Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(52)

“Oh, of course! No, we haven’t met until now.” She gestured again into a spacious office. “But I did see the vid, and admit I’ve followed you and Roarke, and you, Detective, whenever there’s media. Please sit.”

The office suited her, deep cushioned chairs in dull gold, glass tables holding glass vases and exotic flowers. Art of beautiful men and women—oddly romantic rather than sexual. And a view of command through the window behind the long, glossy desk.

“You gave Kerry quite a jolt.” She sat, crossed her killer legs. “She said someone was dead. Is it someone I know?”

“Thaddeus Pettigrew.”

That polite curiosity flashed away. Eve wouldn’t say the woman jolted, but she registered distress. “Oh no. Oh, I’m very sorry to hear this. He’s been a client for years.”

“Years. As in?”

“I’ll have to check, but I believe at least a decade.”

So, not a new habit, Eve thought. “I’m going to need you to check on that, and several other things.”

Araby sat back. “You put me in an interesting position. Under most circumstances we would refuse to answer any questions regarding a client. Even with a warrant, I would contact my legal department and do what could be done to void that.”

“He was murdered, Ms. Clarke.”

“I realize that, or why would Dallas and Peabody be in my office? And that’s precisely why I won’t demand a warrant. I do want just a moment to talk to my legal people. I’ve owned Discretion for sixteen years, and we’ve never had anything like this happen. I want to make certain I do the right thing for everyone involved. If you’d just give me a minute.”

When she hurried out, Eve nodded. “She’ll give us what we ask for.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, because she wants to. She liked him—at least the way you like a longtime, regular customer. We’ll get what we came for.”

So Eve settled back to wait.





11


Eve shoved her way over the bridge to Brooklyn, weaving through, leapfrogging over the thick river of vehicles heading in the same direction. The river clogged when neck-craners slowed to study the delivery truck and sedan with crunched fenders along with the police cruiser dealing with the encounter in the breakdown lane.

Eve cursed them all for idiots, hit lights and sirens, pushed into vertical for a whooshing half a mile. During which Peabody clutched the chicken stick like a lifeline.

“Do they hope to see blood and bodies?” Eve ranted. “Is it: Oh look, honey, an accident. Break out the freaking popcorn.”

Once they crossed the bridge, Eve eased back a bit to follow the computer prompts to the address in Cobble Hill—and Peabody flexed her aching fingers.

It proved to be a lively street with a scatter of restaurants, a few shops, a small park where a number of people walked dogs or watched kids risk broken bones on playground equipment.

Marcella’s mother had the ground floor of a triple-decker with its own little patio off the side. It also boasted a narrow driveway currently occupied by a dark blue town car.

Eve pulled in behind it. “That matches the basic description of the car the wit saw at Pettigrew’s. Run the tags,” Eve told Peabody as they got out.

“It’s registered to Bondita Rothchild.”

“Might be interesting.” Eve walked to the door, pushed the buzzer.

The woman who answered was tall, slim, and blond. Not Marcella, Eve thought, but by the family resemblance, related.

“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.” Eve offered her badge.

“Yes, we’re expecting you. I’m Rozelle, Marci’s sister. This is just horrible. Marci’s a wreck. Claudia—that’s our friend who was with us—is back making her tea because Marci won’t take a soother. I just … I’m sorry, I guess I’m a wreck, too. Come inside.”

The entrance opened into a generous living space where someone had turned on lights and lamps to combat the gloom from the insistent drizzle outside. They’d lowered the privacy shades as well.

Marcella sat on a sofa, a chocolate-brown throw over her lap, and cuddled close to her mother.

Bondita, spotting Eve and Peabody, wrapped a protective arm around her daughter. They all looked exhausted.

Another blonde, this one tall and curvy in black skin pants and a flowy white shirt, hurried from the back with a tray.

“Our friend, Claudia Johannsen. These are the police, Claudia. Go ahead and take Marci her tea.

“You drink this now, Marce.” She used the firm tone of a veteran schoolteacher, a determined mother, or a sturdy nurse. “We’re all here for you. You drink some tea, too, Bondi. And you come sit down and have yours, Roz. Officers, can I make you some tea?”

“Lieutenant, Detective,” Eve corrected. “No, thanks. Ms. Horowitz—”

“Since that’s two of us here, why don’t you go with first names,” Rozelle suggested. “It’s just easier.”

“All right. Marcella, we’re very sorry for your loss. We understand this is a difficult time for you.”

“Difficult? Difficult?” Her voice pitched up three registers on the three syllables. “Is that how you think it is for me? The man I love is dead!”