Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(38)

“Wow. That’s just the best news ever!”

Even Eve’s exaggerated sarcasm didn’t dent Peabody’s mood. “It has these adorbs little ribbons for straps, so when McNab tugs them, whoosh, I’m naked.”

Eve’s eyes went to slits. “And this, this is how you repay me?”

“I didn’t hug you. Mitch L. Day—officially Mitchell Edwin Dayton—age thirty-eight, Murray Hill address. One divorce—no offspring. Currently married to Sashay DuPris, age thirty-two.”

“So he’s married and was bouncing on Mars.”

“Updated data says DuPris, a model—oh, I’ve seen her—resides at an Upper East Side address. It doesn’t list them as officially separated. She’s major high fashion, Dallas, big-time. Back to him, no offspring in current marriage. Employed at Seventy-Five, on-air personality, since 2055. No criminal. A lot of traffic violations. He’s originally from Minnesota. Huh, farm boy. His parents—forty-five years married—own and operate a farm. Two siblings.

“Do you want more? I can always find dish on on-air personalities.”

“That’s enough for now,” Eve said as she wound her way through the parking complex for Seventy-Five.

She dealt with security—in the lot, at the door—noted all the humans wore black armbands. And the screens in the visitor’s lobby all showed Mars at various splashy events wearing various splashy gowns and outfits.

Eve stopped at the next security station, badged the operator.

“Nadine Furst. She’s expecting us.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, you’re already cleared. Do you need an escort or do you remember the way?”

“I remember.”

She also remembered her way to the newsroom, and where she’d first met Mars.

She aimed there first. There the screens showed various world events, reporters doing remotes, and one screen dedicated to Mars.

But if she remembered the desk correctly—and she was damn sure she did—someone else occupied it.

The man sat in shirtsleeves, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. Sharp cheekbones all but sliced through his taut, dark skin, while his hair formed a perfect skullcap of ebony.

“NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge. “I’m looking for Larinda Mars’s desk.”

“It’d be in her office.” He rose, offered a hand. “Barry Hewitt, political beat. It’s nice to meet you, even under the circumstances, Lieutenant. Ms. Mars has her own office. I’d be happy to show you, but I know Bebe’s going to want to speak to you.”

“Who’s Bebe?”

His reaction, a slow blink, showed a bit of stupefied surprise she wouldn’t just know. “Bebe Hewitt? Majority owner and head of broadcasting? And my aunt,” he added with a half smile. “I know she’s juggling a lot of fires right now, but she’d want to talk to you. I can take you to her offices.”

“Lead the way.” Eve ignored the hot glances, the murmurs as she and Peabody went with Hewitt.

“Every reporter in here would kill for an exclusive with you.”

“If they did that, I’d arrest them.”

“Ha!”

“When did Mars get her own office?”

“A couple years ago. I’d just moved up from the pool—utility player. My aunt wanted me seasoned before I got a shot at political. I’m still mostly covering city council and minor protests, but I’m getting there.”

“Did you know Mars?”

“Not really. I mean not to socialize or jaw with, right? Low rung here, and a different beat. Same channel, get me, but those are different rungs on different ladders in different worlds.”

He escorted them into an elevator, took out a swipe card. “I do get this perk. I can go direct to Bebe’s floor. I don’t suppose you could get me a meet with Chief Tibble.”

“Not my function, sorry.”

“You gotta try.” He stepped out into a glossy, plush reception area with low gel sofas, privacy chairs, more screens, and a curved counter manned by three perfectly beautiful people.

“Hey, Vi, can you let Ms. Hewitt know Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody are here? Loved the vid,” he told Peabody.

“Me, too.”

“I hope you catch whoever killed Larinda. She was a real fixture around here.”

The perfectly beautiful Vi stood up. “I’ll take you to Ms. Hewitt.”

“Good luck,” Hewitt said, strolling back to the elevator.

Instead of a big, important office beyond several small, important offices, Vi led them to a very big, very important-looking conference room.

A woman—those scalpel-sharp cheekbones ran in the family—sat at the head of a long, highly polished red table. She wore black, and her hair, also black, was styled in a smooth coil at the nape of her long, slender neck.

On the table sat a basket of muffins, a platter of fruit, a couple of pots that smelled like pretty decent coffee. Five people sat around the table, working industriously with their tablets as she snapped out orders.

“Get started. Talk to Kit if you have any questions. Michael, I want to see that retrospective before noon. Now, I need the room.”

All five got to their feet, some still tapping and swiping, and hurried out.