“I thought you were a lawyer. A legal and financial consultant—estate-law specialist.”
“That’s duty, not passion. I’m the oldest son of two great legal minds, and I did what was expected of me. Quite well, too, if I say so myself. I do continue to serve clients, but I’ve cut back considerably, and take time to write.”
“Your brother’s in the military.”
“Goodness, you know quite a lot, too. Yes, second son, semper fi. A Marine like our grandfather, our uncle—also second sons. Lawyers and soldiers populate my family. We’re not allowed to be lazy and suck, you could say, on the family money teat. We earn our way, unlike Mr. Banks, from what I hear.”
Rather than answer, Eve glanced around. “You have a lot of art.”
“Another passion. What’s life without art, after all? Dull and gray and flat. You must agree,” he said to the currently colorful Peabody.
“I do, completely. I guess you know Banks owned the Banks Gallery—an art gallery.”
“Yes, but owning and working are different things, wouldn’t you say?” He added a sly smile. “I’m told he didn’t put much effort into the working end of the matter. I must stroll in there one day just to see what I see. I imagine he has a nice collection himself. Is it true someone broke into his apartment? That’s the rumor, but no one can confirm. Apparently the place is all sealed up. Like a crime scene.”
“We need to keep people out of a victim’s residence,” Peabody evaded. “Until we’re sure we’ve gathered any possible evidence.”
“Of course. That’s very sensible.”
Peabody studied the art. “Do you have any Angelo Richie’s?”
“Oh.” Wirely slapped a hand on his chest. “That is a tragedy. A true tragedy. When I heard about the bombing at the Salon, I nearly collapsed. I’ve bought several paintings there. I deal through the lovely Ilene as we struck an immediate simpatico—though I knew Wayne. I’m sick, just sick to think he’s gone. And Angelo Richie, such a talent. Do you know I planned to attend his opening last night? My current beau is out of town, but I planned to attend with several friends.
“I don’t understand a world where people would torment a good man like Wayne, a loving husband and father. In all truth hold a weapon to a little boy’s head so the father sacrifices himself. Kills others. A blazing talent in its youth like Richie, the others. The art.”
He dug out a silk handkerchief, dabbed damp eyes. “The second time in a week, they say on the reports. Another father, more death. It’s not a world I understand when there’s such beauty and joy to be taken and shared.”
“Yeah. Since you shared an interest in art, I’m surprised you never met Banks. Same building, same interest.”
“And now I never will.”
“Why don’t you tell us where you were on the night of the murder. From eight Monday night until four Tuesday morning.”
Those avid green eyes widened, and once again Wirely slapped a hand to his chest. “I’m a suspect? Why this is marvelous! I know, I know, it shouldn’t be, but it simply is. An old queen like me, a murder suspect. Should you read me my rights?”
“Do you want me to?”
“It would be exciting, but it’s not at all necessary. I was at home—though I did pop down to see Milicent and Gary. They’re in 4904. Lovely people. We had a drink and a visit. I think it was about eight when I went down. I’m sure I was back here by nine-thirty as I wanted to make myself a snack and watch Valley of Tears. I’m just addicted to that show, and its first run of the new episode came on at ten.”
Pausing, he tapped a finger to his chin. “Let me see now, after that—elevenish, I wrote for an hour as I expected a call from my beau at midnight, or shortly after. He’s on tour—with Ankah. I met him through Ankah, they’re musicians. My beau is a cellist. He’s adorable. We talked for nearly two hours, then I snuggled right in and went to sleep. I stayed in until, oh, about noon the next day. I had lunch with friends at Bistro on Madison.”
“That’s a long conversation, two hours.”
“Well, it wasn’t all talk.” He gave Eve a smile as silky as his handkerchief. “We—how to explain delicately—pleasured each other remotely. It’s a five-week tour, after all.”
“I need your friend’s name.”
“Nigel Tudor. He’s adorable, as I said, and would certainly confirm. But I did record our . . . conversation. Audio and video. For the lonely nights? It’s time stamped. I can make a copy if that helps.”
“We’ll just talk to Nigel, thanks. His contact?”
Wirely rattled it off. “Do give him my love.”
“Okay. How about the weekend prior?”
“Well, Nigel left for tour on Saturday, so we had a gathering Friday night for him and Ankah. I suppose we said goodbye to our last guest about one in the morning. Then Nigel and I . . .”
“Snuggled in,” Peabody suggested, and had him beaming at her.
“Yes, we did. My adorable beau and Ankah left at ten sharp on Saturday, and I confess I brooded for the next hour or so—before Pitty and Charo dropped by and dragged me off for a spa day to cheer me up. They’re delightful creatures, and we had a lovely day. We had cocktails afterward, and met some other friends for an early dinner before going to see the most dreadful play.”
He let out a sigh, shook his head. “Don’t go to see Goodbye, Jessica, Goodbye. Trust me. We went down to The Blue Note afterward for drinks and music to cleanse the palate. I don’t think I got home until after three. I did drag myself out to Hildago’s brunch on Sunday, about elevenish? Then I came home and stayed home. Got some writing done, took a nap, that sort of thing.”
“Okay. Thanks for your cooperation.”
“Absolutely my enormous pleasure. I can’t wait to see what you’re both wearing on the red carpet Sunday.”
“Her, not me.”
“Ah, well. I’ll look for you, Detective Peabody. I hope you’ll both come back. Remember, if there’s something I don’t know about someone in the building, I can probably find out.”
“We’ll keep that in mind.”
Eve stepped out, walked toward the elevator.
“You don’t want to check with Milicent and Gary and all the rest?” Peabody asked.
“He’s covered. He’s too smart to lie about something that easy to verify or tear down. And he’s no killer.”
“I liked him.”
“He’s sly, gossipy, and a self-proclaimed ‘old queen.’ I kind of liked him, too.”
They wrapped up three more, none of whom were as interesting or chatty as Wirely. As they headed for the next, Peabody pulled an energy bar out of her bag.
“I need a little . . . lift. Don’t want to say boost. Want?”
“What is it?”
“Ah, Fruity Nut Carbo Burst—with chia seeds and flax.”
“I thought they made sheets and underwear and stuff out of flax.”
“It’s a food and fiber plant.”
“You’re telling me you’re eating something that’s used to make underwear? Why not just gnaw on your own underwear?”
Peabody took a determined bite of the bar. “On days—which is most—we don’t stop for so much as a limp soy fry, it’s tempting.”
Eve stepped off the elevator, said, “Loose pants.”
“That’s an upside. It’s really chewy,” Peabody managed around the next bite of bar. “About three out of ten on the taste scale, but really chewy.”
“Swallow your underwear,” Eve ordered, and pressed the buzzer on the next apartment.
“Trying,” Peabody muttered as Eve studied the apartment security.
Not top grade, she noted, but close. And the comp response came smooth and female.
Good afternoon. Please state your name and the purpose of your visit.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD.” Eve held her badge up for the scan. “Police inquiry.”
Thank you. Your identification has been verified. Mr. Iler will be with you in a moment. Please wait.
Lucius Iler, Eve thought. Age forty-four, third-generation money—antique trade. No marriage, no offspring. Registered day trader. Brother (deceased), uncle, grandmother, two cousins, and a stepsister in the military.