Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(72)

Eve stepped off on twenty-two. She walked down the wide hallway carpeted in muted silver, past glossy black doors to 2204. She pressed the bell with one hand, held up her badge with the other.

The minute Lydia Su opened the door, she thought: You’re in this.

It was only a flicker, there then gone, an angry awareness that lit the long, searing brown eyes before Lydia offered a polite if puzzled smile.

“Good morning. Is this about Senator Mira’s murder? I spoke with a detective yesterday.”

“This is a follow-up. You spoke with Detective Peabody,” Eve added, gesturing to her partner.

“Oh, yes. Well, please come in. I’m a little befuddled. I was sleeping. I had to work quite late.”

“Sorry to disturb you. We won’t take up much of your time.”

“Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”

“We’re fine.”

“Please, sit.” She led the way into an airy living area with two curved chairs, a long, low sofa with a central pillow fashioned as a peacock, tail feathers spread. Some sort of exotic flowers speared out of a clear, square vase with shiny black pebbles layered in the base. Filmy shades flowed down the windows.

Lydia hit about five-two and crossed to the sofa on small feet clad in house skids. She wore a lounge set in creamy white with a long black cardigan.

She might have been sleeping after a long night, Eve thought, but she’d taken the time to groom her hair—straight as rain—back into a sleek tail.

She sat, graceful as a dancer. “How can I help?”

“You spent your day off with Charity Downing. Day before yesterday.”

“That’s right. We had lunch, did some shopping, had our nails done. We were enjoying ourselves, so we stopped for a drink, then decided to go back to Charity’s, have some dinner, watch some screen. I left around nine, I think. It was a nice day with a friend.”

“Sounds like it. How did you come to be friends?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t seem to have much in common.”

Eve shrugged as she looked casually around the room. And at the fancy bronze riot bar on the door.

Fancy or not, a riot bar was overkill in a place like this.

“The struggling artist,” she continued, “and the Yale alum, the scientist with the doctorate. How long have you been friends—the intimate sort of friends you must be, as Charity said you were the only one she’d told about her relationship with Edward Mira?”

“We found we have a great deal in common. An appreciation of art, we enjoy—for the most part—the same music, enjoy watching vids at home, in the quiet. We like each other’s company. I like to think I was supportive and nonjudgmental when it came to the choices she made with Edward Mira. As a friend should be.”

“Right. How’d you meet again?”

“I went into the gallery where she worked one day, and we simply hit it off, as some do.”

“Lucky chance. I figured you had that whole insomnia thing going together.”

“Excuse me?”

“The studies you both volunteered for.”

“I . . . Yes. But . . . We weren’t in the same study, and didn’t know each other until after.”

“What a coincidence. So you were looking for some art?”

It came again, that flicker. But only anger this time. “I was,” Lydia said coolly. “Browsing, really, and Charity was knowledgeable and personable. We ended up going for coffee on her break, and simply became friends. Is that so unusual?”

“Like I said, lucky chance—just like the insomnia. So, did you buy anything?”

“Yes. That painting.” She gestured to a large study of a trio of bushes flowering in deep, deep pink, and a woman in the background, facing away, head bowed.

“Lucky chance for her, too. So you left Charity’s place about nine. And then?”

“I came home, caught up on some reading, and went to bed.”

“How about last night?”

“Last night? Why?”

“Jonas Wymann, a close friend of Edward Mira’s, was murdered. Were you and Charity hanging out again?”

“No. I was at work until nearly ten, then came home and put another three hours in on a project. At least three. I didn’t go to bed until after two.”

“Did Charity ever mention Wymann to you?”

“No. I don’t recall the name. I don’t believe she met any friends of Edward Mira’s, or she would have told me.”

“Even if she’d slept with him, too.”

The muscles in Lydia’s jaw tightened, as did—for just an instant—the fingers of the hands she’d calmly folded in her lap. “As I wouldn’t have judged her, I believe, yes, she would have told me. And if you see Charity as whorish because she was foolish enough to sleep with a powerful, married man who appears to have made it a habit to prey on foolish women, you judge far too harshly. His death is, undoubtedly, difficult for his friends and his family, but to my mind he victimized Charity and others like her.”

“That’s pretty judgmental, isn’t it, Peabody?”

“Leans that way.”

“But we all have our own scale, don’t we? How about Carlee MacKensie?” Eve threw out the question on the heels of the other, and got a reaction. More than a flicker—a quick flash of shock.