Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(58)

“I’m Brian O’Keefe.” He offered a hand along with the pleasant smile. “Wylee’s manager. As you can see he’s pretty busy just now.”

“We’ll wait.”

“If you could give me some idea what this is about, I might be able to help. Wylee’s schedule’s really tight today.”

“He can make time to speak to us here, or he can adjust his tight schedule to include a conversation at Cop Central. Maybe you should ask him which he’d prefer.”

The smile bobbled, fell away. “If there’s some problem—”

“Don’t you figure this indicates a problem?” Eve tapped her badge. “Here or Central. Simple or complicated. Choose.”

“He’s got a ten-minute break coming up shortly.”

“Fine.”

“Jed, why don’t you show these officers back to the locker area. It’s closed off for this event,” O’Keefe told Eve, “and should be private. If Wylee stays out here, they’ll keep coming.”

“Sure, Bri.” The big man led the way.

“Have you worked for Wylee long?” Eve asked him.

“Awhile.” He skirted behind a trio of batting cages, swiped a card on a door. “Don’t see why you have to bother him.”

“It’s my job. What was yours before this? Linebacker?”

His mouth curved, just a little. “Semipro. Bunged up my knee pretty bad, and that was that. Wylee hired me on.”

“Same neighborhood, right?”

If you couldn’t hear Brooklyn in his voice, you needed to have your ears checked.

“Yeah. Me and Bri and Wylee, we go back. You can wait in here.”

He went out, closed the door.

The room held two walls of stainless-steel lockers, a trio of sinks, a couple of toilet stalls, and a pair of low benches.

“See about that medical data,” Eve told Peabody, pulling out her own handheld to do a run on Brian O’Keefe.

No marriage, no cohabs, no offspring on record. Studied at Carnegie Mellon, double majors in comp science and accounting.

Nerd, Eve decided.

And the nerd had taken a job in IT right out of college, then ditched it to manage the sports star.

Eve poked around in O’Keefe’s life until Peabody swore under her breath.

“I’m not going to be able to pull this out on a handheld, Dallas. The data’s too old. I probably couldn’t pull it anyway. It’s going to take an e-man. I can send it to McNab.”

Eve started to tell her to go ahead, remembered McNab was already overworked. “Send it to Roarke.”

“Really? That’s okay?”

“Nothing he likes better than prying around in somebody’s personal business.”

Then she looked up, stood up, as Wylee Stamford came in.

He smiled as he did, extended a hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Maybe she felt another tug as she shook the hand that could wing a ball from third to first like the stream of a laser rifle.

“We appreciate your time, Mr. Stamford.”

“Wylee, okay? Lieutenant—sorry.”

“Dallas, and Detective Peabody.”

“Well.” He sat on the bench. “How can I help a couple of New York’s finest?”

“We need to talk to you about Larinda Mars.”

“I … Who?”

Eve saw two things simultaneously. He hadn’t been prepared to hear that name, and he was going to lie.

“What was your relationship with Larinda Mars?”

“I’m not sure I know who that is,” he began, looking relieved when O’Keefe came in.

“Sorry. Got a little hung up.” He dropped down on the opposite bench.

Eve considered booting him out, then decided to get the two for one.

“Larinda Mars,” Eve repeated. “Gossip reporter, Channel Seventy-Five. She was murdered yesterday. You might have heard about it.”

“I did,” O’Keefe said before Stamford could answer. “Something about her being attacked in a bar, or a restaurant?”

“That’s right. Why don’t each of you tell me where you were yesterday between six and seven P.M.”

“Excuse me?” O’Keefe said it with a quick laugh. “Are you serious?”

“Murder always strikes me as serious. You first.” She turned to Stamford. “Six to seven.”

“I’m going to contact Gretchen,” O’Keefe interrupted. “Wylee’s lawyer.”

“Go ahead. We can wait.”

“No. Just, no.” Wylee waved a hand in the air. “It’s simple. I was at my parents’ house. Or walking down there around six. I’d’ve been having a beer with my dad by around ten after. We ate about seven. No, wait—I was late. Mr. Aaron was out walking his dog, and he caught me. He’s a talker. I probably didn’t get to the house until about twenty after. I’m not sure exactly.”

“Mr. Aaron’s a neighbor?”

“Yeah, he lives two doors down from my dad.”

“All right. We’ll verify that. Mr. O’Keefe?”

“I was home at six. I work at home unless we’re going to an event or I have an outside meeting. I was home until about seven. I had a date, and I left to meet her about seven.”