Born in Death (In Death #23)(30)

She’s what my granny calls a tough cookie.”

“I don’t get that.” Eve whipped away from the curb and headed back to Central. “If a cookie’s tough, you throw it away. She’s the type that knows how to stick.”

“It just means…never mind. You think she’s in it?”

“Could be. But that kind doesn’t have to kill to get what she wants. She’d use her brains, her sex, cheat, maybe steal. She could seduce someone else into doing her dirty work, but what’s the point here? Byson’s out of the picture, maybe she cops some of his accounts, gets promoted quicker. But why Copperfield? And she was primary target. What did you get on the alibis?”

“Okay, on Jake Sloan it’s DeLay, Rochelle. Twenty-five, single, works in Catering at the Palace.”

“She’s one of Roarke’s?”

“Well, sort of. Her father’s DeLay, hot-shot head chef at the Palace. She’s been employed there for about two years. No criminal.”

Eve hung a left. “We’ll drop by, confirm the alibi face-to-face. Next?”

“On Randall Sloan. Sasha Zinka and Lola Warfield. Forty-eight and forty-two respectively. Married for twelve years. Big money—generational money on Zinka. They’re Femme.”

“Which is?”

“Extreme high-end enhancements. The company was founded by Zinka’s great-grandfather, and remains one of the few independent companies of its size and scope. They own designer spas, where their products are used and sold. Few little brushes here and there on Zinka. Assault, property damage. Punched a cop.”

“Really?”

“No time served. Lots of big fines, a number of civil suits. Nothing in the last decade on her.”

“Youthful hijinks. Got a temper.”

“More big money on Kraus’s alibis, Madeline Bullock and Winfield Chase. Mother and son. Bullock, Sam, was her second husband—no offspring from there. Bullock, Sam, died at the age of one-twelve. They’d been married five years. She was forty-six.”

“Isn’t that romantic?”

“Heart-tugging. First husband was younger, a callow seventy-three to her twenty-two.”

“Wealthy?”

“Was—not Sam Bullock wealthy, but well-stocked. Got eaten by a shark.”

“Step off.”

“Seriously. Scuba diving out in the Great Barrier Reef. He was eighty-eight. And this shark cruises along andchomp, chomp. ”

She gave Eve a thoughtful look. “Ending as shark snacks is in my top-ten list of ways I don’t want to go out. How about you?”

“It may rank as number one, now that I’ve considered it a possibility. Any hint of foul play?”

“They weren’t able to interview the shark, but it was put down as death by misadventure.”

“Okay.”

“While Bullock, the company, is varied, it started out primarily with pharmaceuticals. The Foundation, which the widow heads since her husband’s death eight years ago, is a whopper, and annually disburses multiple millions to charities. Children’s health care is priority. Nothing criminal on the widow, sealed juvie on the son, who is now thirty-eight. No marriage or cohabs on record.”

“London-based, right?”

“Yep. They do have other homes, but none in the States. Mother and son share the same address. He’s VP of the Foundation.”

“Ought to be able to afford his own place.”

“Last from this: For Myers we have Karl and Elise Helbringer, Germany. Married thirty-five years, three offspring. Karl went into busi ness with Elise when they were both in their twenties. Making boots, which led to shoes and skids and bags and all sorts of things. Including romance, apparently, as they married shortly afterward. Hit big in the fashion and the outdoorsy-type worlds and built a nice little German empire. So, as bootmakers, I wouldn’t say they’re rolling in it, but stomping in it.”

“Boots.”

“Their foundation, and the original Helbringer is still their top seller. You’re wearing a pair right now.”

“Of boots.”

“Helbringer boots. Very distinctive in their simplicity. Anyway, nothing on them or their offspring.”

“We’ll check for corroboration when we get back to Central.”

Eve pulled up in front of the grand front entrance of Roarke’s Palace. The doorman started over immediately. Eve saw recognition and then resignation flicker into his eyes as she climbed out of the car.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. Would you like me to have your vehicle parked?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you want it to stay exactly where it is.”

“There you go.” She jogged up the steps and into the glossy marble, the elaborate and enormous flowers, the sparkling fountains.

She wound her way under the waterfall of crystal chandeliers to the desk. When she saw another flicker of recognition on the face of one of the sleek, nattily uniformed desk clerks, she decided Roarke had called a staff meeting with her picture.

Regardless, she took out her badge. “I need to speak with Rochelle DeLay.”

“Certainly, Lieutenant. I’ll contact her immediately. If you’d care to have a seat.”

At the gesture, Eve considered. Since everyone was being so cooperative, she could take the same page. “Sure.”