Loyalty in Death (In Death #9)(10)

“Was J. C. involved with anyone else?”

“Involved — romantically? Absolutely not.”

“How about just sexually?”

Chris’s round face stiffened, the puffy eyes went cool. “If you’re insinuating that J. Clarence Branson was unfaithful to the woman he’d made a commitment to, nothing could be more false. He was devoted to her. And he was loyal.”

“You can be sure of that? Without question?”

“I made all of his arrangements, all professional and personal appointments.”

“Couldn’t he have made some of his own, on the side?”

“It’s insulting.” Chris’s voice rang out. “The man is dead, and you’re sitting there accusing him of being a liar and a cheat.”

“I’m not accusing him of anything,” Eve corrected calmly. “I’m asking. It’s my responsibility to ask, Chris. And to get him whatever justice I can.”

“I don’t like how you go about it.” He turned away again. “J. C. was a good man, an honest man. I knew him, his habits, his moods. He wouldn’t have entered into some illicit affair, and certainly couldn’t have done so without my knowledge.”

“Okay, so tell me about Lisbeth Cooke. What would she have to gain by killing him?”

“I don’t know. He treated her like a princess, gave her everything she could possibly want. She killed the golden goose.”

“The what?”

“Like in the story.” He nearly smiled now. “The goose that laid the golden eggs. He was happy to give her whatever she wanted, and more. Now he’s dead. No more golden eggs.”

Unless, Eve thought as she left the office, she’d wanted all the eggs at one time.

She knew as she already consulted the animated map in the lobby that B. Donald Branson’s office was at the opposite end of this level from his brother’s. Hoping to find him in, she headed down. Many of the stations were unmanned, most of the glass doors locked with the offices behind them dark and empty.

The building itself seemed to be grieving.

At regular intervals, holograph screens were set up to show off Branson Tools and Toys’ new or favored products. She stopped at one, watching with equal parts amusement and dismay as a uniformed beat cop action-droid returned a lost child to his tearfully grateful mother.

The cop faced the screen, its face sober and trustworthy, his uniform as severely pressed as Peabody’s. “It’s our job to serve and protect.”

Then the image pulled back, spun slowly to give the viewer a three-sixty view of the product and accessories while the computer’s voice stated product and pricing details. A street thief action-droid with airskates was offered as a companion piece.

Shaking her head, Eve turned away. She wondered if the company produced LC droid figures, or illegals dealers. Maybe a couple of psychopaths just to keep the game interesting. Then, of course, you’d need victim-droids.

Jesus.

The clear glass doors opened as Eve approached. A pale and weary-eyed woman manned a sleek U-shaped console and fielded calls on a privacy headset.

“Thank you very much. Your call is being recorded and your condolences will be passed on to the family. Mr. Branson’s memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow, at two o’clock at Quiet Passages, Central Park South. Yes, it’s a great shock. A great loss. Thank you for calling.”

She swiveled the mouthpiece aside and offered Eve a sober smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Branson isn’t available. These offices will be closed until Tuesday of next week.”

Eve took out her badge. “I’m primary on his brother’s homicide. Is he in?”

“Oh, Lieutenant.” The woman touched her fingers briefly to her eyes, then rose. “One moment, please.”

She slipped gracefully from behind the console, then after a quick knock on a tall white door, disappeared inside. Eve heard the soft beep of incoming calls from the multiline ‘link, then the door opened again.

“Please come in, Lieutenant. Mr. Branson will see you. Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She entered the office. The first thing she noticed was that it was dramatically opposed to J. C.‘s. This was cool colors, sleek lines, rich sophistication. No silly animal chairs or grinning droid dolls. Here the muted grays and blues were designed to soothe. And the wide surface of the desk, uncluttered with gadgets, clear for business.

B. Donald Branson stood behind that desk. He didn’t have the bulk of his brother but was slim in a sleekly tailored suit. His hair was a dull gold, slicked back from a high forehead. Eyebrows, thick and peaked, were shades darker over tired eyes of pale green.

“Lieutenant Dallas, it’s kind of you to come in person.” His voice was as quiet and soothing as the room. “I meant to contact you, to thank you for your kindness when you called last night to inform me of my brother’s death.”

“I’m sorry to intrude at this time, Mr. Branson.”

“No, please. Sit down. We’re all trying to deal with it.”

“I gather your brother was well liked.”

“Loved,” he corrected as they took their seats. “It was impossible not to love J. C. That’s why it’s so hard to imagine him gone, and in this way. Lisbeth, she was like part of the family. My God.” He looked away for a moment, trying to compose himself.