by J. D. Robb
“Everybody’s got a face,” Eve said and pulled away from the curb. “We show pictures, get reactions. We may not get confirmation, but we’ll get reactions.”
And that’s what she was looking for with Lydia Su.
—
Eve had to settle for a crappy little parking lot and a two-block hike in wind that decided to swirl up and kick through the city canyons. Peabody rebundled, and Eve yanked the snowflake cap on.
It made her think of Dennis Mira.
“We need to get Mr. Mira’s impressions of the three names I got from the senator’s daughter. We’ll notify them first, talk to them, but I want his take.”
“He usually has good ones.”
“Yeah, he does. But Mira told me he’s got a blind spot where his cousin’s concerned. She taps Edward Mira as a sociopath—highly functional. Said he was always a bully, and a sexual predator.”
“Harsh. But if we’re following the right line, it fits.”
“It’s the right line.” Eve stopped in front of Su’s building. A slick high-rise, probably along the lines of what Nadine was after.
No doorman, she noted. An auto-scan that accepted a scan of her badge with minimal fuss.
Identification verified, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Please state the nature of your business and/or the party you wish to visit.
“That would be police business seeing as you scanned the badge, and we’re here to speak with Lydia Su, unit 2204.”
Thank you for that information. The resident of unit 2204 is being notified. You are cleared to step inside and wait.
Eve walked into a generous lobby of white and silver with some bold blue chairs, verdant potted trees, and a moving map of the building.
It boasted its own market, both a men’s and women’s boutique, a business and banking center on its mezzanine level (for residents and their guests only). It held a fitness center, two bars, and three restaurants. Building management and administration had offices on level three.
By the time she’d scanned the map, noted the location of 2204—corner unit, facing south and east—the computer cleared them to an elevator.
Guests cleared to twenty-second floor, the elevator announced. Have a pleasant visit.
“Why can’t they ever just shut up?” Eve wondered. “Who needs a comp to wish them a pleasant visit? Su cleared us pretty quick,” she added and, glancing around the silver box, noted the security cams. “Maybe expecting this follow-up to your conversation with her yesterday, verifying Downing’s alibi.”
“She breezed through that. Just the right amount of surprise, and all cooperation.”
“I bet if we checked her ’link, she alerted Downing we’re here.”
Eve stepped off on twenty-two. She walked down the wide hallway carpeted in muted silver, past glossy black doors to 2204. She pressed the bell with one hand, held up her badge with the other.
The minute Lydia Su opened the door, she thought: You’re in this.
It was only a flicker, there then gone, an angry awareness that lit the long, searing brown eyes before Lydia offered a polite if puzzled smile.
“Good morning. Is this about Senator Mira’s murder? I spoke with a detective yesterday.”
“This is a follow-up. You spoke with Detective Peabody,” Eve added, gesturing to her partner.
“Oh, yes. Well, please come in. I’m a little befuddled. I was sleeping. I had to work quite late.”
“Sorry to disturb you. We won’t take up much of your time.”
“Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”
“We’re fine.”
“Please, sit.” She led the way into an airy living area with two curved chairs, a long, low sofa with a central pillow fashioned as a peacock, tail feathers spread. Some sort of exotic flowers speared out of a clear, square vase with shiny black pebbles layered in the base. Filmy shades flowed down the windows.
Lydia hit about five-two and crossed to the sofa on small feet clad in house skids. She wore a lounge set in creamy white with a long black cardigan.
She might have been sleeping after a long night, Eve thought, but she’d taken the time to groom her hair—straight as rain—back into a sleek tail.
She sat, graceful as a dancer. “How can I help?”
“You spent your day off with Charity Downing. Day before yesterday.”
“That’s right. We had lunch, did some shopping, had our nails done. We were enjoying ourselves, so we stopped for a drink, then decided to go back to Charity’s, have some dinner, watch some screen. I left around nine, I think. It was a nice day with a friend.”
“Sounds like it. How did you come to be friends?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t seem to have much in common.”
Eve shrugged as she looked casually around the room. And at the fancy bronze riot bar on the door.
Fancy or not, a riot bar was overkill in a place like this.
“The struggling artist,” she continued, “and the Yale alum, the scientist with the doctorate. How long have you been friends—the intimate sort of friends you must be, as Charity said you were the only one she’d told about her relationship with Edward Mira?”
“We found we have a great deal in common. An appreciation of art, we enjoy—for the most part—the same music, enjoy watching vids at home, in the quiet. We like each other’s company. I like to think I was supportive and nonjudgmental when it came to the choices she made with Edward Mira. As a friend should be.”
“Right. How’d you meet again?”
“I went into the gallery where she worked one day, and we simply hit it off, as some do.”
“Lucky chance. I figured you had that whole insomnia thing going together.”
“Excuse me?”
“The studies you both volunteered for.”
“I . . . Yes. But . . . We weren’t in the same study, and didn’t know each other until after.”
“What a coincidence. So you were looking for some art?”
It came again, that flicker. But only anger this time. “I was,” Lydia said coolly. “Browsing, really, and Charity was knowledgeable and personable. We ended up going for coffee on her break, and simply became friends. Is that so unusual?”
“Like I said, lucky chance—just like the insomnia. So, did you buy anything?”
“Yes. That painting.” She gestured to a large study of a trio of bushes flowering in deep, deep pink, and a woman in the background, facing away, head bowed.
“Lucky chance for her, too. So you left Charity’s place about nine. And then?”
“I came home, caught up on some reading, and went to bed.”
“How about last night?”
“Last night? Why?”
“Jonas Wymann, a close friend of Edward Mira’s, was murdered. Were you and Charity hanging out again?”
“No. I was at work until nearly ten, then came home and put another three hours in on a project. At least three. I didn’t go to bed until after two.”
“Did Charity ever mention Wymann to you?”
“No. I don’t recall the name. I don’t believe she met any friends of Edward Mira’s, or she would have told me.”
“Even if she’d slept with him, too.”
The muscles in Lydia’s jaw tightened, as did—for just an instant—the fingers of the hands she’d calmly folded in her lap. “As I wouldn’t have judged her, I believe, yes, she would have told me. And if you see Charity as whorish because she was foolish enough to sleep with a powerful, married man who appears to have made it a habit to prey on foolish women, you judge far too harshly. His death is, undoubtedly, difficult for his friends and his family, but to my mind he victimized Charity and others like her.”
“That’s pretty judgmental, isn’t it, Peabody?”
“Leans that way.”
“But we all have our own scale, don’t we? How about Carlee MacKensie?” Eve threw out the question on the heels of the other, and got a reaction. More than a flicker—a quick flash of shock.
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s pretty simple. Carlee MacKensie. But I can refresh you. You both spent some time at Inner Peace.”
Anger burned low and sharp in her eyes, but her voice remained coldly controlled. “My visit to Inner Peace is personal.”
“Nothing stays personal with murder. Did you meet Carlee MacKensie there?”
“As the conditions of Inner Peace are headlined by confidentiality, we used only first names while in residence. I recall no one there named Carlee.”
“I’ve got a photo,” Peabody said helpfully, and took one out.
Lydia glanced at it, then away. “I don’t recognize her.”
“You know what’s another coincidence?” Eve kept her eyes on Su’s face. “MacKensie went to Yale, too. Just like you. Just like Senator Mira, like Jonas Wymann. School ties, insomnia, and Inner Peace. Yeah, that’s a lot of . . . what’s the word, Peabody?”
“Maybe happenstance.”
“Hmm. Not the word I had in mind, but we can go with it. Happenstance.”
Lydia pulled back, folded her hands in her lap again, palm to palm. “I suppose it’s a necessary part of your job to be suspicious. How unfortunate for you.”
“Unfortunate? Nah. It’s what gets me going in the morning.” Eve smiled then, deliberately predatory. “It’s more unfortunate for people who think they can get away with murder.”
“I can only tell you Charity and I spent the day together, as described. Now. Is there any other way I can help?”
“No, that ought to do it.” Eve rose. “Thanks for your time.”
She paused at the door. “Oh, you can let your good friend know we’ll be following up with her, too. Suspicions not only get me going in the morning, they keep me going all day long.”
They went out to the elevator. Eve glanced back down the long, elegant hallway. “She’s lying, right down the line.”
“I gotta say, oh yeah on that. You got under her skin and more than once. She nearly flubbed it when you brought up MacKensie. She absolutely recognized her, and never saw it coming.”
“No question about it. Interesting she said Edward Mira preyed on Charity and women like her. Nonjudgmental, my ass,” she said as they stepped into the elevator. “That one was part judge, jury, and executioner. And she took a lot of pride in it. We’re going to start peeling the layers off.”
14
Knowing Su was a liar—and by association Downing and MacKensie were liars—didn’t prove them killers.
But she damn well would prove it.
Part of that process would be talking to the other men who might be part of this brotherhood.
The shortest route took her to Easterday’s townhome. What had once been two three-story row houses had been converted into one expansive home on Park Avenue.
A woman in a simple black suit with a wide, homey face answered the door.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We’d like to speak with Mr. Easterday.”
“Mr. Easterday isn’t receiving today.”
“We’re not looking for a reception. Just tell him the cops are here.”
“You can wait in the foyer—it’s very cold. I’ll ask Mr. Easterday if he’ll see you.”
White marble floors and heavy dark wood gave the generous foyer what Eve thought of as in-your-face dignity. She glanced up at the many-tiered chandelier, and thought that’s where they’d hang him if they got the chance.
Belatedly she remembered the cap, pulled it off, finger-combing her hair as she stuffed it in her pocket.
Seconds later a woman started down the long sweep of stairs.
She wore a black suit, but unlike the first there was nothing simple in this one. It fit the svelte body in a way designed to show off lines and curves, and it shimmered subtly in the crystal rain of the chandelier.
The deep blond hair had been twisted back into a knot at the nape of a long neck, leaving the face unframed. Easterday’s wife might have hit the half-century mark, Eve thought, but she knew how to turn back the clock.
“Lieutenant, Detective, I’m Petra Easterday.” She extended a slim hand with a glinting diamond to Eve, then Peabody. “My husband is indisposed. He learned of a close friend’s death this morning.”
“That’s why we’re here. That would be his second close friend in the last two days.”
“Yes, and Marshall is simply shattered. In fact, I was just upstairs trying to convince him to take a soother and lie down.”
Worry naked on her face, Petra glanced toward the stairs. “I’m happy to do anything I can to help you, but my husband simply can’t be disturbed at this time.” Even as she spoke, they heard footsteps descending. Petra sighed. “Oh, Marshall, you need to rest.”
“Petra, the police are only doing their job.”
He didn’t look shattered, Eve mused, but he certainly looked dented. Dark circles under his eyes, lines of strain around his mouth showed a man carrying grief.
While a tall man, he seemed to stoop as if his shoulders carried far too heavy a weight.
He also wore a black suit, with a black mourning band, and a quiet blue tie in a Double Windsor.
“Petra, dear, I could use some coffee.”
When she merely cocked an eyebrow, he smiled a little. “Tea then. If you would.”
“I’ll see to it. I hope you’ll both respect that my husband is grieving,” Petra said before she left them.
“She’s feeling very protective, understandably. Lieutenant Dallas, isn’t it? And Detective . . .”
“Peabody.”
“Yes, of course. Please, let’s go in, sit down.”
The front parlor continued the formality of the foyer, offset just a bit by a small, cheerful fire in a white marble hearth. The flowers here were red as blood roses; the big, boxy sofa was covered in a fussy floral print that made sitting on it feel like squatting in a garden.
Easterday took a chair with wide wings, sighed.
“It feels—it all feels impossible. I hadn’t gotten my mind around Edward, and now Jonas. Do you have a suspect?”
“We can’t discuss the details of the investigation. I’m sorry for the loss of your friends,” Eve continued, “and understand this is a difficult time for you.”
“I haven’t practiced criminal law in more than two decades—I leave that to my daughter—but I know how it’s done. Do you have questions for me that may help in your investigation?”
“Yes. You’ve lost two friends in two days, Mr. Easterday, to murder. Men you’ve known since college—about fifty years—and have stayed close to. Close enough so your name is on a short list.”
His eyes widened. “Of suspects?”
“No, sir. Of victims.”
Now he glanced quickly toward the foyer. “That sort of statement will upset my wife.”
“She’ll be more upset if I come back here to notify her of your murder.”
He shoved out of the chair. “This is ridiculous. No one has any cause to kill me.”
“But did to kill your friends?”
He sat again, spread his hands. “Edward was my friend, and has been more than half my life. As his friend I can say he could be difficult, even abrasive. No doubt he made enemies in politics, as a senator, and now through his institute.”
He’d known this was coming, Eve thought. Known there would be a list and he’d be on it. Grief aside, he’d prepared.
“And Jonas Wymann?” she asked him.
“Politics again. Surely you’ve made that connection. Jonas was brilliant, but his views were not always popular, and he’s wielded considerable influence for many, many years
.”
“There are other connections,” Eve began.
Petra walked into the room just ahead of the housekeeper, who wheeled a large tea tray.
“Thank you, Marian. I’ll pour out.”
The housekeeper didn’t quite curtsy, but Eve sensed it was implied.
“I can deal with this, Petra.”
“I’m not leaving.” She spoke pleasantly, but the steel beneath was more than implied. “Cream? Sugar?” she said to Eve.
“No thanks.”
“Detective?”
“A little cream, two sugars. Thanks.”
“There’s no point in arguing, Marshall,” she continued as she poured the tea. “I’m staying. You were saying something about connections, Lieutenant.”
“The two victims have more in common with each other, and with you, Mr. Easterday, than politics.”
Petra made a sound—not quite a gasp—and passed Eve tea that Eve didn’t want. “You think Marshall . . . This person who killed Edward and Jonas, you think he might try to hurt Marshall?”
“Now, Petra—”
“Don’t placate me, Marshall. It’s something that caught me by the throat after I got over the shock of hearing about Jonas. I dismissed it, but . . .” She looked back at Eve, dead in the eye. “Is this what you think?”
“It’s something we have to consider, and have to take seriously to ensure your husband’s safety.”
“Yes. Good. Take it seriously. We’re all going to take it very seriously.”
“Petra, Edward and Jonas shared political networks and leanings I haven’t.”
She only shook her head. “You’ve been friends for decades. You socialize regularly, you golf, play poker, travel together. You lived in the same house for years back in— Oh God! Fred and Ethan.”
“That’s Frederick Betz,” Eve said quickly. “Who’s Ethan?”
“Ethan MacNamee,” Easterday told her. “One of our housemates back at Yale. He and Edward didn’t stay particularly close, and he lives in Glasgow most of the year. I only see him myself every few months.”