by J. D. Robb
In the morning, she glugged down coffee to spark her brain into handling the basic chore of getting dressed. Roarke, already dressed, alert—as was his irritating habit—scanned the stock reports while he drank his coffee in the bedroom sitting area.
“Warmer today, if you’re interested.”
She spoke from the depths of the closet. “Warmer than what?”
“Than a witch’s teat.”
Considering that, she buttoned on a plain white shirt. “I’m going to work here this morning, have Peabody meet me. Easier to go from here to the address Ava’s staying at. Do you know a Brigit Plowder?”
“Socialite, married to Peter Plowder—architect. Her family builds—bridges and tunnels most particularly. She’s a respected philanthropic figure. Puts her money where her cause is. Would this be where the widow’s staying?”
“Yeah.” Eve came out, sat down to put on her boots. Then narrowed her eyes at Roarke’s long look. “What? It’s a jacket. It’s just a damn jacket. I don’t care if it goes with the pants.”
“Pity then, as it goes very well. I was thinking how stylishly professional you look, which is probably a happy accident. But nonetheless.”
“Stylishly professional.” She sniffed, leaned over to steal a wedge of melon from his plate. “I’ve got to get my stylishly professional ass to work.”
“Eat.”
“I’ll get a bagel or whatever in my office. I need to hit those financials, since somebody interfered with police business last night.”
“I should be arrested.”
“Pal, that goes without saying.” She leaned over to kiss him. “Later. Oh, nearly forgot. Peabody’s going on Now tonight.”
“Is she? She must be…” He thought of Peabody. “Terrified.”
“Yeah. She’ll get over it.”
In her office, she tackled the financials. She remembered the bagel, then forgot it again. When she heard the clump of Peabody’s winter boots, she rubbed her already blurry eyes.
“You take over here.”
Peabody stopped, blinked. “Take over where?”
“These stinking financials. Give them another fifteen minutes, then we’ll take Ava.”
“Okay.” Peabody draped a bag over the back of Eve’s sleep chair.
“What’s that?”
“It’s an outfit. For tonight. In case I spill something on what I’m wearing, or in case what I’m wearing’s stupid. McNab liked it, but he wears Day-Glo half the time.” Peabody pulled off her outerwear to reveal a ruby-red suit with small silver buttons running down the front. “What do you think? Does it look right?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” Nerves pumping, Peabody brushed at her hair. “And I got stupid hair day going. They fix that, right? They fix that sort of thing. Nadine hired Trina to do hair and makeup so…” Peabody trailed off, pursed her lips. “You look all good and everything today. Seriously up.”
Eve shook her head. Gray pants, white shirt, navy jacket over her weapon harness. What was the deal? “If we’ve finished our fashion consultation, maybe you could spare a minute for the damn financials.”
“Okay. What do you think about the earrings?”
Eve gave the silver drops a passing glance. “About you wearing them, or about me ripping them off and stuffing them up your nose?”
“Okay,” Peabody said again, and hotfooted it to the desk.
“The computer hasn’t popped out anything from standard searches,” Eve told her. “One more shot, then I’m thinking to pass it on to Roarke. He popped something straight out of the widow’s in about ten minutes last night.”
“He’s got the knack.”
“He popped Charles out.”
Peabody’s head jerked up. “Our Charles?”
“In a manner of. Ava’s been a regular bimonthly client of our favorite LCs for a year and a half.”
“Shit. We’re going to have to interview him.”
“We went over there last night. He is, as expected, coy about the details. We need Ava to clear him for that. But he did tell me that she was a referral.”
“If she was fooling around with a pro it might go to motive.”
“It might. Hitch is she wasn’t hiding it, at least not well. There were straight payments out of her personal debit account. No cover.”
As she considered, Peabody played with one of the short dangles at her ear. “So, she doesn’t think to hide the payments. The husband finds out, they go around about it. Fight, divorce is threatened. And she kills him, sexual overtones.”
“She was out of the country.”
“Right. Hired hit?”
“Too elaborate.” Just too damn fussy, Eve thought. “Unless, it plays out like that, and she hired someone who tailors the hit to the client’s specifications.”
“Fantasy Hits R Us.”
“There’s a way to make money, people find it. I’m going to go over her financials and have Roarke comb them. But so far, nothing’s popped there either. No suspicious withdrawals, no payments that don’t jibe.” She paced. “Good-looking woman. She’s got style, power. The sort that could talk a lover, if he’s stupid enough, into doing her dirty work for her.”
“But then if she had a lover,” Peabody pointed out, “why is she paying Charles five thousand a bang, twice a month?”
“Exactly, so…” Eve turned back. “How do you know what Charles charges a bang?”
“Ah.” Peabody fussed with her hair, pulled at the silver buttons on her suit jacket. “Maybe, being curious, I looked up his rates when we were sort of dating.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I can agree that if a woman’s getting strange for free, she’s unlikely to pay ten grand a month for a couple thrills. See what you can find.”
Moving away again, Eve pulled out her ’link to schedule an appointment with Mira, and to put a hold on an interview room.
“Ladies.” Roarke spoke from the doorway of their adjoining offices. “Peabody, you look ravishing.”
“I do?” She nearly squealed it. “But in a screen-friendly, trustworthy, public servant kind of way?”
“Yes, indeed. The color’s wonderful on you.”
“Jesus,” Eve said under her breath, and earned a mild stare from her husband.
“Breakfast?” he said.
Peabody watched as Eve scowled, shrugged. Then Roarke lifted his brows with those dreamy eyes steady. Her lieutenant rolled hers, but stomped off to the kitchen.
“You guys don’t even have to talk.” Resting her chin on her fist, Peabody sighed. “You just know.”
“It does come in handy from time to time. How was your date night?”
“It was mag. Really. Mostly because we both agreed we like noisy, crowded clubs better than grown-up, sophisticated ones. But it’s good to try something new.”
“Stop socializing with my partner,” Eve called out from the kitchen.
“Financials,” Peabody mouthed.
“Ah, yes.” Casually, Roarke strolled over, gave a quick glance at the data on screen. He winked at Peabody and sent her pulse scrambling, then continued on to the kitchen where his wife was taking an annoyed bite out of a bagel.
“Breakfast,” she muttered at him.
“Such as it is. Why don’t I go over the financials? I can do it in considerably less time than you or Peabody, which frees you up to go out and browbeat suspects.”
She frowned, chewed. “You’d have to do it straight. No unregistered, no illegal hacking.”
“You underestimate the skill of an honest man.”
“Yeah, but I’m talking to you.” She grinned over another bite of bagel. “I could use the help, if you’ve got the time between schemes of universal financial domination.”
“I’ll work it in. Now.” He brushed a crumb away from the side of her mouth, kissed her. “Go protect and serve.”
“Good idea. Peabody,” she said as she headed out, “with me.”
“I ha
ven’t really started on—”
“The civilian’s got it. Let’s go take a few kicks at the grieving widow.”
“That’s lots more fun.” Peabody jumped up, grabbed her garment bag. And because Eve was already out of earshot, turned back as Roarke came out of the kitchen. “Do you like the earrings?”
He stepped closer to give them a good study. “They’re charming.”
“But in a—”
“In a professional and intuitive police detective sort of way. You’ll be wonderful and look the same.”
“Thanks.” She grabbed her coat, scarf, hat. “I—”
“Peabody! Move your damn ass!”
“Gotta go,” Peabody finished on the heels of Eve’s shout. And fled.
With his fresh cup of coffee, Roarke sat behind Eve’s desk. He could spare twenty minutes now, he mused. “So, let’s see what we have here.”
6
AN ELEGANT, OLD, LOVINGLY RESTORED BUILDING on the Upper East Side housed the Plowder’s apartment. The quiet, rosy brick boasted a portico entrance with wide, beveled glass doors granting passersby a peek at the polished marble lobby. A doorman, in blue and silver livery, stood guard should any of those passersby need a little move-along.
Eve noted he gave her police issue the beady eye when she pulled up to park at the carpeted curb. She didn’t mind a bit. She didn’t just eat bagels for breakfast, but enjoyed a good bite of doorman.
He strode across the swatch of red carpet, shook his head.
“Cop rides never get any prettier,” he commented. “What house are you out of?”
She shifted her feet, and her prepared tone. “You on the job?”
“Was. Put in my papers after I did my thirty. My brother-in-law manages the place.” He jerked his head toward the entrance. “Tried golf, tried fishing, tried driving the wife crazy.” He flashed a smile. “Better pay, better hours on this door than doing the security guard thing. Dallas,” he said, shooting a finger at her. “Lieutenant Eve.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Shoulda made you sooner. Getting rusty, I guess. I didn’t hear about anybody getting murdered inside.”
“Not yet.” They exchanged quick cop grins. “Your tenants the Plowders have a guest I need to speak with. Ava Anders.”
“Hmm. Husband got dead yesterday. Didn’t know she was upstairs. She must’ve come in after I went off. She and the dead husband came around now and then. Her more than him, but he was friendlier.”
“Was Mrs. Anders unfriendly?”
“No. Just one of the type who don’t notice who opens the door for her ’cause she expects somebody to. On the snooty side, but not bitchy or anything. Him, he’d usually stop a minute going in or out, have a word, maybe ask if you caught the game—whatever the game was. Sorry to hear he got dead. I gotta call up. Worth my job if I don’t.”
“That’s no problem. What was your house?” Eve asked as they moved to the doors.
“Did my last ten at the one-two-eight. Cold Case Unit.”
“That’s a tough hitch. The cold ones can haunt you.”
“Yeah, they can.” He pulled off his glove to offer a hand. “Frank O’Malley, formerly Detective.”
“Nice to meet you, Detective.”
“Peabody, Detective Delia,” Peabody said when they shook. “I knew a uniform in the one-two-eight back when I was on patrol. Hannison?”
“Sure, I knew Hannison. He’s all right.”
Inside the lobby with its subtly fragrant air, Frank turned to an intercom screen. “Plowder penthouse,” he ordered, then waited until the screen shifted from waiting blue and the image of a woman with short brown hair swam on. “Morning, Agnes.”
“Frank.”
“I got a Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody in the lobby. They’d like to speak to Mrs. Anders.”
“I see. Hold a moment, Frank.”
“That was Mrs. Plowder’s personal assistant, Agnes Morelli. She’s okay.”
“How about the Plowders?”
“Seem like solid types to me. Not on the snooty side. Call you by name, ask after the family they got time for it. Don’t skimp on the tips.”
A moment later, Agnes flowed back on screen. “You can send them right up, Frank, lower parlor entrance.”
“Will do. Thanks, Agnes. First elevator,” he told Eve. “Thirty-nine East. That’ll take you straight to the lower parlor. It’s a hell of a space they got up there. Three floors, river view.”
“Appreciate the help, Detective.”
Inside the elevator, the hammered silver walls boasted a long, built-in bench, in case your legs got tired of riding up, or down. Since the trip took under thirty seconds, Eve couldn’t imagine the bench got much use.
The doors opened straight onto a wide room in pale and pretty colors, opening to a spectacular river view through a wall of glass doors and windows. Agnes stood, in a severe black suit given unexpected charm by the full-blown red rose on the lapel.
“Good morning, I’m Agnes, Mrs. Plowder’s PA. If you wouldn’t mind showing me some identification. We trust Frank, of course, but—”
“No problem.” Eve took out her badge, as did Peabody.
“Thank you. Please come in, have a seat. Mrs. Anders will be right down. Can I offer you some refreshment? Coffee?”
It was knee-jerk for Eve to refuse, but she decided coffee in the parlor could lend a tone of female intimacy that might be helpful. “Coffee’d be great. Black for me, coffee regular for my partner.”
“Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll just be a minute.”
The minute they were alone, Peabody let her eyes pop wide. “Can I just say: Woot, some digs. They’ve got a terrace out there bigger than my entire apartment.”
“I bet your apartment’s a lot warmer than that terrace right now.”
“Yeah, there’s that.” But unable to resist, Peabody started across the parlor to the glass. “It’s the kind of place that makes you feel you need to glide. I don’t glide very well. It must relate to my center of gravity, which would be my ass.”
“It’s the kind of place where birds probably splat their tiny birdbrains on the windows regular.”
“That’s an image, boy.” And Peabody took a couple cautious steps back. “Still, it’s a totally uptown view. Don’t you want to see?”
“I can see fine from here.” To Eve’s mind, lofty heights should be left to the birdbrains. In any case, her interest centered on what and who lived in the space, not what spread outside.
A moment later, Ava made her entrance. The widow wore black in a snugly fitted, high-collared shirt with slim pants and heels. Her hair coiled at the nape of her neck, pulled tightly back from a face with shadowed, exhausted eyes. Beside her, an arm supportively around Ava’s waist, Brigit Plowder conveyed boldness and challenge. She topped off at about five feet, with her tiny frame tucked neatly into a plum-colored sweater and stone-gray pants. Her hair, a pure white cap, set off laser-sharp green eyes and the arched black brows that framed them. Her mouth formed a deep bow Eve assumed could be charming when it smiled, but at the moment those lips clamped together in tight disapproval bordering on anger.
“I’m going to say this straight off.” Brigit’s voice was a throaty boom worthy of a woman twice her size. “This is outrageous.”
“I agree. Murder is always outrageous.”
A quick spark fired in those keen eyes. It might have been approval. “I understand you have a job to do, Lieutenant, and from everything I’ve been told about you and this one,” she said with a gesture toward Peabody, “you excel at your work. That’s admirable. However, bombarding Ava at such a time shows a distinct lack of sensitivity and compassion.”
“It’s all right, Bridge.”
“It’s not all right. Why can’t you give us all a few days, just a few days to grieve?”
“Because then I give Thomas Anders’s killer a few days.” Eve shifted her gaze back to Ava. “I apologize for disturbing you, Mrs. Anders.
The investigation requires it.”
“I don’t see why—”
“Look, Mrs. Plowder, I’m a murder cop, and any murder cop will tell you time’s the enemy. The more time that passes, the cooler the trail. The trail goes cold, the killer can walk. When killers walk, it pisses me off. If you want to blame somebody for me being here, blame the killer. Now, the more time you stand there complaining, the more time we’re going to be here.”
Brigit’s chin jutted out, then angled as she inclined her head. “You’re absolutely right. I don’t like it, don’t like any of it, but you’re absolutely right. Come on, Ava, let’s sit down now. I’ll apologize, Lieutenant, Detective,” she continued as she led Ava to a thickly cushioned sofa in deep blue. “I’m rarely rude to guests in my home, even uninvited guests. I’m not altogether myself today. None of us are. Please, sit down.”
As Eve and Peabody took wide-armed chairs, Agnes rolled in a tray. “I’ve got chamomile tea for you, Ava. You’ll do better with that than coffee.”
“Thank you, Agnes.” Ava took the cup, stared into it.
“I’ll see she drinks it this time,” Brigit stated.
“Thanks.” Eve accepted the coffee Agnes offered. “Since you’re here, Mrs. Plowder, can you tell me when you and Mrs. Anders made your travel plans?”
“Travel? Oh. That seems like years ago already. We go away every year. Ava, Sasha—Sasha Bride-West—and myself. A week somewhere warm, a restorative at the end of winter.”
“This particular restorative. When did you make the plans? The dates, the destination.”
“Oh…Three months ago. About?” she added, turning to Agnes.
“Nearly four, actually. I booked the arrangements in November, just before Thanksgiving.”
“Agnes knows all, remembers all,” Brigit said, and Eve saw she’d been right. The smile was charming.
“We had such a lovely day.” Ava’s voice dripped like tears. “Such a lovely day on Monday. Breakfast on the terrace. Mimosas. We had mimosas, and we got just a little drunk. At breakfast, remember, Bridge?”
“Yes, honey, I remember.”
“We laughed like idiots. Everything was so funny. And later, when I called Tommy later, I cut it all so short. We were going to have massages on the terrace, where we’d gotten a little bit drunk at breakfast. So I cut it all very short. ‘I’ll talk to you later, Tommy,’ that’s what I said to him. ‘I’ll talk to you later. I want my massage.’ That’s the last thing I said to him, because there wasn’t any later.”