“I’m tired of talking to whiny cheaters. I’d rather grill murdering bastards.”
“Well, sure, but you gotta do what you gotta. Anyway, she was whiny, but killing him’s the whole golden goose deal. You can’t get those shiny eggs if you kill the goose.”
“Why would she want shiny eggs? Why would anybody want shiny eggs?”
“It’s like a metaphor.”
“It’s a stupid one because shiny eggs are probably contaminated, then you die. But we only have her word about the eggs anyway.”
“Yeah, but it’s easy to check out.”
“Which we will. Just like we’re going to check out everything and everybody else on the list from today. And how about this? The old, horny goose is getting ready to move on, so no more eggs soon. She’s not ready to give them up, so she gets pushy. You don’t keep giving me eggs, I’m going to go tell everybody you’ve been putting that old thing in my young parts. Fight, blackmail, murder.”
“When you put it that way.”
“I need to think about it. I need decent coffee and thinking time because the only one I’m pretty damn sure didn’t do it is the bitch with the snotty lawyer. That just pisses me off.”
“It’d be nice if she did it.”
“It’d be nice if geese shat out golden eggs, too. But it’s all just goose crap.”
8
Eve found Homicide full of cops and noise, and the lingering scent of someone’s veggie hash—extra onions. Reineke and Jenkinson huddled together at Jenkinson’s desk, Carmichael worked her ’link, Santiago scowled at his comp screen while Baxter strolled out from the break room with a jumbo mug of coffee.
Trueheart—she’d have to get used to seeing him out of uniform—earnestly worked his comp.
“Is there no crime on the streets?” she wondered.
“Hey, LT.” Reineke angled toward her. “We got one in Interview A. Letting him stew awhile. Asshole cut up his boss on the loading dock. Told the arresting officer the guy fell on his knife. Three times.”
“That’s a relief. I was worried we’d all be looking for new jobs. Peabody, run the hateful bitch’s husband, verify alibis.”
Santiago answered his desk ’link, held up a finger. “Yeah, yeah. Got it. On the way. We caught one,” he called to Carmichael. “Guy took flight out a window on the fourteenth floor on Sixth, went splat on a parked mini. And we remain gainfully employed.”
“Earn your pay,” Eve said, and started for her office. Baxter caught up with her just outside her door.
“We don’t have anything hot,” he began, “so I pulled a cold case, gave Trueheart the lead.”
Since she’d done the same with Peabody when her partner’s badge was new and sparkly, Eve nodded. “Good way to give him more experience, and maybe close a case.”
“He’s working it hard. Now I’ve got to school him in detective wardrobe.”
Eve looked over at Trueheart in his dark gray jacket, quiet blue tie. “He looks okay.”
Sort of clean and earnest, she thought. Like he was on his way to church.
Hmmm.
Baxter only shook his head. “I’ll work on it. We get anywhere on the cold one, I’ll let you know.”
Eve went in, hit the coffee, then updated her board and book, wrote up her notes. She copied Mira, unofficially.
After entering the data, she ran probabilities on each woman she’d questioned. As she suspected, the computer liked the ones without alibis.
“That’s the easy way,” she muttered and, with another cup of coffee, put her boots on her desk, sat, and studied.
Allyson Byson—off in the tropics. Potentially could have hired someone to take care of Edward Mira, but it just didn’t ring true. The kill was vicious and personal.
She made an additional note to verify Byson’s travel, any possible circling back to do the murder.
But there, she and the computer agreed. Dead low probability.
Carlee MacKensie. Jittery, came off pliable, harmless, on the weak side. No alibi, so the comp liked her. And here, Eve didn’t altogether disagree.
“Something a little off there, Carlee. Something not quite right. Too wide-eyed. I don’t think we got the full story from you. I don’t think you rang that truth bell.”
On to Lauren Canford. Total bitch, no two ways about that one. And Eve could see the woman in a violent outburst. She could see her planning a murder with care and cunning.
But . . . Eve didn’t sense passion. She didn’t sense the sort of attachment to or anger with the victim it took to torture and kill.
More the type to backbite—there was an expression that made sense. The type to go behind an enemy’s back and smear reps, plant gossip seeds.
Asha Coppola. Came off honest—if you overlooked the adultery. But largely honest. Screwed up, owned it, working to fix it. It played all the way through for Eve.
Then Charity Downing. Something there, Eve thought again. Something not quite what it seems. Something . . .
“Cagey,” Eve said out loud, studying the face on her board over the rim of her mug. “That’s what I got from you, Charity. You’re cagey. Your alibi’s going to hold up, too, and when it does, I’m inclined to take a look at your day-off pal.
“Lydia Su. Friends lie for friends. We’ll take a look because there was a lie in there somewhere. Some truth, but a lie buried in it.”
She set her mug aside, rearranged the board in her preference.
Charity Downing
Carlee MacKensie
Asha Coppola (maybe her husband wasn’t working on forgiving)
Lauren Canford
She’d have a ’link interview with Allyson Byson, but suspected that name would replace Canford’s at the bottom of her list.
Artist, freelance writer, nonprofit marketing manager, lobbyist, society type.
“Didn’t have a type, did you, Edward? It was more looks and availability. And age. Average age of this group is—shit, math. I don’t know . . . early thirties. And that’s just this group. Bound to be more. What if—”
“Sorry, Dallas.” Peabody rapped knuckles on the doorjamb. “Edward Mira—that’s junior—and Gwendolyn Mira Sykes are here. They want to talk to you—us.”
“Saves us the trip. Set them up in an Interview room. We’ll keep it strictly official.”
“I think B’s open. I’ll take them down.”
Eve nodded, looked back at her board. But her focus had shifted, so she pushed up from her desk. She’d see what the vic’s children, and likely top beneficiaries, had to say.
She walked out, saw Baxter had pulled his chair over to Trueheart’s desk. She didn’t know if they were discussing new angles on the cold case or the cut of a suit, the weight of fabric.
Didn’t, at that point, want to know.
She headed toward the Interview area, saw Peabody coming out of B.
“I’m getting her a sparkling water, him a Coke.”
Eve dug in her pockets for enough to cover it. “Get me a tube of Pepsi, and whatever you want. Official, but pleasant.”
“They’re a little bit wrecked, Dallas. Pushing through it, but you can see it. And they’re a solid unit—really tight.”
“Okay.”
She stepped in, and though she’d already viewed their ID shots, it still struck her that Edward Junior had Dennis Mira’s dreamy green eyes.
He wore his dark hair long enough to pull back in a stub of a tail—as Roarke habitually did when in serious work mode. He had a strong, handsome face—she could see the resemblance to his father—and wore scarred work boots, jeans, and a red-and-black plaid shirt.
His sister had taken her looks from the mother—statuesque and striking despite the reddened eyes. She wore a dark suit, dark tights, and flashy red ankle boots with skyscraper heels.
They sat at the battered Interview table holding hands.
The brother gave the sister’s hand a squeeze, and stood as Eve closed the door.
“Mr. Mira, Mrs. Sykes, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s Ned. Ned and Gwen.” His voice was rough and strained. “Thanks for talking to us, for making the time so quickly. Dennis told us you were working hard to find—to find our father’s killer. We don’t want to get in the way.”