She wore blue almost the same color as the dots in a slim, short dress.
“Good afternoon. I’m Charity. If I can . . . Oh God, I know who you are. I recognize you.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder, quickly came forward, dropped her voice. “This is about Edward. I heard. Please, I don’t want my boss, my coworkers to know. I can take my break. Please, can I meet you across the street? The coffee shop right across the street. I can’t talk about this here.”
“You’re not going to try to run, are you, Charity?”
“Where would I go—and why would I? I just don’t want anyone here to know I was . . . with Edward that way. It’s right across the street. I just need to get Marilee to cover for me, get my coat.”
“All right. Make it fast.”
“You don’t really think she’d rabbit?” Peabody asked as they went out again.
“No. If she killed him or if she didn’t, she had to know the cops would want to talk to her sooner or later.”
Eve jaywalked—it wasn’t hard if you were fast and agile enough—and stepped into the coffee shop.
It didn’t smell as bad as most—boy, had she gotten spoiled—so she grabbed a four-top that gave her a view of the art gallery.
Peabody studied the automated server. “Maybe I could get another latte. I missed cake twice today. No, tea’s probably a better bet, and they have jasmine. Jasmine tea’s nice. Want some?”
“Not in this life or the next. She’s coming out.”
Charity didn’t jaywalk, but hurried in her skinny heels to the corner, waited for the light. Eve watched her come in, cheeks pink from the cold and the hurry, spot them.
“Thank you. Really, thank you.” Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush. “I’m still trying to get my head around what happened. Edward, dead. Murdered. I . . . I’m going to have some tea if that’s okay. I need to settle down. I heard about an hour ago.”
“I’m going to have the jasmine,” Peabody said.
“Yes, it’s nice. I’ll have that, too.”
“Coffee,” Eve said. “You and Senator Mira were having an affair.”
“Yes. It started a couple weeks before Christmas. I know he’s married, I know it’s wrong even though he said his wife doesn’t care. Why wouldn’t she care? I don’t know.”
Charity pressed her fingers to her eyes.
“How did you meet?”
“At the gallery. I had a small show—it was exciting. He came with . . . it wasn’t his wife, she was too young, but I don’t know who it was. He said he liked my work. He bought a painting. I was flying. And about a week later, he contacted me—he asked me to meet him for a drink. I thought it was about the art, but . . .”
“He hit on you,” Peabody suggested.
“It was . . . classier than that, but yes. At first I was really surprised. He’s old enough to be my grandfather, but he’s interesting and persuasive. I ended up meeting him for drinks a second time, then he asked me to dinner, and I went. I knew what I was doing, and I knew it was wrong. But there I was in this fancy hotel suite with champagne and . . .”
She trailed off as their orders began to slide out of the automated slot.
“I knew what I was doing,” she said again. “I knew he just wanted to be with a young woman. I’m not stupid. And I also knew he could help me. He nudged his rich friends and associates to come to the gallery, and talked up my work. I sold a couple more pieces. We were using each other, that’s what it was. I let him have sex with me, and in exchange, he helped my art career.”
She lifted her tea, drank. “I’m absolutely aware of what that makes me. I’m not proud of it. And I’d do it again.”
“Any trouble in your arrangement?” Eve asked.
“No. We’d generally go to the hotel once a week. Sometimes he wanted me to stay the night, sometimes he didn’t. He ran the show, and I didn’t have any complaints.”
“Was he rough with you?”
“What? Oh, no, no.”
Composed, almost coldly so, Charity met Eve’s gaze. “Look, Lieutenant, I knew he was taking an aid to keep it all going. And for a man his age, he was in pretty good shape. But I wasn’t attracted that way. The first time, it was curiosity and the circumstances. After that, it was, just—it was what it was. I didn’t say that to him. I just pretended.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend?” Peabody asked. “Anybody?”
“No, I don’t, so I figured I wasn’t hurting anyone. It was really clear he did this a lot, so I could justify it as far as his wife went. I don’t know her, so I could pretend that didn’t matter, either. I don’t want anyone at work to know, that’s all. I don’t want the gossip, or the looks. I don’t care if I deserve them, I don’t want it.”
“You seem a lot more concerned about gossip than murder. The man’s dead.”
Defiant, Downing jutted out her chin. “And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m just scared. I’m scared I’ll lose my job. I’m scared somebody knew what I was doing—what we were doing, and killed him.”
“Did you feel threatened? Did you feel watched?”
“No. But, I mean, the staff at the hotel, they had to know. I can’t think why any of them would care, but . . . Hell.” She drank again. “It’s not about that, about me. I didn’t really matter. I’m just scaring myself.”
“Do you know anyone who’d wish him harm?”
“I really don’t, but he’d go on about it sometimes. How a man in his position makes enemies. A powerful man makes powerful enemies. He’d talk and talk about his political views—I stopped really listening. Just pretended to.”
“You’re good at pretending.”
This time a hint of a flush rose in her cheeks. “I guess I am. I had an affair with an old man because he could help my career. I pretended to enjoy the sex when I was mostly thinking I hope he doesn’t want me to stay tonight so I can just go home. I listened to him talk, and didn’t disagree out loud. You want to say I prostituted myself, I can’t say I didn’t. But I’ve sold six paintings in the last six weeks, and I know five of them were directly because of him. I was grateful to him for that.”
She knuckled a tear away. “And I’m sorry he’s dead.”
“Where were you yesterday between four and six?”
“I . . . I don’t know exactly. It was my day off. I met a friend for lunch, and after, we got our nails done, did some shopping. Well, looking. And we had a drink somewhere. We decided to go back to my place, I had some pizza in the AutoChef. We just hung out until, I don’t know, maybe nine or nine-thirty. I’m a suspect. Oh my God.”
“We’ll need your friend’s name and contact information.”
“Oh God. God. Lydia. Lydia Su—that’s S-U. She’s the only one who knows about Edward.” She covered her face, then dropped her hands and gave them the contact numbers. “I wouldn’t kill him. He was helping me. I figured he was starting to get a little bored, and all I had to do was wait for him to tell me it was done. Maybe he’d help me a little more if I didn’t make a fuss. Why would I kill him for helping me?”
“How about between midnight and four last night?”
“I was in bed! I went to bed. I did some sketching after Lydia left, but we’d had wine, and I couldn’t concentrate. I was in bed by like eleven, watched screen until I fell asleep. This can’t be happening.”
“Calm down, Charity,” Peabody told her. “We have to ask, we have to check out the information you’ve given us. It’s part of the routine. When did you last see or speak to him?”
“Ah, God, the day before yesterday. He kept it week to week. He contacted me, asked me to dinner. That’s how it worked. We were supposed to have dinner tonight. Then I heard, on the bulletin. I only saw him once a week, as a rule. I saw him last week. Last Thursday night. What should I do now? What should I do?”
“Go back to work,” Eve said.
—
Here’s what I think. You want to know what I think, right?”
“Peabody, I live to hear what you think in all things.”
Eyes narrowed, Peabody climbed back into the car. “You’re being bitchy now.”