by J. D. Robb
“Dallas.”
“You don’t call, you don’t write.”
“Nadine.” Eve didn’t bother to curse herself as she stared into the sharp green eyes of the city’s hottest reporter. The fact that they were friends made it convenient—or inconvenient, depending on the circumstances. “Gosh, I’d just love to chat, but I’m about to do lunch. Then maybe I’ll have a manicure.”
“That’s so cute. You caught a hot one, Dallas, just the kind of case we love to spotlight on Now. Tomorrow night. You’ll lead off, a full ten-minute segment.”
“Again, gosh, but I have to have my eyes put out with a hot poker tomorrow night. Otherwise…”
“Thomas Anders’s murder is big news, Dallas.”
“We haven’t determined or announced the death as murder.”
“That’s not what I hear. Strangled, in bed, with considerable kink attached. If not murder, was it accidental death during sex games?”
So the trickle was already a flood, Eve thought. “You know better, Nadine.”
“A girl’s gotta try. He was a nice guy, Dallas. I’d like to cover this right.”
“You knew him?”
“I did a few features on him, his wife, his nephew over the years. That’s not really knowing someone, but what I did know, I liked. Tabloid media—and a lot of other media—is going to pump up the sex, you know this. I can’t avoid it, but I want to be evenhanded. So help me.”
“Not this time. But I’ll give you Peabody. You won’t screw with her, or the investigation. And she needs to develop her media chops. So you help her.”
“That’s a deal. I’ll have my people get in touch with her, but tell her I need her here, at the studio, by five tomorrow.”
“Nadine, in five words or less, sum up your take on the relationship between Anders and his wife, and Anders and his nephew.”
“With the wife, affectionate and proud. The same for the nephew, but even more so. I remember asking Anders what he considered his finest accomplishment. He turned a photo around that he kept on his desk—one of his nephew. ‘You’re looking at him,’ is what he said. I ended the piece with it.”
“Thanks.” Eve clicked off, glanced over as Peabody clomped in with an armload of food.
“We got your pretend-I’m-turkey wraps, soy chips, and these cute little tubs of veggie hash. I got you a tube of Pepsi.”
Eve watched while Peabody set food on her desk, tidily organizing debris to make room. “What are you angling for, Peabody?”
“Angling? Just making sure you don’t forget to eat. You’re always forgetting to eat, which is why you’re skinny as a snake. Which looks great on you.” Peabody’s gaze darted up and away while she added a napkin and plastic fork. Then her breath huffed out as Eve continued to give her the fish-eye. “Okay, okay. Maybe I was hoping, if we’re not on the tail of some hot lead or whatever, you could find it in your big, generous heart to—”
“Cut the crap.”
“I want to leave early, take an hour’s personal time. McNab and I have a date.”
“You and McNab live together.”
“Yeah, well, see, that’s kind of the point.” Peabody dragged the visitor’s chair over, picked up her wrap, and chowed down. “We realized we didn’t want the cohab thing to take the romance out of things. The spark. So we instituted Date Night. Tonight’s the first, so I really want to get home in time to buff myself up. Special, you know? Kick him in the balls special.”
“If you want to kick him in the balls—and I often want to myself—you should stay home.”
“Dallas.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Take the hour, buff and polish, kick him in the balls.”
“Thanks. We’re going to this club, and not one of those bump-and-fuck joints,” Peabody added, gesturing with a soy chip before popping it into her mouth to crunch. “But where you actually go to listen to music and dance with each other and stuff. I really want to look extreme, so you know, need that hour.”
“Fine. You’ll be making it up tomorrow. You need to report to Nadine’s studio at Channel 75 at seventeen hundred.”
“Whafo?” Peabody asked with a mouthful of veggie hash.
“She’ll interview you on the Anders case, so make sure you’re—”
“What? On the air? Me?” She choked, whistled out a breath while her eyes wheeled, then glugged down Diet Pepsi. “No.”
“You’ll be representing the department, and this division, so don’t screw it up.”
“But…But people watch Now. Practically everybody. I can’t—”
“Screw it up. Exactly.” It was small, it was mean, but Eve couldn’t deny Peabody’s reaction made the pretend turkey almost tasty. “Nadine has respect for cops, and for the process, but she’s still a reporter. She’s sneaky. Don’t forget that. You give the facts I’ll clear you to give, and the feel, your own take, but when she presses you—and she will—on investigative details, you block. Standard, I’m not at liberty.”
Faintly green now, Peabody pressed a hand to her belly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“You boot on my desk, I’ll throw your gagging body out my window. You won’t have to worry about going on screen.”
“Can’t you do it? You’re used to it.”
“No, I can’t do it, and you need to get used to it.”
“I don’t know what to wear.”
“Oh sweet, suffering Christ.” Eve pressed her fingers against the twitching muscle beside her eye. “Window, Peabody. Headfirst.”
“You couldn’t fit me through that stupid window.”
“Let’s find out.”
“Okay, okay, okay. Now my head’s all screwed up.”
“Unscrew it. We’ve got a few matters just a smidge more important than your date night and on-air debut. The vic was tranqed twice.”
“What—who. Wait.” Closing her eyes, Peabody took several deep breaths. “Anders. Okay, I’m back. Anders was tranqed?”
“Pressure syringe.” Eve tapped her finger on the side of her neck. “Heavy dose of barbs, enough to knock out a horse. There were also traces of a sleep aid, standard over-the-counter. Preliminary take is this was ingested, probably three to four hours before TOD. The combo dropped him out. The killer could’ve performed brain surgery on him, and Anders wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Why not just give him a fatal dose? Why the big show?”
“Good question, and one of the reasons I haven’t yet thrown you headfirst out the window. The show was as important as the murder. Disgrace? Revenge? A discarded lover who wanted him to pay? Is it smart, or is it sloppy?”
Peabody considered that over another chip. “If you wanted it to come off as it looked on the surface—accidental death due to erotic asphyxiation—you don’t load him up with barbs. Maybe a mild tranq, sure, to disorient him while you do the bondage. Take your time after that, set the scene, let the tranq wear off some. If you’re going to go to all that trouble, it seems like you want him to suffer. If you want him to suffer, why knock him out so he can’t?”
“More good questions. You’re redeeming yourself. I’m going to send the file to Dr. Mira. I’d like her profile and opinion on this. Could be the killer overdid the barbs. He had a massive dose of erectile enhancer in there, too.
“It feels personal, but let’s run it through IRCCA for like crimes. We’ll start trying to run down the restraints, the tranq. And we’ll do a second level on financials. Forrest and the widow are the most likely to benefit financially. They’ve both got a solid base on their own, but who doesn’t like more? And let’s look for old and current lovers. Guy waits until he’s well into his forties to do the marriage thing, he probably didn’t say I do without banging a few prospects first.”
“I can give EDD another goose, see if we’ve got anything there.”
“I want copies of any transmissions between the vic and his wife, his nephew. Have them round up the ’links from his office.”
“Lieutenant?” Trueheart
, Baxter’s young and studly aide, tapped lightly on the doorjamb. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but there’s an Edmond Luce out here. He wants to talk to you regarding the Anders case. Seems pretty worked up, and…a lot British.”
Eve dumped the remains of her wrap onto Peabody’s plate, shoved her own into the recycler. “Give me a minute, then send him back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ditch this stuff, Peabody, then goose EDD, and give one to the lab while you’re at it. Minimum, I want a report of any and all medications and enhancements taken from the scene.”
“On that.” Gathering up the rest of the remains, Peabody headed out.
“Computer, standard bio run on Luce, Edmond, British, with business or personal connection to Anders, Thomas A., of Anders Worldwide. Display only.”
Acknowledged. Working…
While she waited, Eve sent the case file and a quick memo to Dr. Charlotte Mira, the department’s top profiler.
Task complete. Data displayed.
Eve scanned quickly, looking for the quick overview. Luce, London-born, was seventy-six, and served as Anders Worldwide’s CEO, Great Britain. Oxford education, homes in London and in New York. Married, with one previous divorce, three children. One from first marriage.
“Copy data to file,” she ordered when she heard approaching footsteps. “End display.”
Acknowledged. Tasks complete.
She swiveled to face the doorway as it was filled with a big, burly bear of a man with a shock of hair the color of good sterling and eyes of nearly black that sparked off something approaching rage.
He wore khaki trousers with pleats sharp enough to draw blood and a navy V neck over a white shirt. Upscale golf clothes, Eve decided. Anders missed tee time.
“You’re Lieutenant Dallas?”
“That’s right. Mr. Luce, what can I do for you?”
“You can tell me why the bloody hell you’re smearing the reputation of a good man. Why you’re spreading these salacious and scandalous lies about Tommy. The man’s dead, goddamn it all, and can’t defend himself against this slander.”
“Mr. Luce, I can assure you I haven’t as yet given any statement, officially or unofficially, to the media regarding the investigation into Mr. Anders’s death. Nor have I authorized anyone to do so.”
“Then why in hell is it all over the bleeding screen?”
Eve leaned back. “I’m not responsible for what the media digs out and chooses to air. It may piss me off, but I’m not responsible. You suffered a sudden and shocking loss, so I’m going to cut you a break for coming into my office and blowing off steam. Now that you have, sit down. I have some questions.”
“I suggest you take your questions and—”
“Careful,” Eve said with enough steel in the word to have Luce pausing, narrowing those furious eyes on her face.
“What are you going to do? Lock me up?”
Casually, Eve swiveled back and forth in her chair. “I like the word detain myself. Would you care to be detained, Mr. Luce, by the NYPSD for refusing to answer questions in a homicide investigation? I’d be happy to put you in holding until your attorney arrives. Otherwise, you can sit down and you can settle down. I figure you and Anders were more than business associates. You might be upset, sad, surprised by his death if that’s all you were. You might be surprised again, and shocked, fascinated, or angry with the media attention. But rage and grief come from more personal associations. So this is your second, and last break. Clear enough?”
He turned and walked away, but to her window, not out the door. She said nothing as he stood there, his rigid back to her. “I can’t settle down. How could I settle down? Tommy…we’ve been friends for nearly fifty years. He’s godfather to my son. I stood up for him when he married Ava. He was my younger brother, in every way but blood.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Luce, for your loss.”
He glanced back at her. “How many times have you said that to someone, to strangers?”
“Too many. Entirely too many. It doesn’t make it less true.”
He turned now, pressed his fingers to his eyes. “We were to play golf this morning. The indoor nine at Tommy’s club. He’s never late, but I didn’t think anything of it when he was. Traffic is so brutal, and I’d run into an acquaintance. We ended up chatting for some time, until the caddy interrupted to ask if I wanted to cancel or reschedule the tee off.”
“Did you try to contact him?”
“On his mobile—his personal mobile, but it went to voice messaging. So I tried his house.” He did sit now, big shoulders slumping. “Greta, the house manager, told me there’d been an accident. Told me Tommy was…”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Three weeks ago. He and Ava were in London briefly. Tommy and I had a meeting, and we all went to the theater. We played golf at my club—he loves golf—while our wives went shopping, or something. Maybe salon. I don’t remember.”
“When did you get into New York?”
“Yesterday afternoon. My wife and I arrived about two. Our son, Tommy’s godchild, works for the New York branch. We had dinner with Harry and his family. They’ve just remodeled their brownstone, and wanted to show it off, of course. It’s quite lovely, our daughter-in-law…” He trailed off, looked back at Eve. “I have no idea why I’m telling you that.”
“When did you last speak to Mr. Anders?”
“On the flight over. We confirmed our golf date. The last thing I said to him, was: Brace yourself, Tommy. I’m going to clean your clock.”
His face reddened, his eyes filled. For the next few moments, he sat breathing hard as he struggled for composure. “Why are they saying such horrid things about him? Isn’t it enough he’s gone, that a good man is gone?”
“No, it’s not, and it won’t be until we know why. That’s my job. Who wished him harm?”
“I don’t know. He could be tough in business, but he was never unfair. He watched the competition, of course, and was a competitive man. But he played by the rules. He believed in rules.”
“And in his personal life? Did he play by the rules?”
The wide face reddened again, but with temper. “I won’t have you implying—”
“I’m not implying anything. Obviously you know something of the circumstances of his death. If you know who had access to his home, his bedroom, I need a name. Or names.”
He leaned forward, fierce as a lion. “Tommy would not cheat on Ava. On anyone.”
“A great many people engage in affairs and sexual activity outside marriage. And a great many of them don’t consider it cheating.” She shrugged. “Just sex, means nothing. Nobody’s hurt.”
His mouth tightened, pure derision. “Perhaps you can live your life by those standards. Tommy didn’t.”
“Then who might want me to think he did?”
“I don’t know. If anyone harbored such violent feelings toward him, if anyone had threatened him, he didn’t tell me.”
“Would he have?”
“I hope he would.”
“To your knowledge, did he fire anyone, rebuff anyone?”
“By rebuff, you’re speaking of a sexual proposition.” Luce let out a short laugh. “I can’t imagine a woman approaching Tommy that way. But I suppose…He was fit, charming in his way, wealthy. I suppose. But he never mentioned that sort of thing either. Of course, it’s possible he didn’t mention it in order to spare the other party the embarrassment and not to open the door to teasing. I would have teased him,” Luce admitted, “unmercifully.
“As to firing, most terminations would be up to the individual department heads and supervisors. I don’t know of any major dismissals, not recently. Ben would have a better handle on that.”
“Can you tell me who benefits financially?”
“I can and I will because this wasn’t about money. What was done to him…couldn’t have been about money. Both Ava and Ben will receive Tommy’s shares of Anders. Ben will hol
d the majority, as Tommy did after his own father’s death. Ava will get the house in New York, the estate in the Hamptons, and the pied-à-terre in Paris, and all contents therein unless specifically bequested to others. Ben will inherit Tommy’s yacht, a number of his personal possessions—his collection of golf clubs, but for an antique set he left specifically to me. There’s a house on the coast of South Carolina that will go to him, and the London townhouse. They’ll also divide, in equal shares, his portfolio, after other bequests are made.”
“You know the details.”
“Yes, I know the details. I witnessed the paperwork, and he insisted I read it through first. If you don’t read, you don’t sign—that was Tommy. Lieutenant, I visited both Ava and Ben at the house this afternoon—after…Believe me, they’re in deep mourning. He was loved. Tommy was loved.”
4
TO SATISFY HERSELF, EVE DETOURED TO THE Anders house on the way home. The traffic, as Luce had said, was brutal, but she didn’t mind. The stops, starts, stalls, gave her time to think. The bad-tempered blare of horns, the occasional fist or middle finger shooting out of a window, the snarling or desperate faces of fellow drivers all reminded her why she loved New York even when it was frozen in the bitter, bitter grasp of endless winter.
Glide-cart operators, bundled up like Arctic explorers, worked with their fingerless gloves over smoking grills, and the smoke—if she cracked her window enough to catch it—smelled of chestnuts and soy dogs and grease.
Animated billboards, as they had been all winter, hyped tropical getaways where scantily clad models frolicked in the surf, or families so bright and happy they struck Eve as just a little terrifying built elaborate castles in the sand.
YOU DESERVE IT!! was the battle cry.
To Eve’s mind, people all too often didn’t get what they deserved.
Thomas Anders certainly hadn’t after he’d tucked into bed for the last time, so it was her job to make sure he got what he deserved now. Justice. Maybe he was the paragon of decency his friend and family described, or the secret sexual perv his style of death portrayed. More likely, he’d been something in between. Wherever he landed on the human scale, he was due justice.