Brotherhood in Death (11 page)

“Loose pants, loose pants,” Peabody chanted to herself as they clanged down the iron steps to the street.

“They'll be a lot looser when I kick your ass up, down, and sideways.”

“I'm using the power of positive thinking. But to spare my ass the pain, what are you guys getting Bella for her birthday?”

“I don't know.” Instant panic gripped her. “How the hell do I know what to get for a one-year-old kid? How does anybody? The kid can't tell you, and nobody remembers
being
a one-year-old so it's just a crapshoot.”

“The party's in a couple weeks.”

“Shut up, Peabody.”

“Okay, but shutting up means I can't tell you what I know she'd really go for—and McNab and I can't really spring for a good one.”

“What?”

Peabody clamped her lips smugly.

“I swear, I'll drop-kick you from this spot three blocks east so you splat in the middle of Fifth Avenue.”

“A dollhouse. She's young for it, but we had her up for a few hours a few days ago, and I'd sent for mine. It's just a little one my dad made me, but she went nuts for it. Played with it the whole time, and really well, too, rearranging the little furniture, pretend cooking in the kitchen.”

Eve wondered why—seriously why—anyone wanted to pretend cook.

“If dolls aren't alive, why do they need a house?”

“That's where
pretend
comes into it.”

“Does it? Does it really? Or is it when you're sleeping or not around they start having parties in it, drinking brew, eating snacks, watching screen?”

“You're creeping me out.”

“You should be creeped. What's to stop them from having doll orgies in there? Ever think of that?”

“Not until right now.”

“Next thing you know, there'll be doll weapons and vehicles.”

“They already have those.”

“See.”

Point made, Eve turned to the sturdy building that housed Carlee MacKensie's apartment. She opted for her master—Why give the woman time to prepare?—and walked into the skinny lobby.

“I have to pee. You scared the piss out of me, now I have to pee. Don't make me walk up four flights of steps.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” To settle it, Peabody pushed the elevator button. “I can't get this image of a bunch of drunk dolls doing it all over the dollhouse. Gay dolls, straight dolls, threesomes. It's my new nightmare.”

“They probably make doll strap-ons.”

“Oh God, I beg you to stop.” Peabody all but jumped into the elevator when it opened. “Loose pants, loose pants. Don't kick my ass, I'm trying to take my mind off having to pee. And sex-crazed dolls. I'm seeing Gracie Magill with a strap-on.”

“Who?”

“My favorite doll as a kid. Loose pants, loose pants.”

“You had a doll with a last name?” Eve pressed the buzzer on the MacKensie apartment. “Why do dolls need last names?”

“For their ID, to buy the brew and the strap-ons.”

“I figured they just stole them when they climbed in and out of windows at night to burgle houses.”

“You're just being mean now.”

“I could keep this up all day.”

The intercom buzzed. “Yes?” And Peabody breathed a quiet, “Thank you, Jesus.”

“NYPSD,” Eve announced, and held up her badge. “We'd like to speak with you, Ms. MacKensie.”

“What about?”

“Edward Mira.”

After a moment, locks clicked off, the door opened a couple cautious inches. Eve saw pale red hair messily bundled into a top bun and a pair of suspicious blue eyes.

“What about him?”

“Do you want to discuss your relationship with him out here, Ms. MacKensie?”

Eve saw the lips compress, the eyes dart left then right. “We don't have a relationship,” she said, but opened the door.

She wore baggy sweatpants and a hoodie with thick socks. Her skin was so white it nearly glowed beneath its scatter shot of ginger-colored freckles.

“You did have,” Eve said and stepped in.

“I haven't seen or talked to Edward in weeks, since the end of November.”

“Excuse me. I'm sorry,” Peabody interrupted. “Could I use your bathroom?”

Now Carlee bit her bottom lip, but nodded. “Ah, okay. I guess. It's . . .” She gestured, but Peabody was already on the move.

“Thanks!”

“I guess you want to sit down.”

“I can stand if you'd rather,” Eve told her.

“I guess we'll sit down.”

She had a couch and a couple of chairs, facing an entertainment screen—and facing away from a workstation under the window.

Carlee chose a chair, sat with her knees together, her fingers linked in her lap. “I don't understand why you want to talk to me about Edward.”

“He's dead, Ms. MacKensie.”

Carlee's tightly pressed lips fell apart. “What? How? When?”

“He was murdered last night.”

“Mur-murdered?”

“You say you haven't seen him since November.”

“That's right. Are you talking about Senator Mira?”

“Yes. How did you meet him?”

“It was— It was a political fund-raiser. I had a media pass because I was researching an article, and . . .” She paused as Peabody came back.

“Thanks,” Peabody said again, and sat beside Eve.

“That's okay. I, um, usually tend to observe rather than ask a lot of questions. I guess I was about the only one there with a media pass who wasn't asking questions, so he came over to me when I was sitting, taking notes, brought me a glass of wine. He said how if I didn't have any questions for him, he had some for me. I was a little flustered, but he was so charming.”

“How soon did you begin a sexual relationship?”

Carlee flushed brightly, hotly pink, and her eyes darted away. “I know it was wrong. He was married—I knew he was married. He said he and his wife had an arrangement, but that doesn't make it right.”

“We're not here to judge you, Ms. MacKensie,” Peabody told her. “We need to gather information.”

“I knew it was wrong,” she repeated. “He said we'd go have a drink, and I thought how I could get a bigger article, or maybe a couple of stories, so we left there and went to have a drink. Then two. He had his driver take me home. Nobody's ever done that for me. And he paid such attention. I don't know how to explain it, but he made me feel pretty and sexy.”

She looked down at her hands. “So when he contacted me the next day and said he was taking me out to dinner, I went. I knew where it was heading. He was married and, okay, a lot older, but I knew where it was heading. I went anyway. And I went with him to the hotel. The Palace. He has a suite there, just beautiful, like something in a vid. And
dinner was waiting, and a bottle of champagne. I slept with him. We only saw each other like that for about five weeks, then he sent me flowers—white roses—with a card. It said how all good things had to end, and it had been lovely.”

“That must've pissed you off.”

“A little, but more it was hurtful. He could have told me in person. I'm not stupid; I knew it wasn't going to last. But he should have told me face-to-face. I thought about contacting him, but I didn't. And he never contacted me again.”

She let out a breath. “It was like it never happened.”

“Were you in love with him?” Peabody's tone was gauged to sympathy.

“Oh, no.” MacKensie's blue eyes rounded—guileless. “No, but it was exciting, those few weeks. Maybe, at least partly, because I knew it was wrong. I felt a little . . .” She trailed off with a quick little gasp. “Am I a suspect? You think I killed Edward?”

“Did you?” Eve asked coolly.

“Oh my God, my God.” She trembled all over, hunched her shoulders, gripped her hands together under her chin. “No. No, I didn't kill him. I didn't kill anyone. You said last night?”

“That's right,” Eve said, and left it there.

“I-I-I was here, working.” She gestured to her workstation with a hand that shook. “I didn't go anywhere.”

“Did you see or speak to anyone?”

“No. No. I was working on a piece, and I stuck with it. I had leftover Chinese and went to bed early. I think it was around ten because my brain was tired. Do I need a lawyer?”

“That's up to you. Have you ever been to his property on Spring Street?”

“Spring? I didn't know he had any. We always met at the hotel. Officer—”

“Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant, I lead a quiet life, by choice, by inclination. This was a few weeks of excitement, and, and”—she flushed again—“sex.”

“Which he ended with flowers and a card.”

“You don't kill somebody for ending an affair.”

Eve lifted her eyebrows. “You'd be surprised.”

They left MacKensie wrapped in jittery nerves, rode back down to the lobby.

“Impressions?”

“Not used to being noticed or singled out, I'd say,” Peabody responded. “A little OCD. The bathroom was as clean as an operating room, and more organized. Everything matches. Same with the bedroom. I glanced in. Bed's perfectly made, no clothes or shoes tossed around. She's the type who figures she's going to get dumped, so isn't surprised when it happens. She didn't buzz for me.”

“She doesn't have an alibi.”

“If I planned to kill a former U.S. senator, I'd have one wrapped tight.”

“Having absolutely none's not a bad strategy,” Eve countered. “She asked how he was killed when we first got there. I never gave her an answer, she never asked again. How do you write articles on anything without asking questions, pushing the follow-up?”

“She seemed really flustered and embarrassed.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Right now, she stays on the list. Let's talk to the next.”

The Brighton Group proved both efficient and unimposing. It held offices over a bustling deli in a squat building tossed up post-Urbans. The casually dressed staff worked together in a cacophony of noise that struck as cheerful. Some glass partitions separated the higher-ups.

Personal photos, plants, files, paperwork jumbled together on desks. The air smelled candy sweet—which Eve understood as they were offered birthday cake minutes after arriving.

“Asha's through there.” The cake-bearer gestured to one of the glass-walled offices. “We're all just getting back to it after celebrating Sandy's birthday at lunch.”

“We'll pass, but thanks.”

“If you change your mind, just dig in. You can go right in—Asha's office is always open.”

“Cake,” Peabody mumbled as she followed Eve. “Why did it have to be cake?”

“Toughen up, Peabody.”

Eve studied Asha through the glass. The woman wore a poppy-red sweater that suited her caramel-toned skin. She had snug black trousers tucked into stubby-heeled knee-high boots, and wore her hair scooped back from her sharp-boned, big-eyed face in a mass of red-tipped black curls.

She turned from the mini-friggie where she'd taken a bottle of water, put on a professional smile when Eve stepped to the doorway.

“Hi. What can I do for you?”

“NYPSD.” Eve lifted her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We'd like a few minutes of your time.”

“Of course. It's about Edward.” The smile faded away. “I just heard. The media flash came over my comp. Please, sit. Do you want some coffee? It's really terrible coffee, but . . .”

She stopped, shook her head, dropped down into one of the visitor's chairs rather than behind her desk. “He was murdered. That's what the media flash said. I needed a minute.”

She looked down at the unopened bottle of water in her hand. “Just a minute before I looked at the details. Are you going to give them to me?”

“The investigation's ongoing. You had a relationship with Edward Mira.”

“Yes. Briefly, stupidly. Last spring. I'm married—but you must already know that. My husband and I were having some issues, and I had an affair.” She paused again, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I knew the senator through my work, and . . . I have no excuse for it.”

“Who ended it?”

“I did, when I came to my senses. Trying to live two lives? It's awful, and when that initial buzz wears off—and it does—the guilt and stress are huge. I couldn't live with it.”

“You ended it? What was the senator's reaction?”

“He was . . . What's a couple steps down from annoyed? Irked? He's a powerful, commanding man—that was part of the attraction—and I'd say accustomed to ending his affairs on his time clock. But it wasn't ugly.”

She took a breath. “I want to say I liked him, personally. I hated his politics. That was another part of the appeal—those passionate debates. I can't believe he's gone, and this way. Murdered. The flash said he'd been hanged. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Oh God.” Asha squeezed her eyes shut. “I don't understand how anyone could . . . I don't understand.”

“Was he irked enough when you ended things to pressure you, threaten you?”

“Oh, no.” When she opened her eyes again, they gleamed behind a sheen of tears. “Lieutenant, it didn't mean that much to either of us, that's the really sad part. I was lashing out at my husband, and Edward was simply taking an opportunity. I hurt Jack and nearly destroyed my marriage because I was feeling angry and unappreciated.”

“You told your husband about the affair.”

“I couldn't live with the lie. How could we ever get things back if I tried to? I'm very lucky Jack agreed to couple's counseling instead of walking out the door. I forgot—and since it's my second time around, I shouldn't have—but I forgot marriage is work, with peaks and valleys. I won't forget it again.”

“Can you tell me where you were yesterday afternoon, from about four to six?”

“I can tell you I was right here until about six.”

“Can you verify that?”

“There were at least six of us here, and I wasn't the last to leave. You can ask anyone. Is that when he was killed?”

“I also need to know where you were last night/early this morning. Say from midnight to four.”

“Wait.” She sipped water, blinked at the tears. “Ah . . . I met Jack and some friends for dinner, about seven, then we went to a vid, polished it off with drinks after. I think Jack and I got home about twelve-thirty. I know I was tired—Jack's the social one, and late nights take a toll on me. I went to bed.”

“Was it a planned evening?”

“The dinner was; the rest evolved. Like I said, Jack's social. I'd figured dinner, then home in my pj's. Marriage is work,” she repeated with a shaky smile. “I guess everyone says this, but I didn't kill him. Why would I? He was a mistake, but it was my mistake.”

Peabody noted down names and contacts to verify the alibis. They left Asha sitting in her visitor's chair.

“My impression is she alibied herself and her husband,” Peabody said before Eve could ask.

“Yeah, she did. We're going to verify, and we're going to check out the husband, but everything she said rang the truth bell for me. Unless we feel differently after looking at the husband, my sense is if he wanted payback, he'd have killed or attempted to kill the senator way before this.”

They got back in the car. “We'll take the next.”

“Lauren Canford.”

“Her. Run the husband on the way.”

While Eve bitched about parking in the madness of downtown, and finally resigned herself to the kick-your-ass price of a slot in an underground lot, Peabody reported.

“Family law attorney, does the pro bono thing every Friday in a legal aid clinic. First marriage for him, and no criminal.”

“I'm keeping them on the list.” Eve hiked to the grimy elevator. “But they currently hold last place. What floor is Canford on?”

“Eighteen.”

Eve debated, very briefly, then used her master to bypass the lobby.

“Woo!”

“Tired of dicking around.”

They got off on eighteen to much shinier, and worked their way down to Lauren Canford's offices.

No casual dress here, Eve noted, and no cheerful noise in the small, glossy outer office.

Eve stepped up to reception and the man in his twenties with a bold blue tie precisely knotted at the base of his really long neck.

“Lauren Canford.”

He didn't bother to glance up, but continued to work on his screen. “Your name?”

Eve put her badge on the counter. He glanced at it, briefly.

“I'll also need your name.”

“It's on the badge, right there with NYPSD. My partner and I need to speak with Lauren Canford.”

“Mrs. Canford's in meetings all day.”

“Kid?”

He did look up at her now, all bored resentment. “One of those meetings is going to be with me, unless you want to be the one to inform Mrs. Canford that we'll have that meeting at Central at the end of her workday. I can arrange to have it in one of our Interview rooms.”

“I don't believe you have the authority to—”

“Law school, right? You want to test my authority, Junior?” She leaned in close. “Try it.”

Resentment went to sulk as he tapped his earpiece, swiveled around to give her his back. He muttered, but she caught
police, threatened, bitch.

She found those three words very satisfying.

“Through those doors, straight back to the end of the hall. Mrs. Canford can give you ten minutes.”

“Good choice, all around.”

“And my name's not Kid or Junior,” he called after her. “It's Mylo.”

“I'll make a note of it.”

Most of the office doors that lined the area stood closed. She did see a man, suit jacket off, tie loosened, sweating over his 'link.

“You want to be reasonable about this, Barry.”

From the look in his eye, Eve judged the guy didn't figure Barry for reasonable.

Lauren Canford's office stood open. Pausing at the doorway, Eve saw the woman, black suit sharp as a blade, raven hair in an equally sharp wedge around a sternly attractive face.

A man—pinstripes, paisley tie—stood beside her desk.

“Your identification, please,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“I'm Curtis Flack, the head of this organization. I'm also a lawyer, and will represent Mrs. Canford's interests here. Your identification.”

Eve took out her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Detective Peabody.”

“And the nature of this visit?”

“You both know the nature of this visit, so let's cut the bull. Since you're using your right to an attorney, I have to figure you need one. We'll do this on the record, and I'll read you your rights.”

Eve did the dance.

“You had an affair with Edward Mira,” she began.

“Mrs. Canford has a prepared statement on this matter.”

“Is that so?” Eve smiled, very, very pleasantly. “All prepared.”

“I believe in being prepared.” Canford spoke for the first time. “I asked Curtis to come in, and wrote this statement, as soon as I heard the media report.”

She angled just a little, to read off her screen.

“‘Senator Mira and I have been acquainted, professionally, for approximately ten years. In the summer of 2060, for between five and six weeks, we engaged in an affair. When said affair ran its course, we agreed to end it. The decisions to begin and end this area of our relationship were mutual. Senator Mira and I continued our professional relationship and casual friendship, as we share many of the same political and world views. I'm deeply saddened to learn of his death, and must hope the authorities identify the person responsible quickly.'”

Lauren folded her hands. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah, a few things. Senator Mira was married, as you are.”

“That's correct.”

“How does your spouse feel about the affair?”

“My husband and I, like the senator and his wife, have an understanding.”

“Your husband understands you cheat on him?”

Before the lawyer could interrupt, Lauren held up a hand. “It's all right, Curtis. My husband and I understand a sexual affair is nothing more than that. Sex. If you feel the need to speak with my husband, he will also have counsel present.”

“Noted. So you and the senator just rolled off each other one day and said, Hey, this was fun, but let's call it quits.”

“If you persist in being crude,” Flack put in, “this meeting is over.”

“Okay. You and Ed finished up a spirited round of cards one night, and agreed to fold them.”

Canford inclined her head. “Basically, yes. With the understanding that should we both wish to reconnect, the door was open.”

“Did you? Reconnect?”

“No, and now we never will. If that's all—”

“I need your whereabouts yesterday, between four and six in the afternoon.”

“I was here until five. My assistant can certainly verify that, as can my driver. I met Congresswoman Lowell for drinks at the Taj. I would appreciate it if you'd verify that with the lounge rather than disturb the congresswoman. My driver picked me back up and took me home. I believe I was home by six-fifteen. The house droid would have that on record, if necessary.”

“How about last night between midnight and four.”

“My husband and I attended a dinner party at the home of Martin and Selina Wendell. It began at eight-thirty. We left there around one, I believe, and returned home. Again the house droid can verify our return. We were in for the rest of the night.”

“Okay. Thanks for your time.”

“If you have any further questions for Mrs. Canford, or for her husband, please contact me.” Flack offered his card.

“No problem. Record off.”

Peabody held it in until the elevator, then spewed on the ride down. “She's just hateful. That's the exact word for her. Hateful. And she sent off bells all over the place. She could kill, oh yeah, she could. Then she'd go get a fricking manicure.”

“You're right, and that's why she hits rock bottom on the list.”

Peabody literally danced in place. “Come
on!
”

“If we could break her afternoon alibi, and if she'd been in that house, Mr. Mira would be dead. She's not the type to leave a loose end.”

“Oh but . . . Damn it!” Wound up, Peabody stalked off the elevator. “What if she wasn't there for that—she sent minions. I bet she has minions. But then . . . big dinner party. But she could fudge the time. She could.”

“Could. Didn't. Here's why she doesn't pop for me.” Eve got behind the wheel, let her head rest back for a minute. “She doesn't give a rat's ass. Now, maybe we'll scrape the surface and find out he dumped her and she didn't want to be dumped. Bumps up motive, but then it falls
apart. She wouldn't have worked with anyone, and this took at least two people. She wouldn't use a partner because a partner is a loose end.”

“Hey, I'm a partner.”

“In crime, Peabody.” Eve started the car, wound through the garage. “More than one person does a crime, the other is always a loose end. Besides, I believe her. More truth bells rung. They decided to cheat, cheated, decided they were bored with each other, and ended it. You know why they bored each other, Peabody? Because they're so fucking much alike. Users, power freaks, and your word.”

“Heartless.”

“Yeah. That's a bull's-eye.”

“At least I got one right.”

“We'll verify her alibis, but she's going to be covered. Why do people like that bother with marriage? Her and the vic? It's just for politics, for show, for fancy dinner parties and professional advancement. So it's bullshit. Coppolo had it right. It's work—it's supposed to be work.”