by J. D. Robb
“Peabody’s set to get the key, and McNab will get started on Gwen’s ’link when they get to Central.” She blew out a breath. “She’s going to be full of that house today.”
“It’s a big step for all of them.”
“Yeah, I know it. But she’ll probably talk me into a brain bleed by the end of shift. I can be happy for her and not want my brain to bleed.”
He gave her hand a bolstering pat. “I believe your brain’s tougher than that.”
“We’re going to find out.”
He drove across town, with traffic so light it seemed like the city slept after all. At this hour, dog walkers and joggers outnumbered vehicles.
Merit Caine’s home had a pretty front courtyard already in lavish bloom. The three-story brownstone whispered elegance.
Eve took a good look at it from the sidewalk.
“She’d have lived here in a couple months. My first take is she’d go for something more modern, more sleek, but I can see this. It looks like old money, and old money says status and prestige.”
She started up the short walkway. “Top-drawer security,” she noted. “That’s one of yours.”
“It is, yes.”
“Tough for thieves.” She glanced at Roarke. “Except you.”
“Former,” he reminded her. “He’s well secured his home.”
Eve pressed the bell beside the double front doors.
Please state your name and the purpose of your visit, the computer demanded.
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, NYPSD.” She held up her badge for scan. “Roarke, civilian consultant to NYPSD. Police business.”
Your identification is verified. One moment please.
It took a few more than that, but Merit Caine opened the door.
Not fully dressed for the day, Eve observed. Suit pants, dress shirt, but no tie or jacket. But it told her he intended to go into work.
“Lieutenant. Roarke.” He held out a hand to Roarke to shake. “It’s good to see you, if unexpected.”
“Can we come in, Mr. Caine?”
He looked back at Eve. Though shadowed with fatigue, his eyes stayed calm and direct. “If this is about Gwen, you should know I’m no longer her attorney.”
“I’m aware.”
“Yes, of course you are. Aware of all of it. Yes, come in.”
He stepped back into a foyer with white marble floors and an enormous chandelier with serpentine silver coils stabbed through layers of glass balls. Then he gestured to the living area, which hit the grand and sleek and modern.
Twin curved sofas in pure white held fancy white pillows. Glass and silver tables held more crystal, ornate vases or bowls.
White marble framed a long, narrow fireplace, and above it only a high blank space.
“Gwen wanted our wedding portrait to hang there. That won’t happen now.”
“I’m sorry for your trouble, Merit,” Roarke told him.
“Apparently, I’ve narrowly avoided much more trouble. Sit down, please. Can I offer you coffee?”
“We’re fine,” Eve said, “and we’ll try not to keep you long.”
He sat in a silver chair. “I understand a woman is dead, and finding who killed her is—must be—your priority. I understand, too, you verified my whereabouts during the time in question—as you should, and must. You need to ask, and I’ll answer before you do. I had no knowledge of Gwen’s affair. Maybe that makes me a fool, but I had no knowledge, no idea, no suspicion. I never heard the name of the victim before yesterday.”
“She never mentioned Ariel Byrd to you?”
“No, not before yesterday. And I believed her claim that she’d gone to the victim’s apartment yesterday morning for a sitting. Why wouldn’t I?”
He looked down at his hands. “I’m also aware she lied to me when she claimed, after you arrested her, that Ms. Byrd attempted to assault her. The preponderance of evidence negates that claim.”
“You’re in a difficult situation, Mr. Caine,” Eve began.
“Merit.” He looked up again. “You know far too much about my personal life at this point for formalities.”
“Merit. Faced with your knowledge that she lied to you, did she tell you the truth?”
“I can’t tell you what she said to me while I was still her attorney of record. I can’t do that.”
Since she’d expected that, Eve followed up. “Since you’re no longer representing Gwen Huffman, can you tell us your opinion on the character of your ex-fiancée?”
He sent her a weary look. “She’s a talented liar, or I’m more gullible than I like to think.”
“You loved her,” Roarke said simply.
“I did. Or I loved the woman I thought she was, even with her flaws. I actually found her flaws endearing. She needs admiration, even devotion. She needs appearances.”
He spread his hands to encompass the room. “This house, for instance. She agreed to it, though that took some persuasion, and I agreed to let her furnish and decorate it. I believe in compromise. I also believe in being faithful and keeping a promise. Finding out she was unfaithful, and repeatedly, left me with no choice but to sever our relationship.
“I’m angry,” he admitted. “I’m angry and humiliated she betrayed my trust, and I have no doubt would have continued to do just that after we married.”
“Did you know of her, and her family’s, connection to Natural Order?”
He let out a short, bitter laugh. “I’m not at all sure now I knew the real truth on that, either. She told me she was raised in a very strict household, an unforgiving one. When her brother rebelled, he was cut off and kicked out. She loved her parents, she claimed, despite all, and only kept her—distant—association with Natural Order to avoid conflict with them. When we married, of course, things could change, but until then she had to meet those requirements. Demands.”
“All of them?” Eve asked.
“We were never intimate—which makes me incredibly stupid. She feared they’d find out she’d broken one of the tenets, or she’d get pregnant. If I could only wait, be patient with her, she would make it all up to me on our wedding night. I accepted this, assumed she was inexperienced, and was careful with her. I was faithful to her.”
“Did you ever meet any of the other members?”
He spread his hands. “I don’t honestly know. I’ve certainly socialized with her parents, been in their home. I can’t claim I liked them, particularly, but they were to be my in-laws, my family. So I and my family maintained a cordial relationship. I’m not sorry that’s no longer necessary.”
“How did she react when you broke the engagement?”
“Since I did that after I informed her I would no longer represent her, I can tell you she reacted strongly. She demanded I reconsider, reminded me of all the plans, the humiliation we’d both suffer. She begged me to say nothing of any of this to anyone, much less her parents. When she saw I was resolute—even immune to her tears—she threatened to tell everyone I’d been abusive. That I’d struck her, forced myself on her.”
Hurt ran across his face as Merit shook his head. “I saw her so clearly then. I don’t know if she realized how clearly I saw her in those moments when she raged at me, promised to ruin me.”
“Did she get physical at that time?”
“No, no, she didn’t. Despite everything, I don’t believe she could kill.” Pausing, he looked down at his hands. “Maybe I have to believe that, but I do believe it.”
“Did her parents, or anyone you met when socializing with them, ever approach you about joining Natural Order?”
“It was suggested that I attend an orientation. I refused. Oliver—her father—was displeased, but only said he hoped I would be more open-minded and embracing in the future. A messenger delivered a package to our offices, containing informational pamphlets, data discs, and so forth. I threw them away.”
“I appreciate your time, your candor.”
“I hope you find who killed Ariel Byrd, and quickly. I’d l
ike to put all of this behind me. This house.” He looked around as they rose. “We were going to live in this house, start our lives together in this house. I guess I’ll sell it.”
“Merit.” Roarke stepped to him. “It’s a beautiful home. Don’t put in on the market while you’re still upset, don’t sell it on impulse. Give yourself a bit of time to decide first.”
“You sound like my family. They said just that. I learned just how much they’d support me—and found out my sister couldn’t stand Gwen.”
“The house looks like you.”
He turned to Eve. “Really?”
“Outside,” she qualified. “It’s none of my business, but if you sell anything, sell all this …” She waved a hand. “Stuff. Because it doesn’t look like you.”
“Sell all this,” he murmured. “I might just do that.”
“Good luck to you, Merit,” Roarke said, and offered his hand. “If you need a drink with a friend, let me know.”
Outside, Eve stood by the car. “She’s beautiful, she’s young, she plays the victim really well. Yeah, I can see how he fell for that. And I’d bet he won’t fall for that kind of bullshit again.
“So. Need a ride, pal?”
Roarke gestured to a dark, sleek sedan pulling up behind her DLE.
“Okay then. See you later.”
Because he wanted it—and why the hell not?—he grabbed her in for a kiss. “Take care of my cop—and let me know if you go to Connecticut.”
“I’ll do both.”
Since she had time before the bank opened, Eve didn’t mind the thicker traffic. And since parking proved impossible, she pulled into a loading zone and flipped up her On Duty light. In the relative quiet of her parked vehicle, she wrote up her notes on the Merit Caine interview.
She’d seen it before, she mused, how people could fall in love with, or in thrall to, an image. And there were plenty out there, like Gwen Huffman, who knew how to project an image.
Merit struck her as too grounded to mourn the loss of that image for long.
But maybe someone else, in love or in thrall, had killed to protect that image.
She got out of the car to join the pedestrian traffic on the block walk to the bank. Nannies or at-home parents taking babies out for a stroll, walking older kids to school—or both. People in business attire heading for the office, already checking ’links. A maxibus disgorged others, primarily working stiffs who trudged the rest of the way to whatever job paid the rent.
Some breezed in and out of delis, coffee shops, bakeries. She smelled yeast and sugar and breakfast burritos.
And there was Peabody, pink coat and boots, a small file bag worn cross-body, improbable—to Eve—red streaks in her hair. She had a take-out coffee in one hand, and scrolled something on her PPC with the other.
Eve would’ve bet a month’s pay it had something to do with home decor.
Since Peabody remained engrossed enough, Eve walked to her, looked at the screen. And mentally awarded herself an extra month’s pay when she saw the image of a home office with walls the color of chili peppers.
“Peabody.”
“What!” She jolted like she’d been stunned on full. “Oh, jeez!”
“I could’ve stabbed you in the heart, snagged that bag, your electronics, your damn service weapon, and strolled away before you hit the ground.”
“I was just looking at ideas for our new home office. We’re going to share one, since we work together a lot anyway, then I can have an actual craft room and—”
She broke off when Eve just pulled open the bank door and walked inside. She badged the security guard. “We need to see the manager, or whoever’s in charge of safe deposit boxes.”
“You’re looking for Ms. Wasser.” Her voice redolent with Queens, the guard pointed. “Past the desk there, first office on the right.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
They walked across white tiled floors, teller cages on the left, desks on the right, to an open office door where a woman with a tumble of gray hair worked at a fake wood desk on a very slick comp.
She glanced up with sharp and shrewd blue eyes.
“Something I can do for you?”
Eve held up her badge. “NYPSD. We have a safe deposit key, and the warrant authorizing us to open it and take the contents into evidence.”
Wasser gave a grunting assent, a nod, and held out a hand. “Let’s see the warrant.”
Peabody opened her file bag, took it out.
Wasser nodded as she read it. “Box 44. Says here I’m obliged to tell you who opened the account, who’s authorized to open the box.”
“That’s right.”
“Sec.” She swiveled back to her comp. “Data on box 44,” she ordered, then added a code.
“Okay then, the box was acquired May 4, 2058, in the name of Gwendolyn Anne Huffman. Hers is the only authorizing signature. Ms. Huffman has no other accounts with our bank.”
“Okay, good enough. How about we open it?”
“Sec,” she said again. She rose, went to a locked cabinet. Once she’d entered a code, she pulled it open, selected a key from a slot.
She finger-waved them to follow her out. She clipped across the tiles in sensible shoes that went with her no-bullshit black suit. At another set of doors, she entered a code, then opened them.
Eve engaged her recorder.
Another finger wave to lead the way into a large room with walls lined with numbered metal drawers.
She clipped to 44, slid her key into the right-hand slot.
“Renter’s slot on the left.”
Eve took Peabody’s mini-can of Seal-It for her hands, then took the key from the evidence bag.
When she slid it into its slot, Wasser gave another nod. “You’d know the drill, but you can use that table there. If you need a bag for the contents, we provide them at a small fee.”
“Thanks.”
Wasser stepped out, shut the door.
“Let’s see what we’ve got, Peabody.”
She pulled the drawer out, set it on the table.
“Cash. Get a count of that for the record.” Eve set a handful of stacks aside. “Jewelry.” She opened a small black leather box.
“That looks like an engagement ring,” Peabody observed. “Heart-shaped diamond, gold setting with some little diamonds in it.”
“It’s not the one from Merit. She was wearing that in Interview, and it makes this look like a toy.”
“It’s sweet though.”
Eve set it aside, opened a slim box. “Necklace, little heart of diamonds.”
“To go with the ring.”
“Right.” Eve opened a third box, long and narrow. “And a bracelet, same sort of deal.”
“They’re not really her style. Too sweet and old-fashioned.”
“And the diamonds aren’t flashy enough.” Another box. “Crystal heart on a stand, engraved. ‘Gwen, you’ll always hold my heart. Chad. 2/14/55.’ College year.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged her as sentimental, but she kept all this from a college romance.”
Eve actually snorted. “She doesn’t have an ounce of sentiment in her. File folder—hard copies and discs. Ah, we have appraisals. One for a one-point-six-carat diamond ring, fourteen-karat yellow gold setting, with point-four diamond accents. Got all the particulars on the stones, for an appraisal of eight thousand, six hundred dollars—dated 6/5/55.”
Peabody and her romantic heart sighed. “That’s not sentimental.”
“Neither is having the rest of it appraised—necklace, bracelet. Dated 1/8/56.”
“I bet he gave them to her for Christmas.”
“We’ve got the crystal heart, too, but that appraisal’s dated 2/16/55. She didn’t waste time. Chad spent better than twelve large on her.”
“Why’s she keeping them?”
“Rainy day insurance. We’ve got an appraisal on her current engagement ring—8/8/60. Easy enough to check, but my money’s on him sliding it on her finger
late July or early August. And she hit the jackpot. Ten carats, square cut, platinum setting, nine hundred thousand and change.”
“Holy shit. I hope he gets it back.”
Eve let out a dismissive grunt. “You’ll snowboard in hell before she gives it up, and he’s too classy to make an issue of it. She’s got other appraisals—minus the pieces—that coordinate with the time she’s been with Merit. Chad’s out twelve K. But Merit wins the prize at over two and a half million.”
“Maybe she has them for insurance.”
“College Chad and Lawyer Merit would have the documentation and carry the insurance,” Eve corrected. “You wouldn’t want your intended to know what you spent.”
“You’re right. It’s just so tacky.”
“More stuff not in here, but appraised. If she bought it herself, she’d use her home safe. Baxter said she had insurance stuff in there. We’ll go through it. But here’s a bronze sculpture of an angel, Art Deco style, blah blah, appraisal date 1/5/61.”
“Ariel Byrd’s work.”
“Yeah, it has the artist’s name. Another Christmas gift maybe. Six thousand. Angel, my ass.”
“It’s all monetary value to her. Tacky and cold.”
“Yeah.” And greedy, Eve thought. Grasping. “Another folder, legal docs. And here’s a copy of the trust. She knew the terms, and man, she got close with Merit Caine. Discs—and this one’s labeled Wills—Oliver Huffman, Paula Huffman. Interesting.
“Let’s bag it up, Peabody. We’ll check the discs on the way to House Royale.”
“I loaded in evidence bags, but I should’ve brought a bigger file bag.”
“We’ll spring for one from the bank. Start bagging, labeling, and I’ll get a damn sack.”
They hauled it back to the car, secured everything but the discs in the trunk.
“Run the wills,” Eve ordered, “look for the major terms and beneficiaries, while I check with—it’s Felicity,” she remembered. “To make sure Gwen’s there. Plus I want a list of approved guests.”
“Got it. Damn, I left my coffee in the bank. Can I?”
“Go.”
“Want?”
“Not now.” Eve contacted the desk at House Royale.
“Good morning, front desk. This is Felicity. How can I assist you?”