Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(91)

“You live in the same building, two floors down.”

“So I learned when I read of his murder. There are over eighteen hundred people living in that building, Lieutenant. Do you assume I know all of them?”

“I’m only concerned about Banks.”

“I didn’t know him. I never met him. I may or may not have seen him at some point over the twenty-eight months I’ve lived at that address.”

“That would be shortly after your divorce.”

Kinski’s eyes went to blue stone. “Yes.”

“Can you verify your whereabouts from twenty-one hundred Monday night through oh-four hundred Tuesday morning?”

“I was at home from approximately twenty-one hundred Monday night until oh-six-thirty Tuesday morning.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“I left this building at nineteen hundred hours, walked to Hannigan’s Irish Pub on Forty-First to have dinner with a friend. I left about twenty-thirty and walked home to arrive at approximately twenty-one hundred.”

“Long walk.”

“I like to walk,” he said evenly. “After I arrived home, I remained home, until the following morning. My apartment security will verify the time I arrived, and the time I left.”

“You work in security, Mr. Kinski. I imagine you have access to a lot of interesting toys, and you have the knowledge and skill needed to use them.”

“My job makes me a suspect in the murder of a man I didn’t know?”

“This is an inquiry. I haven’t read you your rights. Being security—you are head of Level A?”

“I am.”

“Being that level of security in a building that houses financial institutions would likely give you a working knowledge of finance. The market. Maybe some inside information.”

His gaze remained level, stony. His voice matched it. “Now you’re accusing me of, what, insider trading? I’ve had enough of this fishing expedition. A man’s murdered in Central Park, his valuables taken before he’d dumped in the reservoir. The media terms it a mugging. At least I see you’re not stupid enough to dismiss it as such.”

“Why would that be stupid?”

“His neck was broken—manually, according to the reports. I doubt your average mugger’s had the kind of combat training that particular skill requires.”

“But you have.”

Still hard, his gaze never strayed from hers. “I have. I live in the same building, I work in security with a background in military service. I’ve been in combat. I was home, alone, on the night in question.”

“You also have a charge of criminal violence on your record.”

As the angry flush rose up to his hairline, the first hint of frustration eked through. “I did not strike my ex-wife. I have never put a violent hand on any woman outside of training or combat when they were soldiers. If you looked deeper, you’d find my ex-wife is currently in court-appointed rehabilitation for drug and alcohol abuse, and I won’t discuss that any further.”

He rose. “I have work. I’ll escort you out.”

Eve rose, gestured for Peabody to do the same. She waited until they were back in the elevator to look up at Kinski’s rigid face. “Ever been to the Salon?”

She saw the flicker in his eyes before they narrowed. “The art gallery, the one bombed yesterday? By one of the owners. What is this?”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“No.”

“You had some training in explosives during your time in the Army.”

He started to speak, then pressed his lips together. When the door opened to the lobby, he stood, straight as the soldier he’d been. “If you need to speak with me again, I’ll engage a lawyer.”

“That’s your right,” Eve said easily, and felt his eyes boring into her back as she walked across the lobby.

“That shook him up,” she commented. “He checks some boxes, no question. No real buzz, but boxes checked. Need to verify the wife’s rehab.”

“I’ll do it.” Peabody’s voice held quiet—no exclamation point. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s mostly worn off. I mean I feel pretty energetic, but the whooppee’s about gone. I’m so sorry, Dallas.”

“Forget it.”

“No, seriously. The last thing you needed was me flying around on a mental trapeze. I’m embarrassed, but even more just sorry.”

“Fine. If you’re so sorry get rid of that stupid lip dye.”

“What lip dye?” Peabody asked as they walked up to the car.

“The one on your lips.”

Obviously baffled, Peabody flipped down the vanity mirror when she dropped into the driver’s seat. Her gasp sucked up most of the oxygen in the car.

“Oh my God! When did I do that? I don’t remember doing that. This is all wrong.” She started digging in her bag. “I bought this on impulse, but it’s not my color. It looks terrible on me. I tossed it in my desk drawer weeks ago.”

“So your main concern is it’s not your freaking color?”

“It’s not!” Peabody pulled a tiny, wet tissue out of a pack, rubbed it vigorously over her lips. Balled it up when it turned pink, pulled out a second. “And, come on, I’d never wear something called Sexcapade Pink on duty. I’m a cop!”