“I have to say I do. Me, I’m on a first-name basis with the guy in Payroll back at Central.”
“I may have, at some point, met—”
“I corresponded and met with Ms. Copperfield,” Bruberry interrupted. “When necessary. Such matters are, primarily, dealt with through our home office in London.”
“And just what do you do here?” Eve asked, speaking directly to Cavendish.
“I represent our firm’s New York interests.”
“Which means?”
“Exactly that.”
“That clarifies it. And you also represent the legal interests of Lordes C. McDermott, who was a client of Bick Byson.”
“Ms. McDermott is a family relation, and naturally is represented by our firm. As to her financial manager, I couldn’t say.”
“Really? Gee, seems like one hand doesn’t keep a grip on the other around here. And, second gee, I don’t think I said Byson was her financial manager, just that she was a client.”
Cavendish fiddled with the knot of his tie. Nervous tell, Eve thought.
“I assumed.”
“While we’re at it, your whereabouts on the night of the murders, Ms. Bruberry?”
“At home. I was in bed before midnight.”
“Alone?”
“I live alone, yes. I’m afraid that’s all the time Mr. Cavendish can spare.”
Eve got lazily to her feet. “Thanks for your cooperation. Oh,” she continued. “Your firm also represents…” She took out her memo book as if to check on a name. “The Bullock Foundation.”
And there, she noted, just that little ripple over the face. The tightening of the jaw, the flicker in the eyes. Another brush of the fingers over the knot of his tie. “That’s correct.”
“Ms. Madeline Bullock and Mr. Winfield Chase were recently in the city. I suppose you met with them while they were here.”
“I…”
“Ms. Bullock and Mr. Chase had a luncheon meeting here with Mr. Cavendish. That would have been on Monday afternoon. At twelve-thirty,” Bruberry added.
“You had your meeting, and your lunch with them here. In the office.”
“That’s correct,” Bruberry snapped before Cavendish could respond. “Would you like me to find my notes on the menu?”
“I’ll let you know. This has been just swell. Thanks for the time.” Eve turned to go, hesitated at the door. “You know, it’s odd that while you’re so busy representing your firm’s New York interests, you didn’t take regular meetings with the senior accountant who looks after their finances.”
“I’ll see you out,” Bruberry said when Cavendish remained silent.
“That’s okay. We can manage it.”
Somebody’s got a secret,” Peabody said when they were back on the street.
“Bet your ass. That guy had guilt and fear plastered all over him. Could be we’ll find he’s just cheating on his wife or wearing women’s underwear.”
“Or both if he’s cheating with his admin. She’s definitely the alpha male in that duet.”
“You got that right. Stupid to lie about knowing Copperfield, and he was.”
“Puffed up. You know,” Peabody continued when Eve lifted a brow. “I’m too important to know the little people. And it’s a way of distancing himself from the big stew.”
“Big stew being murder.” She got behind the wheel, tapped her fingers on it. “They weren’t prepared. Never considered the cops would question them, so they went with first instinct. Deny everything. Let’s see if we can track down Lordes McDermott, get another angle on this.”
Peabody pulled out her PPC to get an address. “Got a place on Riverside Drive.”
“’Link number?”
“Right here.”
“Try it first. Let’s make sure she’s home, or where she might be if not.”
Lordes McDermott was not only home, but appeared to have no problem having her day interrupted by the police.
They were escorted into her home by a uniformed maid, and through a wide, two-story atrium into a spacious sitting room done in a bold contemporary style with flashing color, glinting metallics, and glittering glass.
Lordes looked comfortably at home in New York black, soft boots, dull gold jewelry. Her hair was short, near the color of a ripe eggplant, and worn with short, spiky bangs over a pair of sapphire eyes.
On the low glass table was a skinny white pot, three oversized white mugs, and a white triangular platter loaded with donuts.
“Don’t tell me cops, coffee, and donuts is a cliché.”
“It’s a cliché for a reason. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.”
“Have a seat. You must be here about Bick and his Natalie. I’m damn sick about it. He was a lovely guy.”
“When did you last see him?”
“December fifteenth.”
“Good memory,” Eve commented.
“No, not really. I looked it up when I heard about what happened. We had a wrapping-up year-end business meeting right before the holidays. Here in this room, actually. He was a nice guy.”
“Did you know Ms. Copperfield?”
“I met her a few times. Bick brought her to a couple of dinner meetings at my request. I like knowing who the people handling my business are involved with. I liked her, too. They had that nice glow on together, anticipation. How would you like your coffee?”
“Black, thanks.”
“Light and sweet for me,” Peabody added.
“Are you talking to all of Bick’s clients?” Lordes asked. She poured the coffee with the gold wedding band on her hand gleaming. “I was surprised when you contacted me.”
“We’re talking to a lot of people. In fact, we’ve just come from speaking to Walter Cavendish. He’s a relative of yours, isn’t he?”
“Second cousin.” She wrinkled her nose, just a fraction, just an instant. Another tell, Eve thought. Lordes doesn’t much care for Walter.
“My cousin—Walter’s father—is one of the partners in the firm, London-based. I think that makes us second cousins,” she said with a thoughtful little frown. “Whatever, it’s one of those things. Help yourself to those donuts. I’m going to.” To prove it, she selected one loaded with colorful jimmies.
“Was it your connection with your uncle that sent you to the accounting firm, and then to Bick?”
“Mmm.” Lordes nodded, mouth full. “God, these are obscene. They’ve handled my financial affairs for years. After Miles died—the idiot—I inherited another bundle. I just let it all lay for a while, huddled in Europe. Then when I came back, I asked for a young, savvy account manager. I got Bick—and he was.”
“How did your husband die, if you don’t mind me asking?” Peabody tried to be delicate with a cream-filled.
“Playing around in this little plane he’d built. He loved to fly. Crashed and burned. I loved the stupid jerk. Nearly killed me when I lost him. And it’s been five years this spring—I’m still pissed at him.”
“Can you tell us where you were three nights ago, between midnight and four?”
“That sounds so ominous. I wondered if it would. I looked that up, too, after you got in touch to say you were coming by. I had a little dinner party, just a couple of friends. Female friends. I’m dating again, but it’s such work, especially when you’re not really interested. They left about midnight, and I went on to bed. Watched some screen first. Fell asleep watching some old vid.”
“Considering the relationships,” Eve continued, “did you ever have meetings, or have occasion to socialize together with Ms. Copperfield, Mr. Byson, and your cousin—second cousin, that is?”
“With Walter?” Lordes let out a hooting laugh. “No. Absolutely not. I try not to socialize with Walter at all. He really is an idiot.”
“You don’t get along?”
“I can get along with anyone. I just get along better with some if I keep the contact limited.”
“Doesn’t he represent your legal interests here in New Yor
k?”
“Not really. My cousin in London looks out for them, and Walter handles some of the busy work. To be frank, he’s not all that bright. He follows directions, files papers, looks good enough in a tux. Anything complex goes through the London office, at least as far as I know.”
She angled her head. “You’re not thinking Walter had anything to do with the murders? I’ve known him all my life. I can tell you he’s not only not smart enough to have done it, he wouldn’t have the stones.”
Eve was just sliding behind the wheel when her ’link beeped. “Dallas.”
“Lieutenant.” Summerset’s biting tone fit his stony face. “You failed to notify me that you were expecting a delivery.”
“I probably failed to notify you that you get uglier every day, but I’ve been busy.”
“The rocker system from a retail establishment called the White Stork has been delivered. What would you like me to do with it?”
She waited a full beat. “Boy, you must be slipping to open yourself up like that. I’ll avoid the obvious answer. Put it in that drawing room place, second level. Where the party’s happening.”
“Very well. In the future I’d appreciate it if you’d inform me of any deliveries.”
“In the future I’d appreciate it if you’d wear a hood over your face before you come on my ’link screen.”
She clicked off, satisfied.
“You guys sure are entertaining,” Peabody commented. “After shift, I’m going to go home, get all the stuff together, then head uptown to your place. I can’t wait to see the rocker and get it decked out for tomorrow.”
“Whoopee.”
“You know she’ll love it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, she will.”
“She’ll be like the Fertility Queen or something. Big kick for her.”
“Queen Mavis.” Amused, Eve slipped through a yellow light. “She ought to have a…” She wiggled her fingers over her head.
“A crown! Sure.”
“No, not a crown, too big and formal. The other deal. The whatsit. Tiara.”
“Perfect! Man, that’s mag. See?” She poked Eve’s arm. “You can do this.”
“Looks like I’m doing it.”
Eve took it all back to Central with her—the statements, impressions, instincts. There, she lined them up, wrote the reports, stewed over them. At her board, she began to tack up keywords beside photos, names, connecting arrows.
“You need a bigger board.” Roarke stepped inside, a topcoat slung over his arm.
“I keep hearing that.”
“God knows you need a bigger office.”
“Works okay for me. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for a ride home. A little business upstairs,” he continued when she only frowned at him. And when her frown deepened, he stepped over, flicked a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “It’s done, and everyone’s as satisfied as possible.”
“It sucks.”
“As life so often does. This makes sense to you, I imagine.” He tossed his coat idly over the back of her desk chair before circling the board. “Ah, yes. I see. Links within links. For such a big world there are so many interesting and tight little patterns, aren’t there?”
“What did Whitney say?”
“Officially or unofficially?” Roarke asked as he continued to study her board.
“I know what he said officially.”
“Unofficially then. He said it was all bullshit. That’s a direct quote.” He shifted his gaze to her face, shook his head. “And that’s enough for you, I see. You don’t need him to look you in the eye and tell you he trusts and respects you. To apologize on a personal level.”
“No.”
He moved over, closed the door. “Bullshit it may be, but it’s the sort of thing that keeps you in this broomstick of an office instead of in a captain’s seat.”
“I want to be in the office. Let’s not murk this up with that kind of crap. I’m doing exactly what I want to do, and what I’m good at doing.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t want the bars, Eve.”
“I thought I did.” She pushed a hand through her hair as she shifted her mental gears. “I wouldn’t turn them down if they held them out to me—on my terms. Listen, you’ve got the Irish thing going. Fate, destiny, woo-woo.”
His lips twitched. “You’re the one who exorcised a ghost recently.”
“I cleared a case,” she corrected. “And what I mean is sometimes things are just meant. I’m meant to be in the office, doing this work. I believe that.”
“All right.” The office was so small he had to do little more than reach out to take her arms, to run his hands up and down them. “I’ll add that your commander said to relay to you that he had every confidence you’d close this case in a timely manner.”
“Okay.”
“Should I find myself alternate transportation, or are you heading home soon?”
“I can pick this up there. Give me ten. Hey,” she said when he opened the door. “Maybe you should buy me dinner.”
He smiled. “Maybe I should.”
“But we have to make a stop first. I need a tiara.”
“To go with your scepter?”
“Not for me. Jeez. Mavis. Thing tomorrow. It’s a theme or something. Is a scepter one of those…” She fisted her hand, pumped it up and down in a way that made his eyebrows shoot up as he grinned.
“God, gutter-brain.” But she laughed, shifted her arm well out to the side of her body. “You know, like a staff deal?”
“I believe so.”
“We should find one of those, too. So maybe you could figure out a costume store or something where we can get them on the way to dinner.”
It was remarkably simple to find a rhinestone tiara and plastic scepter, especially when he was shopping with a woman who made a habit of grabbing the first thing that came close to the mark and making an escape.
And since he knew his woman, for the meal he chose Italian in a crowded little trattoria where the atmosphere was simple and the food stupendous. By the time she’d dug into spaghetti and meatballs and hadn’t brought up the case, he let it lie.
“You missed lunch.”
She spun pasta around her fork. “Probably, but I had a donut in there. And I think I forgot to inform you that Peabody and McNab are bunking at our place tonight.”
“Inform me?”
“Summerset. He got pissy because I forgot about a delivery coming in today. Anyway, Peabody wants to decorate for the shower—which I don’t get. You’re getting a party, presents, food. What more do you need?”
“I suppose we’ll find out. That’s handy though. I can pluck McNab up tomorrow, and we’ll go do something manly.”
“Go? Leave?” Absolute panic rushed into her face. “You’re not going to stay for the thing?”
He took a bite of manicotti. “There’s nothing you could do, say, nothing you could possibly offer—including deviant sexual favors—that would induce me to be within a hundred yards of that baby shower.”
“Crap.” She forked up a nice chunk of meatball. “Not even if I combined chocolate sauce with the outfit?”
“Not even.”
“There could be whipped cream. And choreography.”
“An excellent bribe, I grant you, especially for a desperate woman. But no. I’ve already made arrangements to escape with Leonardo. We’ll just add McNab to our happy little troupe.”
“But what if something goes wrong?” She grabbed his arm. “Like the caterer goes whacko, because sometimes they do. Or we lose one of the pregnant women in the house.”
He merely picked up his wine with his free hand.
“Okay, okay.” She rolled her eyes. “I can handle it. But it stinks, if you ask me, really stinks, that you get to go out somewhere drinking beer while I’m stuck at Baby Central. Just because you have a penis.”
“We’ll think fondly of you over beer, me and my penis.”
She ate a litt
le more, then smiled slowly. “You’ve still got to be in the birthing room when she pushes it out.”
“Shut up, Eve.”
“Your penis won’t save you then, pal.”
He picked up a breadstick, broke it in half to offer her a share. “And are you playing games tomorrow? Will there be prizes?”
She winced at his perfect delivery of the perfect stinger. “Okay, I’ll shut up. Want to talk about murder?”
“Please.”
She brought him up to date as they finished the meal and lingered over cappuccino.
“So Cavendish and his admin struck you wrong.”
“Vibes all over the place. Something off there, and the admin pulls his strings.”
“I don’t know him, though I have met the other players in today’s cast.”
“I’ve got the basics on him. Forty-six, trust-fund baby. Likes squash—the game, not necessarily the food. Two marriages, ditched the first wife eight years ago. One child, female, age twelve. Mother has custody, and moved to Paris. Married wife number two as soon as the divorce was final. She’s twenty-nine. Former model. My take there is he went from starter wife to trophy wife and fools around with the admin on the side.”
She narrowed her eyes as she sipped the frothy coffee. “And she wears leather, high-heeled boots, and makes him bark like a dog when they do it.”
“Really?” Amused, Roarke sat back. “And you know this because?”
“Because, of the two of them, she’s the one with the balls. He pushes paper, attends events, takes meetings, and does what he’s told.”
“And did someone tell him to kill Copperfield and Byson?”
“Maybe, and wouldn’t that be tidy?” She frowned over it. “But I’m leaning away from that. The killer was too level-headed, too confident. Cavendish broke a sweat just talking to me. But he knows something, and one of the things he knows is who did it.”
“So you’ll sweat him a bit more.”
“I can do that. I can talk to him again, poke at him a little. But I don’t have enough to charge him with anything and make him flip. I need more. A direct line. I have to find more because I’m betting he was just where he said he was on the night of the murders. Home in bed, and with the covers over his head because he knew what was going on.”