave his life serving.”

  “A terrorist attack on his base while he was stationed in Seoul. Four years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, and still as fresh as yesterday.” Iler looked away. “He was due to come home the following week. He told me—I spoke with him only hours before he was killed—he planned to ask Felicia to marry him. He never got the chance.”

  “Felicia?”

  “Felicia Mortimer. They’d been involved for quite a while, and Terry told me he planned to buy a ring, ask her to marry him when he came home. He never came home.”

  His throat worked as he looked away again. “He saved lives that day. He gave his life to save others. He was a hero.”

  He held up a hand. “I’m sorry, it’s still raw. I suppose it always will be. I hope you’ll excuse me now.”

  When he rose, Eve got to her feet. “Again, we’re sorry for your loss. Thank you for your time.” She turned for the door, stopped. “I nearly forgot. If you could give us the names of the places you stayed over your long weekend, it would tie that off.”

  “What possible difference does it make?”

  “For our report.” She studied him, smiled blandly. “Checks all the boxes.”

  “I have no idea. I told you before I didn’t have a set plan. I just stopped when the mood struck. New England’s ripe with odd little B and Bs. I can’t remember the names.”

  “That’s okay. You’ll have the paper trail—credit card data.”

  His jaw tightened like a drum. “I didn’t use credit or debit. I used cash.”

  “Really? No record for expenses, taxes?”

  “I explained—clearly, I think—it was really a holiday for me.”

  “At a charging station for your car, a meal on the road?”

  “Cash. You said Jordan was killed Tuesday morning. What does where I stayed or ate over the weekend, or any of it, relate to that?”

  “Loose ends nag at me. If you happen to remember one of your stops, just let me know. I’ll tie off that loose end. Thank you again.”

  With Peabody Eve strode to the elevator. “He’s not the smart one.”

  “No. No, he is not,” Peabody agreed. “A lot of that was rehearsed, probably in the mirror.”

  “Over rehearsed, at that. And he’s not real good with the—what is it—ad lib. Too much information gushed out to demonstrate cooperation at the beginning. He never once expressed any regret his fellow art lover got himself murdered. Never asked any questions pertaining to. Comes from being a sociopath—just can’t relate.”

  “Gushing’s right. Just how did he know the Richie in Banks’s apartment was a charcoal?”

  Eve smiled, shot a finger at Peabody. “Bang. Doesn’t say, Oh yeah, I saw a Richie up in Jordan’s apartment. Doesn’t say, Yeah, yeah, Jordan mentioned he had a charcoal by Angelo Richie. Instead he pretends it takes him a minute to place Richie at all, then doesn’t connect him to Banks—smarter if he had. But he knows what he took out of the apartment Monday night, so it’s on his mind, and he just rolls it out.”

  “I thought you might haul him in after that.”

  “I could sweat him. We could break him. And we’d nail him on eighteen murders, forced imprisonment, and so on. But I don’t know, yet, if he’d flip on his partner, and we want them both.”

  “We could flip him.”

  Eve shook her head. “Depends on the partner. What we’re going to do is break from the interviews while we contact Captain Terrance Iler’s CO at the time of the terrorist incident. Let’s make sure Terry’s dead.”

  “Jesus, you think his dead brother’s not dead and his partner?”

  “Let’s confirm. And we need to contact this Felicity Mortimer. Maybe have a chat there. That’s why we need to break off the interviews until we do.”

  She stepped off the elevator, walked to the desk. “Rhoda, is there an office we could use?”

  “Of course—just one minute.” She tapped her earpiece. “Adam, cover the desk for five, please. Thanks. Come with me,” she told Eve. “You can use my office.”

  She led the way back, paused outside a nice little break room. “Would you like anything?”

  Since she wanted to keep her thoughts cool, Eve opted for cold. “I could use a tube of Pepsi.”

  “Detective?”

  “Same for me, but diet.”

  “The chicken noodle soup’s very good. You’ve been here over three hours,” Rhoda pointed out. “Without a lunch break.”

  “Roarke approved,” Eve commented, and making Rhoda smile.

  “My office is the second on the left. I’ll just bring in the soup and drinks.”

  20

  She had to admit Rhoda was right about the soup.

  While she ate, Eve tracked down Colonel Xavier Unger, had a long chat while Peabody did the same with Felicia Mortimer.

  When Eve finished, she sat back, stared up at the ceiling and thought it all through. She sat up again when she heard Peabody end her conversation.

  “Report.”

  “Felicia met Terry when he was stationed in Germany, and she was doing some postgrad work. She’s a linguist—a UN interpreter now. They hit it off right away, both native New Yorkers, both living in Germany. Started dating. Got serious enough she put off coming home until he had leave. Meet-the-family time on both ends. Long distance relationship, but it held. He got assigned to South Korea. They met twice while he took R & R in Tokyo, had more time when he came home on leave. She’d have said yes.”

  “Impressions.”

  “She loved him, would have made herself into a military spouse, and she felt they’d build a solid foundation away from his family. She liked them—apparently his mother particularly. She found his father too controlling, emotionally distant and—from what Terry told her—he was always expected to serve.”

  “Another second-son thing?”

  “Maybe. Sort of. She said his older brother—that’s our guy—wasn’t athletic or tough as a kid, and Terry was. Older bro, a little frail, but very protective of little bro. Used to read him stories.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. Terry Iler was almost ten years younger than his older brother. The parents traveled a lot, so it was nannies, staff, and big brother. It sounds like Iler took the big brother job seriously. So Terry went into the service because it was expected, but according to Felicia, he thrived there. He found his place there. The old band of brothers thing—sisters, too. He loved the Army, made captain inside four years. When he was killed, she says her whole world fell apart. She spent more time with his family after that. She and Iler leaned on each other. She went to grief therapy, gradually pulled out of it.

  “Nearly three years after he died, she met someone. They got married last summer.”

  “There’s a trigger. The bitch isn’t honoring hero baby brother’s memory. Decides to have a life.”

  “Is he a memory?” Peabody asked.

  “Yeah. His CO not only has confirmation—DNA—but saw Captain Iler pulling wounded to safety before Iler rushed back for more. The second explosion took him out. CO’s a solid eyewit on it.”

  “So the hero dead brother isn’t the partner.”

  “No, but the partner’s military. That’s the connection, the bond between them. Iler’s weak, and not as smart or clever as he thinks. He has money, he knows art, he knows the market enough to play in it, but he’s never been in combat, never trained, never laid out or been in an op. The partner’s that end of it. The partner knows explosives. The brother died in an explosion, and the target of the attack on the base was ordinance as well as personnel. A lot of the men and women who died or were wounded in the attack were trained in dem
olition and explosives.”

  “Band of brothers.”

  “You’re the sharp Peabody today. The brother of my brother’s my brother. What brings these two together—greed, profit, gambling. But now we’ve got more. The grieving brother with the often-absent, controlling father.”

  “If the father hadn’t controlled and expected, maybe the brother doesn’t join the Army and end up dead.”

  “Keep ringing that bell. The father’s to blame for the loss of the child. The mother doesn’t stand between to protect. Will the father give his life for the child? Let’s find out. And, hey, might as well make some money on it.”

  She checked the time. “I want to run this through with Mira. Set me up on that, then let’s get these interviews done.”

  “We’ve got Iler.”

  “Now you lost valuable points. The partner may be here, on the list, in the building.”

  Peabody scowled. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “It’s fifty-fifty. We’ve got to run it all the way.”

  “You made Iler nervous, Dallas, pushing on the weekend.”

  “I wanted to make him nervous. If he’s nervous enough maybe they don’t try for number three. I’m putting eyes on the building—outside. We’ve got Rhoda and her team inside. Set me up with Mira while I talk to Rhoda and get the cop’s eyes going.”

  She strode out, gestured Rhoda over. “I’m putting a surveillance team outside.”

  No hitch in Rhoda’s stride, she merely nodded. “I’ll let the doormen and security know.”

  “Who takes over for you when you go off shift?”

  “Aaron Vogal’s our night manager.”

  “Is he as good as you?”

  Rhoda smiled. “I trained him myself. He’s excellent.”

  “I need steady, and discreet.”

  “You’ll have both.”

  “If Lucius Iler leaves the building or has a visitor, I need to know. Immediately.”

  “Mr. Iler,” Rhoda murmured. “I see.”

  “I hope you do. You’re not to confront or alter your behavior in any way. I need to know who comes to see him.”

  “Mr. Iler has a number of friends, and business associates. He works most often out of his apartment, so he has a number of visitors.”