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

“When you put it that way.”

“I need to think about it. I need decent coffee and thinking time because the only one I’m pretty damn sure didn’t do it is the bitch with the snotty lawyer. That just pisses me off.”

“It’d be nice if she did it.”

“It’d be nice if geese shat out golden eggs, too. But it’s all just goose crap.”





8


Eve found Homicide full of cops and noise, and the lingering scent of someone’s veggie hash—extra onions. Reineke and Jenkinson huddled together at Jenkinson’s desk, Carmichael worked her ’link, Santiago scowled at his comp screen while Baxter strolled out from the break room with a jumbo mug of coffee.

Trueheart—she’d have to get used to seeing him out of uniform—earnestly worked his comp.

“Is there no crime on the streets?” she wondered.

“Hey, LT.” Reineke angled toward her. “We got one in Interview A. Letting him stew awhile. Asshole cut up his boss on the loading dock. Told the arresting officer the guy fell on his knife. Three times.”

“That’s a relief. I was worried we’d all be looking for new jobs. Peabody, run the hateful bitch’s husband, verify alibis.”

Santiago answered his desk ’link, held up a finger. “Yeah, yeah. Got it. On the way. We caught one,” he called to Carmichael. “Guy took flight out a window on the fourteenth floor on Sixth, went splat on a parked mini. And we remain gainfully employed.”

“Earn your pay,” Eve said, and started for her office. Baxter caught up with her just outside her door.

“We don’t have anything hot,” he began, “so I pulled a cold case, gave Trueheart the lead.”

Since she’d done the same with Peabody when her partner’s badge was new and sparkly, Eve nodded. “Good way to give him more experience, and maybe close a case.”

“He’s working it hard. Now I’ve got to school him in detective wardrobe.”

Eve looked over at Trueheart in his dark gray jacket, quiet blue tie. “He looks okay.”

Sort of clean and earnest, she thought. Like he was on his way to church.

Hmmm.

Baxter only shook his head. “I’ll work on it. We get anywhere on the cold one, I’ll let you know.”

Eve went in, hit the coffee, then updated her board and book, wrote up her notes. She copied Mira, unofficially.

After entering the data, she ran probabilities on each woman she’d questioned. As she suspected, the computer liked the ones without alibis.

“That’s the easy way,” she muttered and, with another cup of coffee, put her boots on her desk, sat, and studied.

Allyson Byson—off in the tropics. Potentially could have hired someone to take care of Edward Mira, but it just didn’t ring true. The kill was vicious and personal.

She made an additional note to verify Byson’s travel, any possible circling back to do the murder.

But there, she and the computer agreed. Dead low probability.

Carlee MacKensie. Jittery, came off pliable, harmless, on the weak side. No alibi, so the comp liked her. And here, Eve didn’t altogether disagree.

“Something a little off there, Carlee. Something not quite right. Too wide-eyed. I don’t think we got the full story from you. I don’t think you rang that truth bell.”

On to Lauren Canford. Total bitch, no two ways about that one. And Eve could see the woman in a violent outburst. She could see her planning a murder with care and cunning.

But . . . Eve didn’t sense passion. She didn’t sense the sort of attachment to or anger with the victim it took to torture and kill.

More the type to backbite—there was an expression that made sense. The type to go behind an enemy’s back and smear reps, plant gossip seeds.

Asha Coppola. Came off honest—if you overlooked the adultery. But largely honest. Screwed up, owned it, working to fix it. It played all the way through for Eve.

Then Charity Downing. Something there, Eve thought again. Something not quite what it seems. Something . . .

“Cagey,” Eve said out loud, studying the face on her board over the rim of her mug. “That’s what I got from you, Charity. You’re cagey. Your alibi’s going to hold up, too, and when it does, I’m inclined to take a look at your day-off pal.

“Lydia Su. Friends lie for friends. We’ll take a look because there was a lie in there somewhere. Some truth, but a lie buried in it.”

She set her mug aside, rearranged the board in her preference.

Charity Downing

Carlee MacKensie

Asha Coppola (maybe her husband wasn’t working on forgiving)

Lauren Canford

She’d have a ’link interview with Allyson Byson, but suspected that name would replace Canford’s at the bottom of her list.

Artist, freelance writer, nonprofit marketing manager, lobbyist, society type.

“Didn’t have a type, did you, Edward? It was more looks and availability. And age. Average age of this group is—shit, math. I don’t know . . . early thirties. And that’s just this group. Bound to be more. What if—”

“Sorry, Dallas.” Peabody rapped knuckles on the doorjamb. “Edward Mira—that’s junior—and Gwendolyn Mira Sykes are here. They want to talk to you—us.”