“Good.” McNab might have been Peabody’s main man, but that didn’t affect his work.
“They talked for just over three minutes, and she told him to pour her a big glass of wine, how maybe he’d get lucky. He joked back, no, maybe she’d get lucky. It makes it sadder. It just does.”
“Sad isn’t part of the equation right now,” Eve said as they walked out of the elevator and into the garage. “The transmission backs up the husband’s story, and also gives a picture of their relationship. Add that, the initial interview, his demeanor, their financials, and he’s looking clear. Unless we find he had a sidepiece, he’s got no clear motive for having her done.”
She got behind the wheel. “Harpo came through. We’re going to need to run Maxima Cargos, Mini Zips and 4X Land Cruisers, with Blue Steel interior carpet. Either ’59 or ’60.”
“That’s a good break.”
“It’s a break anyway. The blood on the tarp and some trace on the fibers are the vic’s. So we’ve confirmed she was grabbed, tossed in a vehicle, transported, taken inside, killed. Coat, hat, gloves, scarf, jewelry taken, dumped outside.”
“I’ll start a run, see if any of the names we’ve got has a vehicle that matches.”
“Let’s find out what work she was bringing home, and see if we can figure out why.”
Knowing her job, Peabody pulled out her PPC as Eve zipped out of the garage. First things, first.
“I’ve got Sylvester Gibbons as her immediate supervisor. If I’m figuring this right, she works in a division that does independent audits. Businesses, corporations, trust funds.”
“Audits. That’s when they’re looking for something hinky.”
“I guess. Or just making sure everything’s right.”
“Something hinky,” Eve repeated. “One way to screw up an audit or at least delay it—kill the auditor.”
“That’s pretty harsh and extreme. And if numbers are hinky, it’s going to come out anyway, right?”
“Maybe they need time to fix it. You snatch the auditor, find out what she knows, what she’s put on record, who she’s talked to. Get the information, kill her, set it up as a mugging. Now you’ve got some time to fix the numbers, or if you’ve been dipping into the till, put the money back. If it’d gone smooth, everybody thinks Marta had some really bad luck. They don’t start poking around in her work straight off. We could be ahead of them. Contact Judge Yung.”
“Now?”
“Preemptive strike. No money guy’s going to want to hand over a client’s documents to the cops. We need a warrant, one that covers everything the vic’s worked on in the past month. Yung will clear the way for that, save us time.”
“It’s like having a judge on tap. I didn’t mean that in the bribery, judge-in-the-pocket kind of way.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t give her any more information than necessary. We want to be thorough, cover all bases. You know the drill.”
“I’ve never drilled a judge before. And that still comes off shady. Or uncomfortably sexual.”
“Just get the warrant, Peabody.”
Eve thought about something else she had on tap. She happened to be married to a numbers geek. Money was his language, and he was seriously fluent.
She hunted for parking, and considered it her lucky day when she found a spot curbside only a block and a half from the victim’s office building.
“The judge says she’ll make the warrant happen,” Peabody reported, “but it may take a little time. Sensitive material, privacy issues. If we can show reasonable evidence the vic was killed due to her work, it’ll slide right through.”
“We might show evidence if we looked at the work.” But she’d figured as much. At least the wheels were already grinding.
The sky began to spit an ugly, icy sleet, causing other pedestrians to quicken their pace. In seconds, an enterprising street vendor hauled out a cart, popped it open to reveal a supply of umbrellas for about triple their usual rate.
In seconds more, he was mobbed.
“I wouldn’t mind one of those,” Peabody murmured.
“Toughen up.”
“Why doesn’t it just snow? At least snow’s pretty.”
“Until it’s in grimy black mounds against the curb.” Shoving her hands in her pockets for warmth, Eve quick-stepped the last half block. She shoved through the lobby doors, shook her head like a dog, and shot out little drops of cold.
She badged the man at the security podium. “Brewer, Kyle, and Martini.”
“Fifth floor. Is this about Ms. Dickenson? I heard the media report before I came on.”
“Yeah, it’s about Ms. Dickenson.”
“It’s true then.” His lips tightened as he shook his head. “You gotta hope it’s a mistake, you know? She’s a nice woman, always says hi when she comes in.”
“You weren’t on last night?”
“Off at four-thirty. She logged out at ten-oh-eight. I checked the log when I came in, because of the report.”
“Did she work late routinely?”
“I wouldn’t say routinely, but sure, sometimes. All of them do. Tax season?” He waved a hand in a forget about it gesture. “They might as well live here.”
“Has anybody come in, asking about her?”
“Not to me. I mean she gets people, clients, and whatever who come in asking for her and the firm. They have to sign in.”
“Any problem showing us the log for the last week or so?”
“I don’t see why it’d be a problem.”
“How about making a copy for our files.”
Now he shifted, foot-to-foot. “I’d like to clear that one with my boss. If you’re going up, you could stop back on the way out. I think he’ll be okay with it, considering.”
“Good enough. Thanks.”
“She was a nice lady,” he said again. “Met her husband and kids, too. They came in to pick her up now and then. Nice family. It’s a damn shame, is what. A damn shame. First bank of elevators on the right. I’ll talk to my boss.”
“Thanks again. Check in with Uniform Carmichael,” she told Peabody. “See if he’s got anything.”
“If the security guy knows, the office knows,” Peabody pointed out.
“Yeah, kills the element of surprise.”
“And makes it just a little less awful.”
Not so much, Eve thought when the elevator doors opened. She heard someone weeping, the sound muffled behind a closed door. The two people—one man, one woman—behind the reception desk stood, holding each other.
No one sat in the dignified—and boring—cream and brown waiting area.
The woman eased away, made an obvious effort to compose herself. “I’m very sorry, all appointments are canceled for today. We’ve had a death in the family.”
“I’m aware.” Eve took out her badge.
“You’re here about Marta.”
“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody. We’re investigating her death. We need to speak with Sylvester Gibbons.”
“Of course. Yes.” She pulled some tissues out of a holder. “Marcus?”
“I’ll get him, right away.” The man dashed off.
“Would you like to sit down? Or coffee? I mean would you like some coffee?”
“We’re good. How well did you know Ms. Dickenson?”
“Very well. I think very well.” She dabbed at her eyes. “We—we took an exercise class together, twice a week. And we talked every day, I mean every workday. I can’t believe this happened! She’s careful, and it’s a good area. She wouldn’t have fought or argued with a mugger.” Tears welled and overflowed again. “They didn’t have to hurt her.”
“Has anyone been in asking about her?”
“No.”
“Have there been any problems between her and someone in the office, someone in the firm
?”
“No. I’d know, you hear everything on the desk. This is a good company. We get along.”
Nobody got along all the time, but Eve let it slide. “How about a client, any trouble, complaints?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“People don’t like being audited. Has anyone caused any trouble about that, about the work she did?”
“Legal handles that sort of thing. I don’t understand. She was mugged, so—”
“It’s routine,” Eve said. “We need to be thorough.”
“Of course. Of course. I’m sorry. I’m so upset.” She choked on the words as she dug out fresh tissues. “We got to be pretty good friends with the class we took.”
“Did she talk about her work with you, about the audits?”
“Marta wouldn’t gossip about an audit. It’s unprofessional. And if she’d gossiped, it probably would’ve been with me. You get, well, loose, when you’re sweating together. And sometimes we’d go have a drink after—a reward. We talked about our kids, and clothes, and that sort of thing. Men—husbands.” She smiled weakly. “Neither of us wanted to talk about work when we were out of the office.”
“Okay.”
“I—oh, Sly!” She said the syllable on a smothered wail, then dropped down in her chair, covered her face with her hands.
“Nat.” A stringy man with flyway blond hair and watery blue eyes stepped around the reception desk, patted the woman on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go home?”
“I want to stay, to help. We couldn’t reach everyone who has an appointment. I just need—a few minutes.” She rose, dashed off.
“It’s going to take longer than minutes.” He passed a weary hand over his face, turned to Eve and Peabody. “Lieutenant Dallas?”
“Mr. Gibbons?”
“Yes. Ah, we’re not ourselves this morning. Marta—” He shook his head. “We should go back to my office.” His movements ungainly, as if he couldn’t quite deal with the length of his limbs, he led the way through a cubical area—more tears, more watery eyes—and down a short hall where office doors stayed closed.
“Marta’s office . . .” He stopped, stared at the closed door. “Do you need to see?”
“We will, yes. I’d like to talk to you first. Is the door secured?”
“She would have locked it when she left, that’s policy. I unlocked it when I came in, after I heard . . . Just to see if there was anything . . . Honestly, I don’t know why. I locked it again.”
They passed a break area where a few people sat speaking in muted voices, and to the end of the corridor.
Gibbons’s office took a corner, as supervisors’ often did. It struck Eve as minimalist, efficient, and scarily organized. His desk held two comps, two touch screens, several folders neatly stacked, a forest of lethally sharpened pencils in several hard colors, and a triple picture frame holding snapshots of a plump, smiling woman, a grinning young boy, and a very ugly dog.
“Please sit down. I—coffee. I’ll get you coffee.”
“It’s all right. We’re fine.”
“It’s no trouble. I was getting coffee,” he said vaguely. “I was in the break room, trying to . . . comfort, I guess. We’re not a large department, and we’re part of a, well, tightly knit firm. Everyone here knows each other, has interacted, you could say. We—we—we have a company softball team, and we celebrate birthdays in the break room. Marta had a birthday last month. We had cake. Oh my God. It’s my fault. This is all my fault.”
“How is that?”
“I asked her to put in some overtime. I asked her to work late. We’ve been shorthanded this week, with two of our auditors at a convention. They were due back, but there was an accident—a car accident. One has a broken leg, and the other’s in a coma. Was, I mean. I just got word he came out of it, but they’ve put him under again for some reason. There’s no brain damage, but he has broken ribs and needs more tests and . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That’s not why you’re here.”
“When did you ask Marta to work late?”
“Just yesterday. Yesterday morning when I talked to Jim, the one with the broken leg. They won’t be able to travel back. They’re in Vegas, at a convention. I told you that. Sorry. They won’t be able to come back to work for several days, at least, and we had audits pending. I asked Marta to pick up the slack. I worked until eight myself, but then I took the rest home. Marta was still here. She said thanks for dinner, Sly. I ordered us some food about six. For myself, Marta, and Lorraine.”
“Lorraine?”
“Lorraine Wilkie. She and Marta both worked late. Lorraine and I left at the same time, but I’d given Marta the bulk of the work. She’s the best we have. She’s the best. I didn’t know she’d stay so late. I should’ve told her to leave when I did. I should’ve gotten her into a cab. If I had, she’d be all right.”
“What was she working on?”
“Several things.”
He took out his pocket ’link when it signaled, glanced at the readout, hit ignore.
“I’m sorry, that can wait. Marta was finishing up an audit of her own, had just begun another. And I gave her three more—one assigned to Jim, and the others to Chaz. And I asked her to look over some work done by a trainee.”
“Would Marta have told anyone about these assignments—details, I mean—names?”
“No. That information would be very confidential.”
“We’re going to need to see her work. I’ll need you to give me access to her files.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.” He lifted his hands, palms up, like a man offering a plea. “I’d do anything to help. But I can’t give you confidential material. I don’t understand.”
“Mr. Gibbons, we have reason to believe Marta wasn’t the victim of a random mugging, but was abducted when she left the office, taken to another location where she was killed. Her briefcase was taken. That would have contained at least some of her work, some of her files.”
As his hands lowered, he simply stared. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t understand you.”
“We have reason to believe Marta Dickenson was a specific target, and that she may have been killed due to her work.”
He sat down heavily. “They said—on the report—it was a mugging.”
“And I hope they’ll keep saying that for the time being. I’m telling you it wasn’t, and I’m telling you to keep that confidential. Who knew she was working late last night?”
“I . . . I did; Lorraine; Josie, Marta’s assistant; Lorraine’s assistant. My admin . . .” Head slightly bowed, he pushed his hands repeatedly through his thin hair. “God. My God. Anyone might’ve known. It wasn’t a secret.”
“Cleaning crew, maintenance, security?”
“Yes, well, the crew came in to clean while we were working. And security requires logging in and out. I don’t understand,” he repeated.
“Just understand we need to see what she was working on.”
“I—I—I need to talk to Legal. If I could, I swear to you, I’d give you everything, anything. She was my friend. You think someone killed her because of an audit?”
“It’s a theory.”
“I don’t see how this can be.” He began to rub his fingers across his brow, back and forth, back and forth.
“Talk to your lawyer. Tell him a warrant’s in the works. We’ll get it. Judge Yung will see to it.”
“I hope she will, and quickly.” He pushed to his feet. “I think you must be wrong, but if there’s any chance—any—I want you to have what you need. She was my friend,” he repeated. “And I was responsible for her here, in this workplace. I don’t know how I can ever tell Denzel . . . It’s my fault, any way it happened. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not,” Eve said flatly, because she thought he needed it. “It’s the fault
of the person who killed her.”
GIBBONS GAVE EVE ACCESS TO MARTA’S OFFICE, then, as requested, went to find the assistant.
Though smaller than her supervisor’s, Marta’s office held the same level of organization, efficiency. She’d brought her own touches, Eve mused—the family photos, a lopsided pen/pencil holder that had to be the work of a child, or a very untalented adult. Some sort of leafy green plant stood lushly in the window.
Eve noticed the sticky note stuck to the front of a mini-AutoChef.
“Five pounds.”
“To remind herself she wants to lose it before she programs something fattening. You’ve never had to worry about your weight,” Peabody added. “When you do, you use all kinds of tricks and incentives.”
“She liked her work, according to every statement. But this wasn’t a second home, the way some offices are. She made it comfortable, but she doesn’t have a lot of personal stuff. The photos, the pencil holder, not much else.”
She had more in her own, smaller space at Central, Eve realized. Little things—the paperweight mostly to give her something to pick up, fiddle with; the sun catcher in her tiny window, just because she liked it there; the silly talking gun Peabody had given her, because it made her laugh.
She’d had a plant once, but since she’d nearly killed it with neglect, she’d passed that off.
Eve turned to the desk ’link, ordered a replay of the day before.
Inter-office stuff, nothing that popped. A couple communications with clients, which she noted down, another with Legal on a thorny question Eve didn’t even understand, one to the nanny to tell her she’d be late, and could she stay and help Denzel with dinner for the kids, then the final two with her husband.
As she shut it off, she glanced up, saw the pale, tear-ravaged face of the woman in the doorway.
“I heard her voice. I thought . . . When I heard her voice.”
“Josie Oslo?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m Josie. I’m Marta’s assistant.”