Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(57)

Good afternoon, Lieutenant Dallas. Your priority parking is Level One, Slot Two. Please turn right, proceed thirty-two feet.

“VIP,” Peabody said, executing a little shoulder bump.

Eve said nothing, simply drove into the slot. “What floor for the lawyer?” Eve asked.

“Wythe, Wythe, and Hudd have the entire eighteenth floor.”

Eve headed for the closest elevator. Before she could call for it, she noted the quick scan. This security comp spoke silkily.

Welcome, Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. You are cleared for all levels in express mode.

The doors opened, as did Peabody’s mouth until Eve shot a finger at her.

Peabody followed Eve into the elevator, mouthing VIP and doing the quick shoulder bump behind her partner’s back.

“Eighteen,” Eve ordered, and the elevator immediately began its smooth, rapid rise.

Law offices of Wythe, Wythe, and Hudd, the elevator announced, and seconds later, the doors opened.

A single female, with hair piled high and white like the snow outside, manned a long counter of all-business black. There were two empty stools flanking her, along with slick data and communication centers.

A standard, upscale waiting area spread on one side of the room. The other side held the surprising choice of potted dwarf trees, fruiting with little oranges and lemons, around a pair of black stone benches.

“Good afternoon.” The woman offered a quick, professional smile. “The traffic must be horrendous.”

“It isn’t good.” Eve laid her badge on the counter. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, to see Randall Wythe.”

“Yes, Detective Peabody arranged for an appointment. Just let me check with Mr. Wythe’s office.”

She tapped her earpiece. “Yes, Carson, the police officers are here for Mr. Wythe. Of course.” She tapped it again. “Mr. Wythe should be available shortly. His administrative assistant will come out to escort you back if you’d like to take a seat.”

“Okay. Where’s everybody else?” Eve gestured to the empty stools.

“We sent some of the staff home. This storm’s supposed to be a bruiser.”

“But you’re sticking it out.”

“I grew up in Wisconsin,” the woman said with an easy smile.

“I guess you see pretty much everyone who comes in. Have you met Daphne Strazza?”

The woman’s smile faded. “I haven’t, no. It’s terrible what happened. I hope she’s going to be all right.”

“She’s improving. You’ve met Dr. Strazza?”

“Yes, I have. He’s been a client for a very long time. Was, I should say.”

“Can you remember the last time he was in?”

“Not offhand, no. Some time ago. He and Mr. Wythe often meet at the club rather than here. Here’s Carson.”

Carson—skinny, long-necked, with short brown hair meticulously side parted—stepped through a wide doorway.

“Lieutenant, Detective, I’ll take you back to Mr. Wythe’s office. Ms. Midderman, Mr. Wythe said to tell you to switch to auto on the desk anytime you want to leave today.”

“Thank you, Carson, I’m fine for now.”

They followed Carson’s long, somewhat gawky strides down a wide corridor of offices, hushed as a church, past a meeting room or law library where a couple of young staffers huddled over laptops and talked in reverent whispers.

They turned beyond a break room, complete with kitchen and Vending, and continued down to glossy wood doors.

Carson knocked, waited for a quick buzz before pushing the pocket doors open.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, Mr. Wythe.”

“Yes, yes. Carson, get us some lattes, then cancel anything I have for the rest of the day. I’m damn well going home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Carson went through a side doorway. Wythe leaned back in the big leather chair behind his massive desk, sizing up his visitors.





12

He had a scholar’s mane of shining silver hair around a ruddy, lived-in face with sharp, hard blue eyes and a beak of a nose. He wore his lawyerly suit—deep, dark blue with gray chalk stripes—with a precisely knotted red tie and the corner of a red handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket.

“I knew Anthony for more than twenty-five years,” he said in a voice that seemed to hover on the edge of a boom. “I was just trying to calculate, and I believe I actually liked him about ten days out of that time. That said, I’m appalled by what happened to him, and to his wife.”

Wythe gestured, a flick of his hand, to the visitors’ chairs—leather, the color of port—facing his desk. “You might wonder at a lawyer volunteering that sort of information, but I knew him for nearly a third of my life, have no motive, and was in Miami—a friendly, annual golf tournament—from Thursday until Sunday evening. It’s easy for you to verify.”

“We will, if we find it applicable.”

Carson stepped back in with a tray holding three oversized cups. He served them competently, even as he sent sidelong glances toward the snow falling outside the window wall.

“Now cancel those appointments, Carson, and go home. Then you can cast worried glances out your apartment window instead of out of mine.”