Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(10)

“Don’t. Don’t blame yourself.” He brushed his lips on her forehead. “I’d appreciate if we could call this now, Lieutenant, Detective. She’s had more than enough.”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Eve said as she rose. “And we’re sorry for your loss. We’ll see ourselves out.”

On the walk to the elevator, Eve asked, “Anything we didn’t cover from the uniforms?”

“Not really. They’d just gotten started. They said there was some stonewalling—not clearing them up because of the DND, waiting for her legal rep. Then some crying and soothing to get through.”

They stepped into the elevator, started down. “They’d started to establish the relationship, the basic timeline, then we got there.”

“Okay, they didn’t get deep enough into the initial interview to see the big, gaping holes in her story.”

“They didn’t mention it,” Peabody replied. “I guess I’m going to risk wrath and say I felt some of her version had wobbles, and I always suspect anyone who can cry and look gorgeous doing it—but that may be envy. But I didn’t see the big, gaping holes.”

“Wait for them.” Eve headed straight to the lobby desk. Before she could ask, Felicity gave her a packet, sealed and labeled.

“The copy you requested, Lieutenant. If we can be of any further assistance—”

“You can. How long has Ms. Huffman lived here?”

“For nearly four years, if memory serves.”

“Does your memory include an approximation of how long she’s been seeing Mr. Caine?”

“An approximation would be the best I can offer. I’d say about a year, less for his automatic clearance.”

“Thanks. One more thing.” She pulled out her PPC, brought up Ariel Byrd’s ID photo. “Do you recognize this woman?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Okay, another one more thing. The other shifts on the desk. I need their names and contacts.”

“Of course. Jonathan, get that information, please.”

Once she had it, Eve thanked Felicity again before heading out with Peabody.

Peabody waited until they were in the car. “So our wit’s a suspect. I get that, it’s routine. But I don’t get why you’re narrowing in on her right off.”

“First, it just pisses me off when people lie to me.” Eve judged the traffic, zipped out into it.

“The takeout bag—that holds up. The uniforms confirmed with the security feed Huffman—no need to run facial recognition now—brought the coffee and muffins at zero-seven-twenty hours.”

“Yeah, that holds. And the wedding planner deal’s going to hold. We’ll check it, but that’ll be solid enough. The time might be a little off, but it’ll hold. The lawyer-fiancé’s late legal prep, that’ll hold. The rest of it’s bullshit.”

She cut west, then headed south on Lexington.

Peabody thought it over. “My bullshit detector’s pretty good, but I’ll cop yours is better.”

“She does the wedding stuff, then goes back to her place. An hour or so later, she decides: Hey, I’m bored. She goes out for a two-or three-hour hike, into the park, window-shopping. Does she strike you as an urban hiker, Peabody? Or a woman who window-shops all that time and buys nothing?”

“Now that you mention it, not really. I mean, it’s plausible. Urban strolling, in her case, head full of wedding plans. Just getting out in the air. But, yeah, a long stretch of it, alone. But she said she was home at the time of the murder.”

“We’ll check the feed, but she probably was, or she’ll have come through the lobby and not gone out that way again. She’s still a liar. Wherever she was during that three-hour stretch, it didn’t involve urban strolling. Not alone.”

“Cheating on the fiancé.”

“It occurs to me, yeah. Add this.” She flicked Peabody a glance. “A woman like that doesn’t book a sitting at eight in the morning. She doesn’t get there thirty minutes early. People wait for her, that’s how it works.”

“You don’t like her even a little bit.”

“She’s a liar, potentially a cheat. Jury’s out on a murderer, but she’s checking boxes.”

She cut west again, thinking it through during the fits and starts of crosstown traffic.

“She waltzes into the victim’s apartment—and we’ll establish when you check with the other lobby staff if the victim, her good friend, ever waltzed into hers—starts up the stairs to the studio.”

“Taking time before to buy the takeout, which, yeah, now that you’re laying it out, seems off, too. That’s really early.”

“She spots the body, drops the bag. Splat. Possibly in genuine holy shit, possibly to establish holy shit. Then she leaves. Backing up? A woman who can afford that apartment would most usually use a car service. But she didn’t. She claims she walked around in some sort of fugue state until she hailed a cab.

“We’ll need to track down that cab,” Eve added. “She gets back, goes up to her place. Thinks about taking a sleeping pill. Poor me! Then, finally, more than an hour after seeing her dead friend in a pool of blood, she hits nine-one-one.”