Peabody, puffing a bit, caught up with her at the elevator. “Did we get a break?”
“Maybe. Wymann’s admin spoke with him at three, so he was still at home and under no duress. But he had an appointment at four, at home, with a biographer. Cecily Anson.”
“We’ve got a name.”
“Name, address, basic data. She’s late fifties, so old for the vic’s taste, and since she’s got a wife probably not sexually oriented to be his sidepiece. Got a grown daughter who might be, and a place in SoHo. We’ll hit that before we go talk to Lydia Su.”
Peabody pulled on a hat—candy green with icy blue edging. “It doesn’t feel like they’d leave us such a direct line.”
“No, it doesn’t. But whoever kept that four o’clock is likely the one who abducted, tortured, and killed him. Check in with Morris. Let’s see if he can give us a ballpark on when Wymann incurred the injuries. And let’s get some uniforms back out, canvassing neighbors with that specific time frame. It might spark something.”
Within two minutes the elevator was jammed with cops, sad-eyed civilians, and a couple of shady characters Eve made as cops undercover.
But she stuck it out, telling herself the stupid elevator would be quicker than the glides.
“I got more names from Gwen Sykes—tight friends. We’re going to talk to them—in person or by ’link.”
“You think they’ll try for three?”
“We’re not going to risk it. Two go back to Yale where they and the two vics had a group house together. That may prove interesting. The other made pals with the senator when they were both in East Washington. Senator Fordham.”
She muscled off the elevator at her garage level, sucked in air. In the car she plugged in the Anson-Vine address, considered her options, then contacted Whitney as she drove out.
“Sir,” she began. “I had additions to the report I sent on Jonas Wymann. Peabody and I are en route to interview a person of interest. Earlier I spoke with Senator Mira’s daughter and she gave me three names, close friends of her father. While we will contact them, one is Senator Fordham. I believe his security detail and staff should be informed of a possible threat.”
“Agreed. I’ll see to it.”
“Commander, I may need to interview Fordham, and under the circumstances, I can’t be overly delicate about it.”
“Understood. But some delicacy will be called for. Either I or Chief Tibble will set up the interview if and when it’s necessary. I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jeez.” Peabody goggled. “You really think a sitting senator is involved in some sort of sex club? If that’s what’s going on. I mean . . . What am I saying?” Peabody shook her head. “Sex and politics, right?”
“I don’t think the sex has anything to do with politics. It’s brotherhood. It’s power. Do a run on the names I’ve got. Frederick Betz and Marshall Easterday. Both Yale alumni, same time frame as our two vics. All four sharing a house during college. Find out if Fordham went to Yale.”
She navigated traffic while Peabody worked, spied a street spot and bagged it.
“Betz,” Peabody told her. “As in Betz Chemicals—everything from household cleaners to rocket fuel. He’s third generation. Stands as current president. Currently on wife number three, who’s younger than his youngest daughter at twenty-nine. They’ve been married three years. He has four kids, including a three-year-old courtesy of the current wife.
“Why would a guy cruising seventy want to procreate?”
“Must I repeat?” Eve asked. “The penis.”
“Okay, the penis has no shame. Easterday, Marshall. Lawyer, and that’s third generation. Senior partner of Easterday, Easterday, and Louis. On wife number two, but that’s stuck for . . . fifteen years, and she’s actually fifty-two. Two kids, both from the first marriage. Daughter is the second Easterday in the firm. Son is a neurosurgeon in Philadelphia.”
“Okay, we’ll roll on them this morning.”
“And Fordham went to Ole Miss—no Yale connection.”
Eve got out of the car, studied the five-story building. The old post-Urban squat and square had been refaced, whitewashed. The double-wide entrance doors looked old in a rich, important way, but she noted on closer inspection they were reinforced steel, done up with some illusionary fancy paint.
The security was first-rate.
“Anson has the first floor.” Eve considered, pressed the buzzer for the main floor unit.
It took a minute, then a sleepy female voice came through the speaker. “It’s way too early for anything you’re selling.”
Eve held up her badge. “NYPSD,” she began.
“Mike? Is it Mike? Oh God.”
Before Eve could answer, the buzzer for the locks sounded. As she pushed open the door, a woman came flying out of a door at the end of a smart-looking foyer.
Heavily pregnant, barefoot, and clad in penguin-covered pajamas, she moved with astonishing speed.
“Something happened to Mike.” She grabbed Eve’s shoulders in a vise-grip, her big brown eyes glassy with fear. “Tell me fast.”
“We’re not here about Mike. Take a breath.”
“You’re sure? It’s not Mike.” She pressed a hand to her swollen belly, swayed a little.
Peabody caught her arm. “Ma’am, let’s go sit down, okay?”
“You’re not grief counselors? You’re not making a notification?”
“Nothing like that at all.” Peabody used her most soothing voice as she gently steered the woman around.
“Sorry. It’s probably hormones. Everything’s hormones right now. It’s just Mike—my fiancé—he’s on the job, so I thought . . . whoosh. Yeah, let’s just sit down.”
“You’re not Cecily Anson,” Eve said as Peabody supported the woman into the door of a living area as smart as the foyer.
“No, she’s my mother. Oh God, did something happen to the Moms?”
“No.” Eve said it firmly before hormones could kick in again. “As far as we know, everyone’s fine. Lillith?”
“Yes.” Lillith levered herself into a big red chair in the middle of the smart space and bold colors. She shoved a hand through a mass of curling brown hair. “Lil, mostly. And I’m sorry for the hysteria. I know better. I’m carrying a cop’s kid, after all.” She smiled—a dazzler—and some color came back into her face. “Mike Bennet—Detective Bennet, out of Central. Maybe you know him.”
“I do.” Judging the crisis had passed, Peabody sat down. “He’s a good guy.”
“He really is.”
“How far along are you?”
“Just hit thirty-one weeks, so I’ve a ways to go.” Lillith folded her hands on the penguin-covered mountain. “I don’t know how.”
Neither did Eve. Could that mountain actually get bigger? How was it possible?
“Is your mother at home?” she asked.
“No. The Moms are in Adelaide—Australia. Mike and I have the third floor, but we’re having some remodeling done due to . . .” She patted the mountain. “So we’re staying here while they’re away. He’s on nights right now. He should be home pretty soon. Sorry, can I get you something?”
“We’re good. How long has Ms. Anson been out of the country?”
“Just over three weeks. They’ll be back next week, plenty of time to fuss over me before the baby comes. What’s this about? I should’ve asked that right away.”
“Do you know if Ms. Anson is working on, or planning to work on, a biography of Jonas Wymann—the economist?”
Lillith frowned, absently rubbed her mountain. “I don’t think so. She’s working on a bio of Marcus Novack right now. That’s why they’re in Australia. He built schools and health centers in the Outback. She sometimes has something else in the works—or in the planning stage—but I never heard her mention that name.”
“Taking a monthlong trip to Australia takes some planning, I guess.” Peabody kept her voice, her smile easy. “They must’ve been planning it for a while.”
“Since last summer, though Mike and I had to convince them to go. I had to swear I wouldn’t go into labor until they got back. Look, I’m steady now, and like I said, engaged to a cop. What’s this Wymann have to do with my mother?”