Brotherhood in Death (12 page)

“She cheated, too.”

“Yeah, but she owned it. No excuses.”

“Her husband forgave her—or they're working for that. Could you?”

“Could I what?”

“Forgive that. I mean, it's never going to happen, but hypothetically if, say, Roarke and I lost our minds for one wild night and had hot, crazed sex involving many multiple orgasms, then came to our senses and begged your forgiveness. Owned it, you know? Could you forgive us?”

Eve drove in silence a moment. “Well, it would be hard. It would be work, but marriage is work. So's partnership. I think I could. It would take time and that work, but I think I could forgive both of you. After I boiled you in big vats to make it easier to peel the skin, very slowly and carefully, off your bones while I danced to the music of your agonized screams. Then I made you watch while I fashioned people suits out of
your skins for a couple of sparring droids I would then beat into rubble that I'd bury along with your quivering, skinless bodies in unmarked graves. After that,” Eve said with a considering nod, “I think I could forgive you.”

“That's good to know. It's good to know the conditions. Except, I don't think you can fashion people suits because you don't know how to sew.”

“I'd learn. For something this important, I'd learn. Stupid parking, stupid parking. Wait!”

Peabody sucked in her breath as Eve punched it, went vertical, zipped, zoomed, and arrowed into a spot just vacated at the curb.

“Bagged it.”

“I might have to pee again.”

“Forget it. We're dealing with the baby slut, then heading back to Central. I want to update my board, think, and have some goddamn coffee.”

“How did you know that car was going to pull out?”

“I've got a sense.”

They walked a block in busy SoHo with crowds loaded with shopping bags or hustling out of the cold into restaurants where warm scents teased out into the winter air.

The gallery display window featured an elongated sculpture of a woman bowed over backward nearly into a U with an expression of either agonizing grief or mindless ecstasy.

Either way Eve found it mildly disturbing and much preferred the painting of a city scene that mirrored the bustle going on around them.

Inside, the walls and floors were a soft cream, making the gallery feel like the inside of a fancy box.

She saw a painting of what seemed to be a series of big blue dots connected by a jagged red line.

And wondered: Why?

In the hushed reverence a woman's heels clicked sharply.

Eve recognized Charity Downing from her ID shot. Young, several rungs up from pretty with a waterfall of blond hair, deeply blue eyes, a full and generous mouth.

She wore blue almost the same color as the dots in a slim, short dress.

“Good afternoon. I'm Charity. If I can . . . Oh God, I know who you are. I recognize you.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder, quickly came forward, dropped her voice. “This is about Edward. I heard. Please, I don't want my boss, my coworkers to know. I can take my break. Please, can I meet you across the street? The coffee shop right across the street. I can't talk about this here.”

“You're not going to try to run, are you, Charity?”

“Where would I go—and why would I? I just don't want anyone here to know I was . . . with Edward that way. It's right across the street. I just need to get Marilee to cover for me, get my coat.”

“All right. Make it fast.”

“You don't really think she'd rabbit?” Peabody asked as they went out again.

“No. If she killed him or if she didn't, she had to know the cops would want to talk to her sooner or later.”

Eve jaywalked—it wasn't hard if you were fast and agile enough—and stepped into the coffee shop.

It didn't smell as bad as most—boy, had she gotten spoiled—so she grabbed a four-top that gave her a view of the art gallery.

Peabody studied the automated server. “Maybe I could get another latte. I missed cake twice today. No, tea's probably a better bet, and they have jasmine. Jasmine tea's nice. Want some?”

“Not in this life or the next. She's coming out.”

Charity didn't jaywalk, but hurried in her skinny heels to the corner,
waited for the light. Eve watched her come in, cheeks pink from the cold and the hurry, spot them.

“Thank you. Really, thank you.” Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush. “I'm still trying to get my head around what happened. Edward, dead. Murdered. I . . . I'm going to have some tea if that's okay. I need to settle down. I heard about an hour ago.”

“I'm going to have the jasmine,” Peabody said.

“Yes, it's nice. I'll have that, too.”

“Coffee,” Eve said. “You and Senator Mira were having an affair.”

“Yes. It started a couple weeks before Christmas. I know he's married, I know it's wrong even though he said his wife doesn't care. Why wouldn't she care? I don't know.”

Charity pressed her fingers to her eyes.

“How did you meet?”

“At the gallery. I had a small show—it was exciting. He came with . . . it wasn't his wife, she was too young, but I don't know who it was. He said he liked my work. He bought a painting. I was flying. And about a week later, he contacted me—he asked me to meet him for a drink. I thought it was about the art, but . . .”

“He hit on you,” Peabody suggested.

“It was . . . classier than that, but yes. At first I was really surprised. He's old enough to be my grandfather, but he's interesting and persuasive. I ended up meeting him for drinks a second time, then he asked me to dinner, and I went. I knew what I was doing, and I knew it was wrong. But there I was in this fancy hotel suite with champagne and . . .”

She trailed off as their orders began to slide out of the automated slot.

“I knew what I was doing,” she said again. “I knew he just wanted to be with a young woman. I'm not stupid. And I also knew he could help me. He nudged his rich friends and associates to come to the gallery, and talked up my work. I sold a couple more pieces. We were using
each other, that's what it was. I let him have sex with me, and in exchange, he helped my art career.”

She lifted her tea, drank. “I'm absolutely aware of what that makes me. I'm not proud of it. And I'd do it again.”

“Any trouble in your arrangement?” Eve asked.

“No. We'd generally go to the hotel once a week. Sometimes he wanted me to stay the night, sometimes he didn't. He ran the show, and I didn't have any complaints.”

“Was he rough with you?”

“What? Oh, no, no.”

Composed, almost coldly so, Charity met Eve's gaze. “Look, Lieutenant, I knew he was taking an aid to keep it all going. And for a man his age, he was in pretty good shape. But I wasn't attracted that way. The first time, it was curiosity and the circumstances. After that, it was, just—it was what it was. I didn't say that to him. I just pretended.”

“You don't have a boyfriend?” Peabody asked. “Anybody?”

“No, I don't, so I figured I wasn't hurting anyone. It was really clear he did this a lot, so I could justify it as far as his wife went. I don't know her, so I could pretend that didn't matter, either. I don't want anyone at work to know, that's all. I don't want the gossip, or the looks. I don't care if I deserve them, I don't want it.”

“You seem a lot more concerned about gossip than murder. The man's dead.”

Defiant, Downing jutted out her chin. “And I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm just scared. I'm scared I'll lose my job. I'm scared somebody knew what I was doing—what we were doing, and killed him.”

“Did you feel threatened? Did you feel watched?”

“No. But, I mean, the staff at the hotel, they had to know. I can't think why any of them would care, but . . . Hell.” She drank again. “It's not about that, about me. I didn't really matter. I'm just scaring myself.”

“Do you know anyone who'd wish him harm?”

“I really don't, but he'd go on about it sometimes. How a man in his position makes enemies. A powerful man makes powerful enemies. He'd talk and talk about his political views—I stopped really listening. Just pretended to.”

“You're good at pretending.”

This time a hint of a flush rose in her cheeks. “I guess I am. I had an affair with an old man because he could help my career. I pretended to enjoy the sex when I was mostly thinking I hope he doesn't want me to stay tonight so I can just go home. I listened to him talk, and didn't disagree out loud. You want to say I prostituted myself, I can't say I didn't. But I've sold six paintings in the last six weeks, and I know five of them were directly because of him. I was grateful to him for that.”

She knuckled a tear away. “And I'm sorry he's dead.”

“Where were you yesterday between four and six?”

“I . . . I don't know exactly. It was my day off. I met a friend for lunch, and after, we got our nails done, did some shopping. Well, looking. And we had a drink somewhere. We decided to go back to my place, I had some pizza in the AutoChef. We just hung out until, I don't know, maybe nine or nine-thirty. I'm a suspect. Oh my God.”

“We'll need your friend's name and contact information.”

“Oh God. God. Lydia. Lydia Su—that's
S-U
. She's the only one who knows about Edward.” She covered her face, then dropped her hands and gave them the contact numbers. “I wouldn't kill him. He was helping me. I figured he was starting to get a little bored, and all I had to do was wait for him to tell me it was done. Maybe he'd help me a little more if I didn't make a fuss. Why would I kill him for helping me?”

“How about between midnight and four last night?”

“I was in bed! I went to bed. I did some sketching after Lydia left, but we'd had wine, and I couldn't concentrate. I was in bed by like eleven, watched screen until I fell asleep. This can't be happening.”

“Calm down, Charity,” Peabody told her. “We have to ask, we have
to check out the information you've given us. It's part of the routine. When did you last see or speak to him?”

“Ah, God, the day before yesterday. He kept it week to week. He contacted me, asked me to dinner. That's how it worked. We were supposed to have dinner tonight. Then I heard, on the bulletin. I only saw him once a week, as a rule. I saw him last week. Last Thursday night. What should I do now? What should I do?”

“Go back to work,” Eve said.

—

H
ere's what I think. You want to know what I think, right?”

“Peabody, I live to hear what you think in all things.”

Eyes narrowed, Peabody climbed back into the car. “You're being bitchy now.”

“I'm tired of talking to whiny cheaters. I'd rather grill murdering bastards.”

“Well, sure, but you gotta do what you gotta. Anyway, she
was
whiny, but killing him's the whole golden goose deal. You can't get those shiny eggs if you kill the goose.”

“Why would she want shiny eggs? Why would anybody want shiny eggs?”

“It's like a metaphor.”

“It's a stupid one because shiny eggs are probably contaminated, then you die. But we only have her word about the eggs anyway.”

“Yeah, but it's easy to check out.”

“Which we will. Just like we're going to check out everything and everybody else on the list from today. And how about this? The old, horny goose is getting ready to move on, so no more eggs soon. She's not ready to give them up, so she gets pushy. You don't keep giving me eggs, I'm going to go tell everybody you've been putting that old thing in my young parts. Fight, blackmail, murder.”

“When you put it that way.”

“I need to think about it. I need decent coffee and thinking time because the only one I'm pretty damn sure didn't do it is the bitch with the snotty lawyer. That just pisses me off.”

“It'd be nice if she did it.”

“It'd be nice if geese shat out golden eggs, too. But it's all just goose crap.”

Eve found Homicide full of cops and noise, and the lingering scent of someone's veggie hash—extra onions. Reineke and Jenkinson huddled together at Jenkinson's desk, Carmichael worked her 'link, Santiago scowled at his comp screen while Baxter strolled out from the break room with a jumbo mug of coffee.

Trueheart—she'd have to get used to seeing him out of uniform—earnestly worked his comp.

“Is there no crime on the streets?” she wondered.

“Hey, LT.” Reineke angled toward her. “We got one in Interview A. Letting him stew awhile. Asshole cut up his boss on the loading dock. Told the arresting officer the guy fell on his knife. Three times.”

“That's a relief. I was worried we'd all be looking for new jobs. Peabody, run the hateful bitch's husband, verify alibis.”

Santiago answered his desk 'link, held up a finger. “Yeah, yeah. Got it. On the way. We caught one,” he called to Carmichael. “Guy took
flight out a window on the fourteenth floor on Sixth, went splat on a parked mini. And we remain gainfully employed.”

“Earn your pay,” Eve said, and started for her office. Baxter caught up with her just outside her door.

“We don't have anything hot,” he began, “so I pulled a cold case, gave Trueheart the lead.”

Since she'd done the same with Peabody when her partner's badge was new and sparkly, Eve nodded. “Good way to give him more experience, and maybe close a case.”

“He's working it hard. Now I've got to school him in detective wardrobe.”

Eve looked over at Trueheart in his dark gray jacket, quiet blue tie. “He looks okay.”

Sort of clean and earnest, she thought. Like he was on his way to church.

Hmmm.

Baxter only shook his head. “I'll work on it. We get anywhere on the cold one, I'll let you know.”

Eve went in, hit the coffee, then updated her board and book, wrote up her notes. She copied Mira, unofficially.

After entering the data, she ran probabilities on each woman she'd questioned. As she suspected, the computer liked the ones without alibis.

“That's the easy way,” she muttered and, with another cup of coffee, put her boots on her desk, sat, and studied.

Allyson Byson—off in the tropics. Potentially could have hired someone to take care of Edward Mira, but it just didn't ring true. The kill was vicious and personal.

She made an additional note to verify Byson's travel, any possible circling back to do the murder.

But there, she and the computer agreed. Dead low probability.

Carlee MacKensie. Jittery, came off pliable, harmless, on the weak side. No alibi, so the comp liked her. And here, Eve didn't altogether disagree.

“Something a little off there, Carlee. Something not quite right. Too wide-eyed. I don't think we got the full story from you. I don't think you rang that truth bell.”

On to Lauren Canford. Total bitch, no two ways about that one. And Eve could see the woman in a violent outburst. She could see her planning a murder with care and cunning.

But . . . Eve didn't sense passion. She didn't sense the sort of attachment to or anger with the victim it took to torture and kill.

More the type to backbite—there was an expression that made sense. The type to go behind an enemy's back and smear reps, plant gossip seeds.

Asha Coppola. Came off honest—if you overlooked the adultery. But largely honest. Screwed up, owned it, working to fix it. It played all the way through for Eve.

Then Charity Downing. Something there, Eve thought again. Something not quite what it seems. Something . . .

“Cagey,” Eve said out loud, studying the face on her board over the rim of her mug. “That's what I got from you, Charity. You're cagey. Your alibi's going to hold up, too, and when it does, I'm inclined to take a look at your day-off pal.

“Lydia Su. Friends lie for friends. We'll take a look because there was a lie in there somewhere. Some truth, but a lie buried in it.”

She set her mug aside, rearranged the board in her preference.

Charity Downing

Carlee MacKensie

Asha Coppola (maybe her husband wasn't working on forgiving)

Lauren Canford

She'd have a 'link interview with Allyson Byson, but suspected that name would replace Canford's at the bottom of her list.

Artist, freelance writer, nonprofit marketing manager, lobbyist, society type.

“Didn't have a type, did you, Edward? It was more looks and availability. And age. Average age of this group is—shit, math. I don't know . . . early thirties. And that's just this group. Bound to be more. What if—”

“Sorry, Dallas.” Peabody rapped knuckles on the doorjamb. “Edward Mira—that's junior—and Gwendolyn Mira Sykes are here. They want to talk to you—us.”

“Saves us the trip. Set them up in an Interview room. We'll keep it strictly official.”

“I think B's open. I'll take them down.”

Eve nodded, looked back at her board. But her focus had shifted, so she pushed up from her desk. She'd see what the vic's children, and likely top beneficiaries, had to say.

She walked out, saw Baxter had pulled his chair over to Trueheart's desk. She didn't know if they were discussing new angles on the cold case or the cut of a suit, the weight of fabric.

Didn't, at that point, want to know.

She headed toward the Interview area, saw Peabody coming out of B.

“I'm getting her a sparkling water, him a Coke.”

Eve dug in her pockets for enough to cover it. “Get me a tube of Pepsi, and whatever you want. Official, but pleasant.”

“They're a little bit wrecked, Dallas. Pushing through it, but you can see it. And they're a solid unit—really tight.”

“Okay.”

She stepped in, and though she'd already viewed their ID shots, it
still struck her that Edward Junior had Dennis Mira's dreamy green eyes.

He wore his dark hair long enough to pull back in a stub of a tail—as Roarke habitually did when in serious work mode. He had a strong, handsome face—she could see the resemblance to his father—and wore scarred work boots, jeans, and a red-and-black plaid shirt.

His sister had taken her looks from the mother—statuesque and striking despite the reddened eyes. She wore a dark suit, dark tights, and flashy red ankle boots with skyscraper heels.

They sat at the battered Interview table holding hands.

The brother gave the sister's hand a squeeze, and stood as Eve closed the door.

“Mr. Mira, Mrs. Sykes, I'm Lieutenant Dallas. I'm sorry for your loss.”

“It's Ned. Ned and Gwen.” His voice was rough and strained. “Thanks for talking to us, for making the time so quickly. Dennis told us you were working hard to find—to find our father's killer. We don't want to get in the way.”

“You're not in the way. I intended to come to you before the end of the day.”

“We've been with our mother.” Gwen cleared her throat. “Their security guard contacted Ned, and he came to get me. We want to apologize first for the way she spoke to you.”

“It's not on you, and it's nothing.”

“It's something,” Ned corrected with a grim smile. “We've been on the receiving end. But despite how she behaved, she's shattered. We know your reputation, Lieutenant, and your work with Charlotte. So.”

He rubbed a hand on his sister's arm. “You know by now that our parents didn't have what most think of as a traditional marriage.”

“What did they have?”

Before the question could be answered, Peabody came in with the drinks. “Hope tubes are okay.”

“That's fine, thanks.” Ned looked back at Eve. “They cared for each other, but the marriage was more a partnership. Political, social.”

“You don't have to be delicate, Ned. They both had relationships outside the marriage,” Gwen continued. “They produced us—two offspring, male, female—then they were free to pursue other interests. We knew it, growing up, knew it wasn't to be discussed. As long as we presented the accepted image, everything stayed balanced.”

“You screwed that up,” Ned said, making her laugh a little.

“You screwed up first.” Then her eyes filled. “Oh God, Ned.”

“It's okay. It's all right.” He scooted his chair closer to hers, put his arm around her. “I did screw it up first. I didn't want to go to Yale. I didn't want to study law, go into politics. So I made sure it couldn't happen. Tanked my grades, ditched school when I could get away with it. I'd have taken off the minute I hit eighteen, but—”

“He wouldn't leave me. I'm two years younger, so he toughed it out. I didn't go to Yale, but took Harvard instead. I did study law. I wanted to. But I used my degree to become a children's rights attorney.”

“We were disappointments,” Ned finished. “We were constantly at odds with our father, particularly. I partnered up with two friends—who weren't on the approved list—and we started our own business. We build, repair, recycle, reimagine furniture. I work with my hands, and he never forgave me. Twenty-two years we've been in business, but he still called it my rebellion.”

“You're not— Are you Three Guys Furniture?”

He grinned at Peabody. “Yeah, that's us.”

“I
love
your stuff. My father builds furniture, and my brother, so I know quality. I love your work. Sorry,” she said to Dallas, “but you should know his business has a really exceptional rep.”

“I appreciate that. Gwen's got her own solid rep in her field, but . . .”

“We didn't follow the plan,” Gwen said. “We didn't maintain the assigned image. We didn't marry the sort of people they would have
chosen. It didn't matter that we are both happy, that we married wonderful people we love, both have terrific kids. It wasn't the plan.”

“My parents would never say we're estranged,” Ned said, “because that wouldn't fit, either. But we barely speak, only see each other on holidays when we have to.”

“And when you did see each other or speak?” Eve asked.

“Nine out of ten, it ended in an argument. Charlie said to be brutally honest with you about it, so here we are. Brutal. I didn't like my father.”

“Oh, Ned.”

“What's the point, Gwen? I didn't like or respect him. But he was my father. My mother's a pain in the ass.”

“God, she is.” Gwen sighed, let her head tip to her brother's shoulder. “But she's our mother, and she's grieving. Our father's been murdered, and however strained our relationship, he didn't deserve to be killed, to be hurt the way he was hurt. We'll tell you anything you need to know, answer any questions you have to help you find who did it.”

“And we'll release a statement to the media that reflects family unity. We'll maintain the image for him, and for our mother.”

“Let's get this out of the way,” Eve began. “Where were you yesterday, four to six, then midnight to four.”

“Four to six, in the shop, working. Well, until about five-thirty,” Ned corrected. “Then Grant—one of my partners—and I hung out, talking shop for a while while we closed up. I was probably home by six or a little after. We had dinner around seven. My wife, the kids, and I. By midnight? I was out for the count.”

“In court until nearly five,” Gwen said. “Custody case, nasty. Trewald v. Fester, Judge Harris presiding. I had to check in at the office, but I was home by six. Chaos ensued. I have a thirteen-year-old girl in the crazed clutches of puberty who was going into the tenth round with her eleven-year-old brother, whose job it is to irritate her. About midnight my husband and I were having a second glass of wine, in bed, and
trembling like earthquake survivors—and wondering where our sweet, loving, happy little girl had gone.”

“You'll get through it,” her brother told her.

“As long as there's wine at midnight.”

“Mr. Mira—Dennis Mira—indicated the two of you will inherit your father's interest in the Spring Street property. My information is it's worth eight figures.”

“Sure it is.” Ned nodded. “If it's coming to us, that simplifies something at least. It stays in the family. We don't need the money, Lieutenant. Both Gwen and I are solid there, and that place means a lot to Dennis.”

“Let's set that aside. Do you know any of the women your father was involved with?”

“We made it a point not to,” Gwen began. “A few years ago I was facing off against Leanore Bastwick in court, and during a recess she made it a point to follow me into the ladies' room and tell me she was sleeping with my father. She did it to throw me off my game.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“When I heard about what happened to her a few weeks ago, I was shocked. But—brutal honesty—I didn't lose any sleep over it.”

“Down, girl.” Ned squeezed her hand. “One of them came on to me.”

“What!” Gwen goggled at him. “You
never
told me!”

“It was twenty years ago, easy. I don't even remember her name, but she came into the little storefront we had back then and cornered me. Said she wondered if I resembled my father in all ways. She grabbed my crotch—not something I wanted to tell my sister. Zoe saw it—my wife. Well, not my wife then, we weren't even dating yet. She is—and was—a designer, interior. We were working with her on some projects. But she saw the whole thing, and while I was trying not to scream like a girl, she marched over, kicked the crotch-grabber out, and told her if she ever came back, she'd call the cops.”

“I love Zoe,” Gwen said, with feeling.

“Me, too. It took me over a month to get up the courage to ask her out after that. But it all worked out. Sorry, that doesn't help you.”

“You'd be surprised. You've told me that for most of your life, your parents had this sort of arrangement, but each of you only clearly remembers one incident where the woman involved at the time made herself known. That tells me as a rule, they were discreet, and not looking for trouble when the liaison ended. So, to the best of your knowledge, none of the women he had affairs with caused trouble for him, threatened him?”