Strangers in Death (In Death #26)(37)

“I bet. The style’s a lot different in his office.”

“Yeah. Guy world. That’s what he’d say.”

“Did he take sleep aids?”

“I…I don’t think so. I mean, maybe once in a while. I don’t remember him mentioning anything like that, but I don’t guess it ever came up. I know he liked the door closed, the drapes drawn when he went to bed. He said it was the only way he could get a good night’s sleep. So, I guess that sort of thing was his sleep aid.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Anyway, thanks.” He got to his feet, and his gaze traveled back to the board covered now by Eve’s coat. “I’m glad I saw that. Not the images, I’ll never be glad of that. I’m glad I saw that you had that in here. That you’re looking at it, that you can’t turn around in this room without seeing what was done to him. It helps me know you mean it. He’s your priority.”

Alone, Eve turned back to the board. She lifted off her coat, tossed it over the visitor’s chair. And she looked into Ava Anders’s eyes.

“You’re a liar,” Eve stated aloud. “You’re a liar, and I’m going to prove it.”

8

EVE CHECKED THE TRANSMISSION HERSELF, THEN rechecked it. It was indisputable that Greta Horowitz contacted Ava Anders, the call originating from the house in New York and going to the room registered to Ava on St. Lucia. The transmission ran from 6:14A.M. to 6:17A.M.

With her eyes closed, Eve replayed the copy of the transmission provided by EDD. Ava had blocked video, but Eve did the same herself when calls came in while she was in bed. A pity though, a damn shame. It would’ve been good to see Ava’s face, to read her body language. Still, the voice was pitch-perfect—every hill and valley. Sleepy annoyance, to impatience, to shock and through to grief. Every note perfectly played.

Still…

“Computer, send a copy of this transmission, and a copy of the recorded interview with Ava Anders today to the lab. Mark attention Chief Berenski. Memo attached: Require voice print analysis and verification ASAP. Require verification recorded voices are the same individual, and that neither sample was prerecorded or transmitted from a remote location. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

She added the case file name and number.

Could’ve worked it that way, Eve mused. Tricky, but not impossible. A voice double, a transmission bounce. She’d have EDD take another look at that possibility. But if that didn’t work…

She did a search on private transportation, and the fastest shuttle time possible from New York to St. Lucia. The results frustrated her.

Not enough time, she admitted. There just hadn’t been enough time to travel from the crime scene back to St. Lucia, back to the hotel room on the island to take the call, not even if Ava had gone off book with the transportation. Physics gave her an unimpeachable alibi.

She went back to the time line, tried to find a hole in it. Her ’link signaled, with an order to report to her commander.

To save time, she squeezed herself on an elevator. She rode up partway with cops, lawyers, and a small, long-eared dog.

“Eye wit,” the cop standing beside the dog told her.

“That so?”

“More like nose witness. Owner got himself mugged while he was walking Abe here. Claims Abe’ll ID the guy who mugged him by smell.” The cop shrugged. “We got three possibles, so, what the hell.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

Eve tried to work out how they expected to convince the PA to bring charges against a suspect on the nose of a dog as she covered the rest of the distance to her commander’s office.

“Go right in, Lieutenant.” The admin gestured. “They’re waiting for you.”

Commander Whitney sat at his desk, his back to the view of the city he’d protected and served more than half of his life. His face showed the years, but Eve had always felt it showed them in a way that mattered. Showed in the lines and grooves dug into his dark skin that he’d lived those years, and remembered them.

He wore his hair short, and though she suspected his wife would have preferred it otherwise, he let the salt sprinkle liberally over the pepper. He carried his big, wide build well, and held his command with a strong hand.

“Commander,” she began, then paused as the man sitting in the high-backed visitor’s chair facing the desk rose. “Chief Tibble.”

Not just the commander, she thought, reevaluating, but the Chief of Police.

“Lieutenant.” Whitney pointed to the second chair. “Have a seat.”

She obeyed, though she preferred standing, preferred giving her oral reports on her feet.

“Lieutenant.” Tibble took the jump, and made her wonder why, if this was his meet, she wasn’t sitting in The Tower. “I asked the commander to give me a few minutes with you here. Regarding the Anders investigation.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sat back. A lean man, he favored good suits, and—as she recalled—a good Scotch. Like Whitney, he’d come up through the ranks, and though he was now—essentially—a politician, the office hadn’t shoved the cop out of him.

“My reason for asking is somewhat personal.”

“Did you know Mr. Anders, sir?”

“No, I didn’t. My wife, however, is acquainted with his widow.”