by J. D. Robb
“I’m sorry. If you or your brother think of anything that connects them, of anyone who might have a grudge against them, let me know.”
“I need to contact Ned. I don’t want him to hear about this on screen. The others, the others you asked about. You think someone might do this to them?”
“It’s something we need to consider. I’ll be speaking with them. If anyone else comes to mind, contact me. Anytime.”
“I will. I’ll ask Ned. Thank you for telling me. I need to . . . I have to go.”
Eve pulled up addresses, started to push away from her desk when her ’link signaled. She might have ignored it, but she saw Baxter on the display.
“Dallas. What’ve you got?”
“A lot of shock from the work contacts we’ve pulled out of bed so far, and a handful of names we pried out. Ladies he’s dated in the last year or so. For an older guy, he gets a lot of touch. We’ve talked to two of them so far. More shock. Shaky alibis all around for TOD as everyone we’ve talked to claimed to have been home in bed. Some spouses or cohabs to corroborate, but that stays shaky in my books.”
“Find out if any of the sidepieces went to Yale, or has a connection to Yale. Any of them do a stint at a place called Inner Peace.”
“Can do. None of the names we’ve got cross with the ones on the senator’s list. Looks like they didn’t poach each other’s forest.”
A man who’d poach on his cousin’s fiancée would poach on a friend’s skirt, Eve thought. “We’ll see about that. Any Yale connection, any Realtors, anybody looking for inner fricking peace, tag me.”
“Got it. One more thing. We rousted his admin out of bed, and once we’d calmed her down, we got she’d spoken to him via ’link at about three in the afternoon. He was pretty broken up about his pal, taking the day at home. And she confirmed he had plans to see his grandson’s performance last night. But here’s something. He had a four o’clock on the books. She asked him if he wanted her to cancel, and he decided to go ahead with it.”
“What appointment?”
“A writer. Somebody doing a biography on him—or planning to. Meet was at four, his home.”
“Tell me you’ve got a name.”
“I’m telling you I’ve got a name. Cecily Anson, age fifty-eight, married, one offspring, female. Lives in SoHo. Ah, let me look here . . . No Yale. Went to Brown. Her wife, that’s Anne C. Vine, age fifty-nine, MIT—software designer. And . . . daughter, Lillith, age twenty-six, Carnegie Mellon, architect with Bistrup and Grogan, a Midtown firm.”
“I’m heading out, so I’ll take them on the way to where I’m going. First vic’s admin didn’t have the name of his appointment. Feels too pat to have all this with number two.”
“Sometimes you get lucky.”
“Mostly you don’t. Keep at it until we do.” She cut him off, grabbed her coat. When she hit the bullpen, she said, “Peabody,” and kept going.
Peabody, puffing a bit, caught up with her at the elevator. “Did we get a break?”
“Maybe. Wymann’s admin spoke with him at three, so he was still at home and under no duress. But he had an appointment at four, at home, with a biographer. Cecily Anson.”
“We’ve got a name.”
“Name, address, basic data. She’s late fifties, so old for the vic’s taste, and since she’s got a wife probably not sexually oriented to be his sidepiece. Got a grown daughter who might be, and a place in SoHo. We’ll hit that before we go talk to Lydia Su.”
Peabody pulled on a hat—candy green with icy blue edging. “It doesn’t feel like they’d leave us such a direct line.”
“No, it doesn’t. But whoever kept that four o’clock is likely the one who abducted, tortured, and killed him. Check in with Morris. Let’s see if he can give us a ballpark on when Wymann incurred the injuries. And let’s get some uniforms back out, canvassing neighbors with that specific time frame. It might spark something.”
Within two minutes the elevator was jammed with cops, sad-eyed civilians, and a couple of shady characters Eve made as cops undercover.
But she stuck it out, telling herself the stupid elevator would be quicker than the glides.
“I got more names from Gwen Sykes—tight friends. We’re going to talk to them—in person or by ’link.”
“You think they’ll try for three?”
“We’re not going to risk it. Two go back to Yale where they and the two vics had a group house together. That may prove interesting. The other made pals with the senator when they were both in East Washington. Senator Fordham.”
She muscled off the elevator at her garage level, sucked in air. In the car she plugged in the Anson-Vine address, considered her options, then contacted Whitney as she drove out.
“Sir,” she began. “I had additions to the report I sent on Jonas Wymann. Peabody and I are en route to interview a person of interest. Earlier I spoke with Senator Mira’s daughter and she gave me three names, close friends of her father. While we will contact them, one is Senator Fordham. I believe his security detail and staff should be informed of a possible threat.”
“Agreed. I’ll see to it.”
“Commander, I may need to interview Fordham, and under the circumstances, I can’t be overly delicate about it.”
“Understood. But some delicacy will be called for. Either I or Chief Tibble will set up the interview if and when it’s necessary. I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jeez.” Peabody goggled. “You really think a sitting senator is involved in some sort of sex club? If that’s what’s going on. I mean . . . What am I saying?” Peabody shook her head. “Sex and politics, right?”
“I don’t think the sex has anything to do with politics. It’s brotherhood. It’s power. Do a run on the names I’ve got. Frederick Betz and Marshall Easterday. Both Yale alumni, same time frame as our two vics. All four sharing a house during college. Find out if Fordham went to Yale.”
She navigated traffic while Peabody worked, spied a street spot and bagged it.
“Betz,” Peabody told her. “As in Betz Chemicals—everything from household cleaners to rocket fuel. He’s third generation. Stands as current president. Currently on wife number three, who’s younger than his youngest daughter at twenty-nine. They’ve been married three years. He has four kids, including a three-year-old courtesy of the current wife.
“Why would a guy cruising seventy want to procreate?”
“Must I repeat?” Eve asked. “The penis.”
“Okay, the penis has no shame. Easterday, Marshall. Lawyer, and that’s third generation. Senior partner of Easterday, Easterday, and Louis. On wife number two, but that’s stuck for . . . fifteen years, and she’s actually fifty-two. Two kids, both from the first marriage. Daughter is the second Easterday in the firm. Son is a neurosurgeon in Philadelphia.”
“Okay, we’ll roll on them this morning.”
“And Fordham went to Ole Miss—no Yale connection.”
Eve got out of the car, studied the five-story building. The old post-Urban squat and square had been refaced, whitewashed. The double-wide entrance doors looked old in a rich, important way, but she noted on closer inspection they were reinforced steel, done up with some illusionary fancy paint.
The security was first-rate.
“Anson has the first floor.” Eve considered, pressed the buzzer for the main floor unit.
It took a minute, then a sleepy female voice came through the speaker. “It’s way too early for anything you’re selling.”
Eve held up her badge. “NYPSD,” she began.
“Mike? Is it Mike? Oh God.”
Before Eve could answer, the buzzer for the locks sounded. As she pushed open the door, a woman came flying out of a door at the end of a smart-looking foyer.
Heavily pregnant, barefoot, and clad in penguin-covered paj
amas, she moved with astonishing speed.
“Something happened to Mike.” She grabbed Eve’s shoulders in a vise-grip, her big brown eyes glassy with fear. “Tell me fast.”
“We’re not here about Mike. Take a breath.”
“You’re sure? It’s not Mike.” She pressed a hand to her swollen belly, swayed a little.
Peabody caught her arm. “Ma’am, let’s go sit down, okay?”
“You’re not grief counselors? You’re not making a notification?”
“Nothing like that at all.” Peabody used her most soothing voice as she gently steered the woman around.
“Sorry. It’s probably hormones. Everything’s hormones right now. It’s just Mike—my fiancé—he’s on the job, so I thought . . . whoosh. Yeah, let’s just sit down.”
“You’re not Cecily Anson,” Eve said as Peabody supported the woman into the door of a living area as smart as the foyer.
“No, she’s my mother. Oh God, did something happen to the Moms?”
“No.” Eve said it firmly before hormones could kick in again. “As far as we know, everyone’s fine. Lillith?”
“Yes.” Lillith levered herself into a big red chair in the middle of the smart space and bold colors. She shoved a hand through a mass of curling brown hair. “Lil, mostly. And I’m sorry for the hysteria. I know better. I’m carrying a cop’s kid, after all.” She smiled—a dazzler—and some color came back into her face. “Mike Bennet—Detective Bennet, out of Central. Maybe you know him.”
“I do.” Judging the crisis had passed, Peabody sat down. “He’s a good guy.”
“He really is.”
“How far along are you?”
“Just hit thirty-one weeks, so I’ve a ways to go.” Lillith folded her hands on the penguin-covered mountain. “I don’t know how.”
Neither did Eve. Could that mountain actually get bigger? How was it possible?
“Is your mother at home?” she asked.
“No. The Moms are in Adelaide—Australia. Mike and I have the third floor, but we’re having some remodeling done due to . . .” She patted the mountain. “So we’re staying here while they’re away. He’s on nights right now. He should be home pretty soon. Sorry, can I get you something?”
“We’re good. How long has Ms. Anson been out of the country?”
“Just over three weeks. They’ll be back next week, plenty of time to fuss over me before the baby comes. What’s this about? I should’ve asked that right away.”
“Do you know if Ms. Anson is working on, or planning to work on, a biography of Jonas Wymann—the economist?”
Lillith frowned, absently rubbed her mountain. “I don’t think so. She’s working on a bio of Marcus Novack right now. That’s why they’re in Australia. He built schools and health centers in the Outback. She sometimes has something else in the works—or in the planning stage—but I never heard her mention that name.”
“Taking a monthlong trip to Australia takes some planning, I guess.” Peabody kept her voice, her smile easy. “They must’ve been planning it for a while.”
“Since last summer, though Mike and I had to convince them to go. I had to swear I wouldn’t go into labor until they got back. Look, I’m steady now, and like I said, engaged to a cop. What’s this Wymann have to do with my mother?”
She looked steady now, Eve judged—considering the penguin mountain. Clear-eyed and calm.
“Mr. Wymann was murdered. He had an appointment on his books for yesterday at four P.M. with your mother.”
Lillith just shook her head. “He couldn’t have. Mom doesn’t make mistakes like that, and honestly I’ve never heard her mention that name. She talks about her projects. I understand why you’re here now. She’d be a suspect, but she’s halfway around the world. You can contact her. I’ll give you the information you need to contact her.”
“I’d appreciate that, but not because she’s a suspect. I believe you,” Eve said. “But her name was on the victim’s appointment book, so someone used it to get to him. You said she talks about her projects. I bet she talked about this trip.”
“To anyone who’d listen. The Moms love to travel. And I follow you. Someone who knew she’d be gone, out of contact, used her name. God. She’ll be so upset.”
Lillith shoved up from the chair, belly first, when the door opened. The way she said “Mike” told Eve the seed of fear planted by the early morning visit had rooted.
“Hey, babe, what’s—” He all but came to attention when he spotted Eve. “Lieutenant.”
“Detective. There’s no problem here. We’re looking for Ms. Anson to assist in an investigation.”
“CeCe?” He wrapped an arm around Lillith, his eyes on Eve.
“We believe someone used her name, may have impersonated her, to gain access to Jonas Wymann.”
“Wymann. I heard about that. Hey, Peabody.”
“Hey, Mike.”
“Come on, Lil, sit.”
“I’m just glad to see you.” She rubbed a hand on his cheek, a little scruffy after his night shift. “Just glad to see that face. I want my one measly cup of coffee for the day. How about I make some all around?”
“That’d be great.”
“I’ll do that and the lieutenant can fill you in. I didn’t even ask your name,” Lillith remembered, and Mike shoved the dark watch cap off a messy thatch of sandy hair.
“Man, Lil. It’s Dallas.”
“It’s— Oh!” Lillith held the belly and laughed. “Hormones ate my brain. Of course it is. Dallas and Peabody. We’ve seen the vid three times. Mike loves it. Well, I’m going to stop worrying about the Moms right now. If Mike thinks you’re the best, you are. I’ll get the coffee. He can help,” she added as she walked away. “He’s a really good cop.”
“She has to say that. But I’ll help any way I can.” He pulled off his coat, a man with a slim build and a cop’s keen eyes. “Edward Mira, Jonas Wymann. Pretty high-powered targets. I can’t see how CeCe, or either of the Moms could connect. They’re solid as they come.”
“Lillith said they’d had this trip planned awhile.”
“Yeah.” He sat on the arm of the chair Lillith had vacated. “We had to give them a boost out the door because of the baby, but CeCe really wanted to go, to absorb the place, to talk to people who’d known this guy she’s writing about. So we compromised. They were going for six weeks, but cut it down to four. And we talk to them every day. Sometimes a couple times a day.”
“Did they book the trip—the travel, the lodging—themselves or use a service?”
“Annie handles all that. CeCe and Annie—the Moms.”
“Can you give us a list of people they’d talk to, people who’d know they’d be gone?”
He puffed out his scruffy cheeks. “It’d almost be easier to give you a list of who wouldn’t know.” He popped up when Lillith came back in with a tray, took it from her.
“Do they belong to any clubs, any groups?” Peabody asked. “You know, women’s groups?”
Eve saw the quick understanding flicker in Mike’s eyes. They were looking for female killers.
“Oh Lord, yes.” Obviously amused, Lillith sat while Mike passed around the coffee. “I remember how you like it, if the vid’s factual. Anyway, Femme Power—that’s a lesbian-based activist group. They’re charter members there. They go to a book club that’s pretty much all women, and help out at a couple of shelters for battered women, rape victims. C-Mom teaches writing as therapy, as an outlet for self, and A-Mom does the same with art. She does bad watercolors. I mean not horrible, just bad. But it makes her happy.
“Now the three of you are wondering what you can say in front of me. I can go in the other room, but it’ll annoy the crap out of me.”
“It’s okay.” Mike rubbed her shoulder. “You’re thinking someone they know through their hobbies o
r volunteer work used CeCe as a ploy.”
“It’s possible. I’d like as many names from those areas as possible.”
“They won’t betray the women who they’ve met through the shelters or in the therapy sessions,” Lillith said, and her shoulders squared under Mike’s hand. “You can’t expect that.”
“I’m looking for names that are already on my list of suspects,” Eve explained. “Someone used your mother to get close enough to kill someone. She’s killed twice. I believe she’ll kill again.”
“Let me work on that, Lieutenant.” Mike kept rubbing Lillith’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to them, explain. It’s doubtful they have full names, not from the shelter or the sessions anyway.”
“Staff,” Eve added. “We might be looking for other volunteers or staff.”
“They run what they call Positive Forces on Wednesday nights at Community Outreach on Canal,” Mike told them. “The social worker who coordinates is Suzanne Lipski. Twenty-five-year vet, tough and sharp. And clean. I ran her.”
“You did not! Mike!”
“Once I hooked you, they became my moms, too. Bet your ass I ran her. She’ll protect her women, Lieutenant, but she won’t protect a killer. She knows me, so maybe I can get something there if there’s something to get. Or at least pave the way for you some.”
“The more names, the better. And the sooner the better,” Eve said as she rose. “I appreciate the time, the help, the coffee. How do you live on one cup a day?”
Lillith took a tiny sip. “I ask myself that every day when I’ve finished the one cup. And somehow I do.”
—
They look good together,” Peabody commented when they walked back to the car. “Come off solid. And since he’s got an in, he might be able to wrangle some names.”
“Maybe. It’s worth giving him a shot at it first. Clearly somebody connected to Anson knew she’d be out of the way long enough to use this ruse, and wasn’t worried about cops following up.”
Once in the car, Peabody unbundled herself a little. “Those groups—support groups—they’re like priests in the confessional. Absolute confidentiality. So whoever tapped Anson counted on that. A lot of it’s just first names, or code names.”