Golden in Death(82)

Unlike the law firm, the financial one didn’t go for subdued.

Pale gold carpet spread over their lobby area with a wide semicircle reception counter in gold—darker, shinier. Six people worked busily at their stations.

It held two waiting areas on either side, both done in chocolates and gold, with all seating fitted with individual screens and comm devices. Flanking the wall of glass with its bird’s-eye view of New York, two ornamental trees speared out of huge gold urns.

Behind the reception counter, the company’s logo showed a bull—again gold—with its hoof on the throat of a brown bear.

No, Eve thought, no sign of subdued here.

Despite the variance of race and gender, those manning the counter struck Eve as the same. Mid-twenties, attractive, sharp-eyed, and pissy.

Still, maybe Roarke had a point about the topper—the whole outfit —as every one of them gave her a look, then a practiced smile. She could almost see dollar signs dancing in their heads.

She walked to the center, and the Asian male.

“Stephen Whitt.”

“Good afternoon. Do you have an appointment, Ms.…?”

“Lieutenant.” She wiped the practiced smile off his face when she held up her badge. “Dallas. Detective Peabody. NYPSD. We need to speak to Mr. Whitt on police business.”

“I’ll need to check with his administrative assistant to see if he’s available. If you’d like to have a seat—”

“We’re fine right here. When you check,” she continued, making sure her voice carried to those in the waiting areas, “be sure to tell the admin we’re here investigating two homicides, and are prepared to wait until Mr. Whitt becomes available.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course.”

“Lieutenant.” She tapped her badge, then put it away.

Rather than use the headset, the receptionist swiveled to his comp, used a keyboard.

Texting the admin, Eve thought, and gave him points for finding a way to keep her from hearing the conversation. After a couple minutes of back-and-forth, the receptionist cleared his throat.

“Mr. Lauder, Mr. Whitt’s admin, will be with you shortly.”

“Great.”

It didn’t take long. Eve figured they didn’t want a couple of murder cops despoiling their gilded lobby area.

The man who came through the double frosted glass doors on the right had about two decades on the receptionist. His well-cut suit fit over a compact body. He wore his nut-brown hair brushed back from a sternly handsome face—and didn’t bother with the practiced smile.

“If you’d come with me.”

He led them through the doors—no cubes here. More gold carpet, art framed in gold on the walls, offices with their chocolate-brown doors closed.

Lauder approached an open one.

Two women worked at opposite sides behind glass panels—cubes by another name, Eve thought. Lauder’s desk held the center.

He closed the door, walked to the desk, sat. Gestured, rather imperiously, for Eve and Peabody to take chairs.

They stood.

“I’m Ernest Lauder, Mr. Whitt’s administrative assistant. I’ll need more information regarding the purpose of your visit.”

“As we informed the receptionist, who no doubt informed you, we’re investigating two murders.”

“Yes, and?”

Eve gave him an imperious look right back. “Two dead people aren’t enough for you?”

“It fails to tell me why you’d wish to speak to Mr. Whitt.”

“We have no intention of giving you that information, or any additional information about an ongoing investigation.”

He spread his hands. “Then I’m afraid Mr. Whitt is unavailable.”

“Fine. Detective, contact APA Reo and request a warrant to bring Mr. Stephen Whitt into Central for questioning in regard to two homicides.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Mr.—Lauder, is it? Two people are dead. We will have a conversation with your boss in his house, or in mine. It’s completely up to him. The more you stonewall, the more unpleasant that conversation will be.”

“Wait here.”

He rose, walked to the inner door, slipped inside.

“Should I go ahead and call Reo?”

“No. It won’t be necessary. Whitt just wanted to flex his muscles.”

“Sometimes admins—”

“Nope. This one follows orders.”

Lauder stepped back out. “Mr. Whitt will see you now. Briefly.”

Like Cosner, Whitt sat at his desk—a semicircle of dark gold, a smaller version of the reception counter. He didn’t pretend to be on his ’link, and his workstation showed signs he actually worked.

His hair, nearly the same color as the workstation, streamed back thickly. He had the polished look of a vid star, the perfect profile, tawny eyes, the perfect two-day scruff.

He rose as they entered, and though he skimmed just under six feet, gave the appearance of more height with disciplined posture, lifted chin.

Whether for effect or comfort, he’d taken off the jacket of his midnight-blue suit and stood in shirtsleeves and tie.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting. Ernest is very protective.”

Though he didn’t extend a hand or come around the station, he gestured to the pair of chairs—chocolate again—before taking his seat.