Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(40)

“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.”