Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(73)

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s pretty simple. Carlee MacKensie. But I can refresh you. You both spent some time at Inner Peace.”

Anger burned low and sharp in her eyes, but her voice remained coldly controlled. “My visit to Inner Peace is personal.”

“Nothing stays personal with murder. Did you meet Carlee MacKensie there?”

“As the conditions of Inner Peace are headlined by confidentiality, we used only first names while in residence. I recall no one there named Carlee.”

“I’ve got a photo,” Peabody said helpfully, and took one out.

Lydia glanced at it, then away. “I don’t recognize her.”

“You know what’s another coincidence?” Eve kept her eyes on Su’s face. “MacKensie went to Yale, too. Just like you. Just like Senator Mira, like Jonas Wymann. School ties, insomnia, and Inner Peace. Yeah, that’s a lot of . . . what’s the word, Peabody?”

“Maybe happenstance.”

“Hmm. Not the word I had in mind, but we can go with it. Happenstance.”

Lydia pulled back, folded her hands in her lap again, palm to palm. “I suppose it’s a necessary part of your job to be suspicious. How unfortunate for you.”

“Unfortunate? Nah. It’s what gets me going in the morning.” Eve smiled then, deliberately predatory. “It’s more unfortunate for people who think they can get away with murder.”

“I can only tell you Charity and I spent the day together, as described. Now. Is there any other way I can help?”

“No, that ought to do it.” Eve rose. “Thanks for your time.”

She paused at the door. “Oh, you can let your good friend know we’ll be following up with her, too. Suspicions not only get me going in the morning, they keep me going all day long.”

They went out to the elevator. Eve glanced back down the long, elegant hallway. “She’s lying, right down the line.”

“I gotta say, oh yeah on that. You got under her skin and more than once. She nearly flubbed it when you brought up MacKensie. She absolutely recognized her, and never saw it coming.”

“No question about it. Interesting she said Edward Mira preyed on Charity and women like her. Nonjudgmental, my ass,” she said as they stepped into the elevator. “That one was part judge, jury, and executioner. And she took a lot of pride in it. We’re going to start peeling the layers off.”





14


Knowing Su was a liar—and by association Downing and MacKensie were liars—didn’t prove them killers.

But she damn well would prove it.

Part of that process would be talking to the other men who might be part of this brotherhood.

The shortest route took her to Easterday’s townhome. What had once been two three-story row houses had been converted into one expansive home on Park Avenue.

A woman in a simple black suit with a wide, homey face answered the door.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We’d like to speak with Mr. Easterday.”

“Mr. Easterday isn’t receiving today.”

“We’re not looking for a reception. Just tell him the cops are here.”

“You can wait in the foyer—it’s very cold. I’ll ask Mr. Easterday if he’ll see you.”

White marble floors and heavy dark wood gave the generous foyer what Eve thought of as in-your-face dignity. She glanced up at the many-tiered chandelier, and thought that’s where they’d hang him if they got the chance.

Belatedly she remembered the cap, pulled it off, finger-combing her hair as she stuffed it in her pocket.

Seconds later a woman started down the long sweep of stairs.

She wore a black suit, but unlike the first there was nothing simple in this one. It fit the svelte body in a way designed to show off lines and curves, and it shimmered subtly in the crystal rain of the chandelier.

The deep blond hair had been twisted back into a knot at the nape of a long neck, leaving the face unframed. Easterday’s wife might have hit the half-century mark, Eve thought, but she knew how to turn back the clock.

“Lieutenant, Detective, I’m Petra Easterday.” She extended a slim hand with a glinting diamond to Eve, then Peabody. “My husband is indisposed. He learned of a close friend’s death this morning.”

“That’s why we’re here. That would be his second close friend in the last two days.”

“Yes, and Marshall is simply shattered. In fact, I was just upstairs trying to convince him to take a soother and lie down.”

Worry naked on her face, Petra glanced toward the stairs. “I’m happy to do anything I can to help you, but my husband simply can’t be disturbed at this time.” Even as she spoke, they heard footsteps descending. Petra sighed. “Oh, Marshall, you need to rest.”

“Petra, the police are only doing their job.”

He didn’t look shattered, Eve mused, but he certainly looked dented. Dark circles under his eyes, lines of strain around his mouth showed a man carrying grief.

While a tall man, he seemed to stoop as if his shoulders carried far too heavy a weight.

He also wore a black suit, with a black mourning band, and a quiet blue tie in a Double Windsor.

“Petra, dear, I could use some coffee.”