Brotherhood in Death (21 page)

“It's pretty simple. Carlee MacKensie. But I can refresh you. You both spent some time at Inner Peace.”

Anger burned low and sharp in her eyes, but her voice remained coldly controlled. “My visit to Inner Peace is personal.”

“Nothing stays personal with murder. Did you meet Carlee MacKensie there?”

“As the conditions of Inner Peace are headlined by confidentiality, we used only first names while in residence. I recall no one there named Carlee.”

“I've got a photo,” Peabody said helpfully, and took one out.

Lydia glanced at it, then away. “I don't recognize her.”

“You know what's another coincidence?” Eve kept her eyes on Su's face. “MacKensie went to Yale, too. Just like you. Just like Senator Mira, like Jonas Wymann. School ties, insomnia, and Inner Peace. Yeah, that's a lot of . . . what's the word, Peabody?”

“Maybe
happenstance
.”

“Hmm. Not the word I had in mind, but we can go with it. Happenstance.”

Lydia pulled back, folded her hands in her lap again, palm to palm. “I suppose it's a necessary part of your job to be suspicious. How unfortunate for you.”

“Unfortunate? Nah. It's what gets me going in the morning.” Eve smiled then, deliberately predatory. “It's more unfortunate for people who think they can get away with murder.”

“I can only tell you Charity and I spent the day together, as described. Now. Is there any other way I can help?”

“No, that ought to do it.” Eve rose. “Thanks for your time.”

She paused at the door. “Oh, you can let your good friend know we'll be following up with her, too. Suspicions not only get me going in the morning, they keep me going all day long.”

They went out to the elevator. Eve glanced back down the long, elegant hallway. “She's lying, right down the line.”

“I gotta say, oh yeah on that. You got under her skin and more than once. She nearly flubbed it when you brought up MacKensie. She absolutely recognized her, and never saw it coming.”

“No question about it. Interesting she said Edward Mira preyed on Charity
and
women like her. Nonjudgmental, my ass,” she said as they stepped into the elevator. “That one was part judge, jury, and executioner. And she took a lot of pride in it. We're going to start peeling the layers off.”

Knowing Su was a liar—and by association Downing and MacKensie were liars—didn't prove them killers.

But she damn well would prove it.

Part of that process would be talking to the other men who might be part of this brotherhood.

The shortest route took her to Easterday's townhome. What had once been two three-story row houses had been converted into one expansive home on Park Avenue.

A woman in a simple black suit with a wide, homey face answered the door.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We'd like to speak with Mr. Easterday.”

“Mr. Easterday isn't receiving today.”

“We're not looking for a reception. Just tell him the cops are here.”

“You can wait in the foyer—it's very cold. I'll ask Mr. Easterday if he'll see you.”

White marble floors and heavy dark wood gave the generous foyer what Eve thought of as in-your-face dignity. She glanced up at the many-tiered chandelier, and thought that's where they'd hang him if they got the chance.

Belatedly she remembered the cap, pulled it off, finger-combing her hair as she stuffed it in her pocket.

Seconds later a woman started down the long sweep of stairs.

She wore a black suit, but unlike the first there was nothing simple in this one. It fit the svelte body in a way designed to show off lines and curves, and it shimmered subtly in the crystal rain of the chandelier.

The deep blond hair had been twisted back into a knot at the nape of a long neck, leaving the face unframed. Easterday's wife might have hit the half-century mark, Eve thought, but she knew how to turn back the clock.

“Lieutenant, Detective, I'm Petra Easterday.” She extended a slim hand with a glinting diamond to Eve, then Peabody. “My husband is indisposed. He learned of a close friend's death this morning.”

“That's why we're here. That would be his second close friend in the last two days.”

“Yes, and Marshall is simply shattered. In fact, I was just upstairs trying to convince him to take a soother and lie down.”

Worry naked on her face, Petra glanced toward the stairs. “I'm happy to do anything I can to help you, but my husband simply can't be disturbed at this time.” Even as she spoke, they heard footsteps descending. Petra sighed. “Oh, Marshall, you need to rest.”

“Petra, the police are only doing their job.”

He didn't look shattered, Eve mused, but he certainly looked dented. Dark circles under his eyes, lines of strain around his mouth showed a man carrying grief.

While a tall man, he seemed to stoop as if his shoulders carried far too heavy a weight.

He also wore a black suit, with a black mourning band, and a quiet blue tie in a Double Windsor.

“Petra, dear, I could use some coffee.”

When she merely cocked an eyebrow, he smiled a little. “Tea then. If you would.”

“I'll see to it. I hope you'll both respect that my husband is grieving,” Petra said before she left them.

“She's feeling very protective, understandably. Lieutenant Dallas, isn't it? And Detective . . .”

“Peabody.”

“Yes, of course. Please, let's go in, sit down.”

The front parlor continued the formality of the foyer, offset just a bit by a small, cheerful fire in a white marble hearth. The flowers here were red as blood roses; the big, boxy sofa was covered in a fussy floral print that made sitting on it feel like squatting in a garden.

Easterday took a chair with wide wings, sighed.

“It feels—it all feels impossible. I hadn't gotten my mind around Edward, and now Jonas. Do you have a suspect?”

“We can't discuss the details of the investigation. I'm sorry for the loss of your friends,” Eve continued, “and understand this is a difficult time for you.”

“I haven't practiced criminal law in more than two decades—I leave that to my daughter—but I know how it's done. Do you have questions for me that may help in your investigation?”

“Yes. You've lost two friends in two days, Mr. Easterday, to murder. Men you've known since college—about fifty years—and have stayed close to. Close enough so your name is on a short list.”

His eyes widened. “Of suspects?”

“No, sir. Of victims.”

Now he glanced quickly toward the foyer. “That sort of statement will upset my wife.”

“She'll be more upset if I come back here to notify her of your murder.”

He shoved out of the chair. “This is ridiculous. No one has any cause to kill me.”

“But did to kill your friends?”

He sat again, spread his hands. “Edward was my friend, and has been more than half my life. As his friend I can say he could be difficult, even abrasive. No doubt he made enemies in politics, as a senator, and now through his institute.”

He'd known this was coming, Eve thought. Known there would be a list and he'd be on it. Grief aside, he'd prepared.

“And Jonas Wymann?” she asked him.

“Politics again. Surely you've made that connection. Jonas was brilliant, but his views were not always popular, and he's wielded considerable influence for many, many years.”

“There are other connections,” Eve began.

Petra walked into the room just ahead of the housekeeper, who wheeled a large tea tray.

“Thank you, Marian. I'll pour out.”

The housekeeper didn't quite curtsy, but Eve sensed it was implied.

“I can deal with this, Petra.”

“I'm not leaving.” She spoke pleasantly, but the steel beneath was more than implied. “Cream? Sugar?” she said to Eve.

“No thanks.”

“Detective?”

“A little cream, two sugars. Thanks.”

“There's no point in arguing, Marshall,” she continued as she poured the tea. “I'm staying. You were saying something about connections, Lieutenant.”

“The two victims have more in common with each other, and with you, Mr. Easterday, than politics.”

Petra made a sound—not quite a gasp—and passed Eve tea that Eve didn't want. “You think Marshall . . . This person who killed Edward and Jonas, you think he might try to hurt Marshall?”

“Now, Petra—”

“Don't placate me, Marshall. It's something that caught me by the throat after I got over the shock of hearing about Jonas. I dismissed it, but . . .” She looked back at Eve, dead in the eye. “Is this what you think?”

“It's something we have to consider, and have to take seriously to ensure your husband's safety.”

“Yes. Good. Take it seriously. We're all going to take it very seriously.”

“Petra, Edward and Jonas shared political networks and leanings I haven't.”

She only shook her head. “You've been friends for decades. You socialize regularly, you golf, play poker, travel together. You lived in the same house for years back in— Oh God! Fred and Ethan.”

“That's Frederick Betz,” Eve said quickly. “Who's Ethan?”

“Ethan MacNamee,” Easterday told her. “One of our housemates back at Yale. He and Edward didn't stay particularly close, and he lives in Glasgow most of the year. I only see him myself every few months.”

“And when you get together, it's like no time's passed,” Petra insisted. “You're like brothers.”

“A brotherhood,” Eve said, watching Easterday's face.

That face went stony, and his eyes cut away, just for an instant. “Yes. We're like brothers, you could say, and I've lost two.”

“Three,” Petra said quietly, and took her husband's hand. “There were six of them who shared the group house at Yale. The other was William Stevenson—Billy. He died, tragically, just before Marshall and I were married.”

“What happened?”

“He suffered from depression.” Marshall began to rub his temple. “He'd poured considerable money into a new business venture that failed, and was going through a second, brutal divorce. His father was—and is—a hard man, and berated him. It was a terrible series of blows.”

“He self-terminated?”

“He did, yes, without the legal authority, without going through the necessary counseling. He went to his family home in Connecticut, locked himself in his old bedroom, and hanged himself.”

“Hanged himself.”

“You can't connect that to the murders. It was clearly suicide, and more than fifteen years ago. And while we were and are good friends, Edward and Jonas were the closest to each other. They shared more interests, and again, those political and social views.”

“What else did they share?” Eve asked. “Edward Mira had regular sexual relationships with a variety of women.”

Easterday struck a fist to his thigh. “I'm not going to sit here while my friends are on slabs at your morgue and impugn their reputations.”

The bluster was insult, but fear glinted through it.

“I have a list of names, of women Edward Mira had relationships with during just the past year. One of those women might be responsible for what was done to him. I need to know if Jonas Wymann shared any of those women, or shared the predilection for women.”

“Marshall.” Before he could speak, before he could release the anger Eve saw in his eyes, Petra took his hand. “They're dead, and if this is why, you owe it to them to speak out. Please.”

“Edward made no secret of his enjoyment of women outside his marriage. And Mandy was aware.”

Easterday bit the words off.

“Their marriage was their business. Jonas was more circumspect,
but . . . His habit of enjoying women outside marriage certainly led to the dissolution of both of his. However, if they shared a woman, I'm not aware.”

“And you, Mr. Easterday? Do you go outside the lines?”

“This discussion is over.”

“It's not!” Now Petra gripped his arm. “Marshall and I have a relationship based on trust as much as love and respect. I'm fully aware he was unfaithful to his first wife. My first husband had affairs. I refused to marry Marshall for more than a year due to trust issues. We met not long after our mutual divorces.”

“I've never had an affair—not since you and I began.”

“I know it.” Petra laid a hand on his cheek. “I lived with a cheat,” she said to Eve. “I know the signs. Every one of them. I promised myself I'd never live with one again. I don't break promises, Lieutenant. Marshall and I have built a strong, healthy marriage—and trust, fidelity, respect—those are cornerstones.”

“You'd know where to look,” Marshall said to Eve. “You can check my finances, my travel, you can speak to anyone at my firm. I haven't had a relationship with another woman since I met Petra.”

“What about Betz?”

“Lieutenant, I appreciate your concern for my safety, and I respect your position, but I'm not going to gossip about my friends. Speak to him yourself.”

“I intend to. Are you friendly with Senator Fordham?”

“Not really. He's Edward's friend. We've socialized, of course, but I'd consider us acquaintances.”

“He's not a brother then.”

“No,” Easterday said flatly, and the hand holding the teacup trembled. He set the cup down. “I'm finished with this. I don't see how it's in any way helpful, and you put me in the position of being disloyal to dead friends. I want to rest now.”

“Yes, you should. I'll be right up,” Petra told him. “I'll show the officers out, and be right up.”

To Eve, the weight on his shoulders seemed heavier as he left the room.

“We have good security,” Petra said briskly, “and I'll make certain it's in full use. He won't go anywhere without me. I can hire private security to stay with him until this is resolved if you think I should.”

“I think it wouldn't hurt. He shouldn't keep any appointments alone,” Eve said as she rose. “That's how both victims were lured.”

“He's not like them—not the way you mean. He loved them, deeply, but he's not like them. I'm not Mandy Mira, Lieutenant. Believe me.”

“I do.” Eve held her gaze. “I believe you. Thanks for your time, and your cooperation.”

Eve stepped outside, took a long breath. “Impressions, Peabody?”

“He knows things, things he hasn't told his wife. Things he doesn't want her to know. And he's scared shitless. But she'd know if he cheated on her, and it came off sincere when he said he'd been faithful.”

“He didn't use that word,” Eve pointed out. “He said he hadn't had affairs, hadn't had other relationships. That's a distinction to my ear.”

“I don't hear it.”

“He doesn't cat around like his friends—and, yeah, she'd know if he did. She'd toss him out for it. But rolling in the sheets at a hotel, having drinks, maybe dinner, conversations? That's different from targeting a woman, raping her, then moving on.”

“Well, Jesus.”

“Yeah. Add he knows things. Add he's scared. Scared and angry, and defensive. He's part of the brotherhood, Peabody, and loyalty to them, trying to hide what he's part of from his wife, could get him or one of the others killed. Let's see if we can shake more out of Betz.”

—

T
he Upper East Side home of Frederick Betz had once been a small, exclusive boutique hotel for the ridiculously rich. The ridiculously rich made it a prime target during the Urbans. It hadn't been razed, but it had been gutted with all the original marble, stone, wood, gilt, crystal, and silver leaf chipped, hacked, pried, and hauled off.

It sat, a sad, graffiti-laced shell, for nearly two decades before Betz—an enterprising soul—bought it for a song and dance right on the edge of the revitalization trend.

He spent fully ten times the cost of the shell to turn it into his personal palace. In spending his millions, Betz proved, beyond a shadow, money couldn't buy taste.

On the arching front door of glossy red lacquer, fat cherubs in what looked like G-strings cavorted with sly-eyed centaurs and winged horses. Three-headed dogs snarled; fierce-eyed dragons spat fire.