Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(16)

“Lorraine?”

“Lorraine Wilkie. She and Marta both worked late. Lorraine and I left at the same time, but I’d given Marta the bulk of the work. She’s the best we have. She’s the best. I didn’t know she’d stay so late. I should’ve told her to leave when I did. I should’ve gotten her into a cab. If I had, she’d be all right.”

“What was she working on?”

“Several things.”

He took out his pocket ’link when it signaled, glanced at the readout, hit ignore.

“I’m sorry, that can wait. Marta was finishing up an audit of her own, had just begun another. And I gave her three more—one assigned to Jim, and the others to Chaz. And I asked her to look over some work done by a trainee.”

“Would Marta have told anyone about these assignments—details, I mean—names?”

“No. That information would be very confidential.”

“We’re going to need to see her work. I’ll need you to give me access to her files.”

“I . . . I don’t understand.” He lifted his hands, palms up, like a man offering a plea. “I’d do anything to help. But I can’t give you confidential material. I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Gibbons, we have reason to believe Marta wasn’t the victim of a random mugging, but was abducted when she left the office, taken to another location where she was killed. Her briefcase was taken. That would have contained at least some of her work, some of her files.”

As his hands lowered, he simply stared. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t understand you.”

“We have reason to believe Marta Dickenson was a specific target, and that she may have been killed due to her work.”

He sat down heavily. “They said—on the report—it was a mugging.”

“And I hope they’ll keep saying that for the time being. I’m telling you it wasn’t, and I’m telling you to keep that confidential. Who knew she was working late last night?”

“I . . . I did; Lorraine; Josie, Marta’s assistant; Lorraine’s assistant. My admin . . .” Head slightly bowed, he pushed his hands repeatedly through his thin hair. “God. My God. Anyone might’ve known. It wasn’t a secret.”

“Cleaning crew, maintenance, security?”

“Yes, well, the crew came in to clean while we were working. And security requires logging in and out. I don’t understand,” he repeated.

“Just understand we need to see what she was working on.”

“I—I—I need to talk to Legal. If I could, I swear to you, I’d give you everything, anything. She was my friend. You think someone killed her because of an audit?”

“It’s a theory.”

“I don’t see how this can be.” He began to rub his fingers across his brow, back and forth, back and forth.

“Talk to your lawyer. Tell him a warrant’s in the works. We’ll get it. Judge Yung will see to it.”

“I hope she will, and quickly.” He pushed to his feet. “I think you must be wrong, but if there’s any chance—any—I want you to have what you need. She was my friend,” he repeated. “And I was responsible for her here, in this workplace. I don’t know how I can ever tell Denzel . . . It’s my fault, any way it happened. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Eve said flatly, because she thought he needed it. “It’s the fault of the person who killed her.”

4

GIBBONS GAVE EVE ACCESS TO MARTA’S OFFICE, then, as requested, went to find the assistant.

Though smaller than her supervisor’s, Marta’s office held the same level of organization, efficiency. She’d brought her own touches, Eve mused—the family photos, a lopsided pen/pencil holder that had to be the work of a child, or a very untalented adult. Some sort of leafy green plant stood lushly in the window.

Eve noticed the sticky note stuck to the front of a mini-AutoChef.

“Five pounds.”

“To remind herself she wants to lose it before she programs something fattening. You’ve never had to worry about your weight,” Peabody added. “When you do, you use all kinds of tricks and incentives.”

“She liked her work, according to every statement. But this wasn’t a second home, the way some offices are. She made it comfortable, but she doesn’t have a lot of personal stuff. The photos, the pencil holder, not much else.”

She had more in her own, smaller space at Central, Eve realized. Little things—the paperweight mostly to give her something to pick up, fiddle with; the sun catcher in her tiny window, just because she liked it there; the silly talking gun Peabody had given her, because it made her laugh.

She’d had a plant once, but since she’d nearly killed it with neglect, she’d passed that off.

Eve turned to the desk ’link, ordered a replay of the day before.

Inter-office stuff, nothing that popped. A couple communications with clients, which she noted down, another with Legal on a thorny question Eve didn’t even understand, one to the nanny to tell her she’d be late, and could she stay and help Denzel with dinner for the kids, then the final two with her husband.

As she shut it off, she glanced up, saw the pale, tear-ravaged face of the woman in the doorway.