Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(39)

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.”

“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.”