Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(22)

Eve shook her head. “Not him, and not this murder. This was a hit, not a mission.” She narrowed her eyes as she tried the coffee. “This is Roarke’s blend.”

“Oh God. Our own small miracle.”

“Business is good,” Eve said again.

Whitestone came back in. “Rob’s just finishing up with a client, and he’ll be right in. Jake’s heading back from a lunch meeting. It shouldn’t be long. Do you need me to stay? I’ve got a client coming in, but I can reschedule.”

“I think we have what we need from you for now.”

“All right. Listen, I know it sounds crass, but can you give me an idea when the crew can get back into the apartment? I’m just trying to work out a time line.”

“We should be able to clear it by the end of the day, tomorrow latest.”

“Okay.”

“I’d advise you to change the codes, and to be very careful who you give them to in the future.”

“You can count on it. And here’s Rob. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, Robinson Newton.”

“A pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.”

He strode into the room covered in an aura of absolute confidence with hints of power. She recognized the combination. Roarke had it—in spades. Robinson Newton cultivated the aura with a meticulously tailored suit in slate gray pinstripes mated with a shirt in a subtly deeper hue, and a bold red tie.

Under the suit he was built like a quarterback, muscled and tough and honed.

He wore his hair in a dark skull cap that brought out the ice-pick cheekbones in a face the color of Peabody’s coffee regular. His eyes, a direct and bold green met Eve’s, then Peabody’s. He offered a hand to each—smooth, firm, dry—then gestured to the conference table.

“We’re a little Spartan at the moment, but please have a seat. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“No problem.”

“I heard about the mugging early this morning. It’s terrible, but when Brad told me you were in charge, I felt better about it. I’ve followed some of your cases, particularly since I read the Icove book. In fact, I just scored tickets to the premiere.” He gave his partner a thumbs-up. “Six, so round up a date. And I apologize,” he said quickly. “You’re not here to talk about Hollywood and red carpets. What can we do to help?”

“You had access to the apartment.”

“Yes. We all have access to every area in the building.”

“Can you tell me where you were last night between nine P.M. and midnight?”

“I can.” He reached in his pocket, took out a date book, keyed into it, then set it on the table in front of Eve. “Dinner with my fiancée and her parents at Tavern on the Green, they like their traditions. Eight o’clock reservations, and we left a little after ten. Lissa and I caught a cab, then met up with some friends at Reno’s Bar, that’s downtown. We didn’t stay all that long. Maybe an hour. Then we cabbed back to our place. We got home about midnight. Are we suspects?”

“It’s routine,” Eve said automatically. “The victim was taken inside the apartment, you have access. It’s helpful to know where you were. I’ll need the names of the people you were with, just for the files.”

“I’ll have my assistant get you a list of names and contacts. But we didn’t even know the victim. Did we?” he asked Whitestone.

“I didn’t. But she worked for one of your clients’ accounting firm. Blacksford.”

“She was with Brewer, Kyle, and Martini? I have three—I think three—clients with them.” He took his book back, slid it into his pocket. “But I don’t remember having any contact with her. I work with Jim Arnold.”

Eve took out Marta’s ID photo. “Do you recall having seen her, having met her?”

“I don’t. I’m sorry. I’ve had lunch with Jim several times, and with Sly—Sylvestor Gibbons, but I never did business with this woman.”

“It would help if you got me the names of any clients you have who cross with the victim’s firm.”

“That’s simple enough. You don’t think this was a random mugging? A random opportunity? I’m sure anyone in that neighborhood knows the building’s being worked on, isn’t tenanted yet.”

“It wasn’t a break-in,” Eve said.

“Maybe the crew left the apartment unsecured.”

“They never do,” Whitestone reminded him.

“Mistakes happen, Brad.”

“We’re investigating all possibilities,” Eve began, then stopped when she heard voices.

“That’s Jake.” Whitestone slipped out, and stepped in again a moment later with his other partner. “My appointment’s on the way up. If you don’t need me—”

“We’ll be in touch,” Eve told him.

“Jake Ingersol, Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody. I’m in my office.”

“What a mess, huh?” Ingersol offered his hand, quick, hearty shakes, then dropped down at the table. “Hell of a thing to happen. Brad’s been sick about it.”

Where Whitestone projected cheerful competence and Newton smooth confidence, Ingersol was like an energetic puppy, all movement and avid eyes.