Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(20)

She kept her moves slow just in case one of them had a jumpy stunner finger, took out her badge.

The man she showed it to took it, ran it with a pocket scanner. “Lieutenant,” he said, handing it back. “We’ll need to see yours, too,” he added to Peabody.

Once satisfied, he nodded and his companion stepped away, murmured into a lapel mic.

“You’re clear. Take the east bank of elevators to thirty. I’ll alert them. Otherwise, you’ll be stopped when you get off. They have secondary security on thirty.”

“Appreciate it.”

They crossed the lobby, joined a small, chatty group getting on the elevator. She smelled coffee in someone’s go-cup, so sweet it nearly made her teeth ache, and someone else’s overly floral perfume. Two women chirped like mynah birds about hitting the inventory sales downtown on their lunch break, while some guy in a Russian cossack hat droned on into his pocket ’link about a nine o’clock staff meeting.

Eve decided if she was forced to always work in an office, she’d just jump out the nearest window and be done with it.

The mynah birds got off on twenty. Coffee-flavored sugar on twenty-three. Drenched in flowers glided off on spike-heeled boots and a swish of black coat on twenty-seven.

They got off on thirty with the droner.

Reception centered around an S-shaped counter backed by a floor-to-ceiling logo in sober and serious block letters. The waiting area faced the wide window, tinted to cut the glare. Black gel sofas ranged alongside a trio of gold scoop chairs with controls in their wide backs for music, refreshment, privacy settings, and communication. A life-size portrait of Edward Mira peered down righteously from the far wall.

A woman manned the first wide curve of the counter. She wore a black suit with thin silver piping and triangular shoulders sharp enough to slice bread. She worked busily at a muscular computer, but paused to flash a welcoming smile.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. Security notified me of your arrival. How can I help you today?”

“We need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”

“Of what?”

Eve pointed at the enormous logo. “Of this.”

“I’m afraid Senator Mira isn’t in. If you’d tell me the nature of your visit, I should be able to direct you to the appropriate party.”

“The second in command.”

The faintest flicker of annoyance ran through the polite mask. “Perhaps Ms. MacDonald or Mr. Book could assist you. If you’d care to take a seat, I’ll see if either are available.”

“They’ll want to be.” Rather than moving to the waiting area, Eve simply stood where she was.

“One moment.”

The woman tapped a control on the arm of her chair. It glided along the S, stopped at the far curve. She tapped her earpiece, turned one of her lethally clad shoulders.

“It feels like nobody here knows the founder’s missing.”

Eve glanced toward the portrait. “The detective on the missing angle’s started the ball rolling. I’d say it hasn’t rolled this far yet.”

“But wouldn’t his wife—”

“You had to be there,” Eve said as the receptionist glided back.

“Ms. MacDonald will see you. If you’ll just take the elevator to three-one, someone will escort you to her office.”

Eve stepped in, requested the floor. Then shook her head when Peabody pulled out her PPC. “I ran the top dogs last night. MacDonald, Tressa, forty-three. Divorce times two. One offspring, male. Law degree, Harvard with a side of poli-sci. Clerked for Judge Mira back in the day, served as his chief of staff during the senator years.”

“That’s a lot without notes.”

“I figure the senator did her along the way, and she deserves a close look.”

If the entrance to thirty had been slickly professional, the thirty-first floor hit palatial.

Yeah, Eve thought, this was top-dog territory with its thick red rugs over white marble. Three people worked at the single curve of red counter, and lush potted trees flanked the window wall. Seating ran to slate-gray leather arranged in conversational groupings. Currently the gigantic wall screen split to show six of the twenty-four/seven media broadcasts.

It wouldn’t be long, Eve thought, before those broadcasts included stories on former Senator Mira—alive or dead.

As they started for the counter, a beefy man with a neck thick as a boar’s came through double, frosted doors.

He looked like a brawler wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. I’m Aiden Bannion, Ms. MacDonald’s admin. I’ll take you to her office.”

She’d never seen anyone who looked less like an admin, but followed him through the doors and into an open office area where workstations were separated by willpower rather than structure.

She smelled coffee and someone’s take-out breakfast while voices clashed, ’links jangled, keyboards clattered.

If you took away the fancy floors and colors, the fashionable wardrobe and footwear, it wasn’t much different from her own bullpen.

They wound through, past offices with doors firmly closed, and to the corner office with the double doors signaling its rank.

As these were open, he stepped straight in.

“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”