Strangers in Death (In Death #26)(12)

“Maybe she should’ve cut his dick off.”

“Yeah, yeah, women always go for the jewels. She didn’t though. When he didn’t come home by midnight, she tried his ’link, left messages until nearly three. TOD was about one-thirty, and we’ve got her tagging him from her home unit at one-fifteen, again at one-forty. Pissed off, crying, and nowhere near Avenue D. She’s better off, seems to me. But I hate to lose one.”

“Hit the flop again, push the street LCs who use it, or work the bars in the neighborhood. How about transpo?”

“No cabs letting off fares on that block, and nothing popped on the underground surveillance. We figured they hoofed it, and that’s how we zeroed in on the bar.”

“Make the rounds again, get meaner. Any chance he was into something nastier than banging strange?”

“Nothing’s popped. Blue-collar ass**le, pissing it away on cheap brew and loose women with a nice wife and a couple of cute kids at home. The thing is, Dallas, it was a cold kill. One slice.” Baxter mimed cutting his own throat. “From behind. Then the bastard drops, but he’s still alive, according to the ME, when she cuts off his dick. She had to be freaking covered with blood, but there’s no trail, not out the door, not out the window and fire escape. Not a drop.”

“Cleaned up after.”

“No blood in the sink, no trace in the tap, the pipes. It reads like she came prepared, like she maybe sealed up, or changed. Like she had this in mind from the jump. I’ve knocked on women he’s known to have dicked around with, who might be pissed off, but that’s nowhere.”

“Give it another push. I’ll take a look at the file as soon as I get a chance. Fresh eyes.”

“Appreciate that.”

When he left, Eve stepped over to her desk. Her ’link indicated she had eight messages. A chunk of them, she knew, would be from media hounds. A rich guy buys it in his own home, it started the trickle that often became a flood. And the details of how would leak, she knew that, too. Nobody’s finger was big enough to plug the hole in the dike when the flood was that juicy.

“All clear?” Peabody asked from the doorway.

“Yeah.”

“Baxter wanted to talk about the Avenue D case? Trueheart’s run some of it by me,” Peabody continued. “Nothing’s gelling.”

“They’ll go back around, work it again. What’ve you got for me?”

“Benedict Forrest—whose mother really was eaten by a shark. Or severely chewed on by one. He was six at the time, and living in New York under the care of a nanny and numerous servants. Mother was quite the adrenaline junkie, from what I’ve got. Name the life-threatening activity, she gave it a whirl. Thirty-five at TOD, twice divorced, one child. When she ended up the main course for Jaws, Anders applied for custody and guardianship, and as the biological father didn’t contest, same was granted.”

“How much did Anders pay him? The bio dad?”

“Five million, apparently. The guy spends most of his time cruising around hot spots in Europe, hadn’t seen the kid since the divorce—four years plus before the mother died. He’s been married three times since, and is currently living in the south of France. Just doesn’t feel like he plays into this.”

“How much of a financial interest did the mother have in the company?”

“None. She took a buyout from her father in lieu. And she was smart enough—or vindictive enough—to arrange her trust and assets so even if the father took the kid, after her death, he couldn’t touch a penny of the kid’s take. Anders took the kid, supported, educated, and housed him on his own nickel.”

Pausing, Peabody glanced down at her notes. “Forrest came into a nice chunk of change when he turned twenty-one, another portion at twenty-five, another at thirty. He has an MBA from Harvard, where he also played baseball and lacrosse. He worked his way up the ranks at Anders from a junior exec to his current position as Chief Operating Officer.”

“Any criminal?”

“Nada. Pretty regular hits for speeding, and a shitload of parking tickets, all paid up.”

Eve sat back, swiveled in her desk chair. “Give me the wife.”

“Ava Montgomery Anders, who I confirmed was in her hotel suite on St. Lucia when contacted about trouble at home. She booked a shuttle after the transmission. There’s no record of her leaving the island by any mode prior. Born Portland, Oregon, in 2008, upper-middle-class all the way. Previous marriage to one Dirk Bronson in 2032, ended in divorce in 2035. No offspring. Earned degrees in business and public relations from Brown—scholarship—which she put to use as the PR rep for Anders Worldwide—Chicago base, where she relocated after her divorce. Then she transferred to the New York office in 2041. She and Anders married in ’44. She currently serves as the company’s goodwill ambassador, serving on the board of Everybody Plays, Anders Worldwide’s organization founded to provide facilities, training, and equipment for children, ah, worldwide. And serving as chairman of Moms, Too, a program that offers educational seminars, workshops, networking opportunities, and so on to mothers of kids in Everybody Plays. No criminal on her either, and she’s worth about ten million in her own right.”

Peabody lowered her notebook. “I could give you Greta Horowitz, but everything she told us runs true. I was about to start on Leopold Walsh, but I must find food. I can find you food, too.” Peabody smiled hugely. “How about a nice sandwich?”