Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(15)

“Would you like to sit down? Or coffee? I mean would you like some coffee?”

“We’re good. How well did you know Ms. Dickenson?”

“Very well. I think very well.” She dabbed at her eyes. “We—we took an exercise class together, twice a week. And we talked every day, I mean every workday. I can’t believe this happened! She’s careful, and it’s a good area. She wouldn’t have fought or argued with a mugger.” Tears welled and overflowed again. “They didn’t have to hurt her.”

“Has anyone been in asking about her?”

“No.”

“Have there been any problems between her and someone in the office, someone in the firm?”

“No. I’d know, you hear everything on the desk. This is a good company. We get along.”

Nobody got along all the time, but Eve let it slide. “How about a client, any trouble, complaints?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“People don’t like being audited. Has anyone caused any trouble about that, about the work she did?”

“Legal handles that sort of thing. I don’t understand. She was mugged, so—”

“It’s routine,” Eve said. “We need to be thorough.”

“Of course. Of course. I’m sorry. I’m so upset.” She choked on the words as she dug out fresh tissues. “We got to be pretty good friends with the class we took.”

“Did she talk about her work with you, about the audits?”

“Marta wouldn’t gossip about an audit. It’s unprofessional. And if she’d gossiped, it probably would’ve been with me. You get, well, loose, when you’re sweating together. And sometimes we’d go have a drink after—a reward. We talked about our kids, and clothes, and that sort of thing. Men—husbands.” She smiled weakly. “Neither of us wanted to talk about work when we were out of the office.”

“Okay.”

“I—oh, Sly!” She said the syllable on a smothered wail, then dropped down in her chair, covered her face with her hands.

“Nat.” A stringy man with flyway blond hair and watery blue eyes stepped around the reception desk, patted the woman on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go home?”

“I want to stay, to help. We couldn’t reach everyone who has an appointment. I just need—a few minutes.” She rose, dashed off.

“It’s going to take longer than minutes.” He passed a weary hand over his face, turned to Eve and Peabody. “Lieutenant Dallas?”

“Mr. Gibbons?”

“Yes. Ah, we’re not ourselves this morning. Marta—” He shook his head. “We should go back to my office.” His movements ungainly, as if he couldn’t quite deal with the length of his limbs, he led the way through a cubical area—more tears, more watery eyes—and down a short hall where office doors stayed closed.

“Marta’s office . . .” He stopped, stared at the closed door. “Do you need to see?”

“We will, yes. I’d like to talk to you first. Is the door secured?”

“She would have locked it when she left, that’s policy. I unlocked it when I came in, after I heard . . . Just to see if there was anything . . . Honestly, I don’t know why. I locked it again.”

They passed a break area where a few people sat speaking in muted voices, and to the end of the corridor.

Gibbons’s office took a corner, as supervisors’ often did. It struck Eve as minimalist, efficient, and scarily organized. His desk held two comps, two touch screens, several folders neatly stacked, a forest of lethally sharpened pencils in several hard colors, and a triple picture frame holding snapshots of a plump, smiling woman, a grinning young boy, and a very ugly dog.

“Please sit down. I—coffee. I’ll get you coffee.”

“It’s all right. We’re fine.”

“It’s no trouble. I was getting coffee,” he said vaguely. “I was in the break room, trying to . . . comfort, I guess. We’re not a large department, and we’re part of a, well, tightly knit firm. Everyone here knows each other, has interacted, you could say. We—we—we have a company softball team, and we celebrate birthdays in the break room. Marta had a birthday last month. We had cake. Oh my God. It’s my fault. This is all my fault.”

“How is that?”

“I asked her to put in some overtime. I asked her to work late. We’ve been shorthanded this week, with two of our auditors at a convention. They were due back, but there was an accident—a car accident. One has a broken leg, and the other’s in a coma. Was, I mean. I just got word he came out of it, but they’ve put him under again for some reason. There’s no brain damage, but he has broken ribs and needs more tests and . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That’s not why you’re here.”

“When did you ask Marta to work late?”

“Just yesterday. Yesterday morning when I talked to Jim, the one with the broken leg. They won’t be able to travel back. They’re in Vegas, at a convention. I told you that. Sorry. They won’t be able to come back to work for several days, at least, and we had audits pending. I asked Marta to pick up the slack. I worked until eight myself, but then I took the rest home. Marta was still here. She said thanks for dinner, Sly. I ordered us some food about six. For myself, Marta, and Lorraine.”