“That is interesting. We’re going to want to talk to him.”
“We can try bringing him into Interview today, but this storm’s now predicted to dump fifteen to eighteen inches in the city, and the wind’s going to take it into blizzard territory before evening.”
“Who decides that?” Eve demanded, sorely irked at having the weather interfere with procedure. “Who decides this is the blizzard line, or fifteen to eighteen? Why not sixteen to nineteen?”
“The weather wizards?” Peabody suggested.
“Wizards, my ass. A real wizard would say you’re getting hammered with fifteen-point-six inches because I say so.”
“It’s going to be worse in the ’burbs—and I don’t know why,” Peabody said quickly. “But they’re already advising people to stay off the roads barring emergencies.”
“They can say whatever the hell they want. Nobody listens to them.”
Annoyed, she pulled into the garage entrance. The gate lifted as it scanned her license plate. Gate security flashed green as the computer engaged.
Good afternoon, Lieutenant Dallas. Your priority parking is Level One, Slot Two. Please turn right, proceed thirty-two feet.
“VIP,” Peabody said, executing a little shoulder bump.
Eve said nothing, simply drove into the slot. “What floor for the lawyer?” Eve asked.
“Wythe, Wythe, and Hudd have the entire eighteenth floor.”
Eve headed for the closest elevator. Before she could call for it, she noted the quick scan. This security comp spoke silkily.
Welcome, Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. You are cleared for all levels in express mode.
The doors opened, as did Peabody’s mouth until Eve shot a finger at her.
Peabody followed Eve into the elevator, mouthing VIP and doing the quick shoulder bump behind her partner’s back.
“Eighteen,” Eve ordered, and the elevator immediately began its smooth, rapid rise.
Law offices of Wythe, Wythe, and Hudd, the elevator announced, and seconds later, the doors opened.
A single female, with hair piled high and white like the snow outside, manned a long counter of all-business black. There were two empty stools flanking her, along with slick data and communication centers.
A standard, upscale waiting area spread on one side of the room. The other side held the surprising choice of potted dwarf trees, fruiting with little oranges and lemons, around a pair of black stone benches.
“Good afternoon.” The woman offered a quick, professional smile. “The traffic must be horrendous.”
“It isn’t good.” Eve laid her badge on the counter. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, to see Randall Wythe.”
“Yes, Detective Peabody arranged for an appointment. Just let me check with Mr. Wythe’s office.”
She tapped her earpiece. “Yes, Carson, the police officers are here for Mr. Wythe. Of course.” She tapped it again. “Mr. Wythe should be available shortly. His administrative assistant will come out to escort you back if you’d like to take a seat.”
“Okay. Where’s everybody else?” Eve gestured to the empty stools.
“We sent some of the staff home. This storm’s supposed to be a bruiser.”
“But you’re sticking it out.”
“I grew up in Wisconsin,” the woman said with an easy smile.
“I guess you see pretty much everyone who comes in. Have you met Daphne Strazza?”
The woman’s smile faded. “I haven’t, no. It’s terrible what happened. I hope she’s going to be all right.”
“She’s improving. You’ve met Dr. Strazza?”
“Yes, I have. He’s been a client for a very long time. Was, I should say.”
“Can you remember the last time he was in?”
“Not offhand, no. Some time ago. He and Mr. Wythe often meet at the club rather than here. Here’s Carson.”
Carson—skinny, long-necked, with short brown hair meticulously side parted—stepped through a wide doorway.
“Lieutenant, Detective, I’ll take you back to Mr. Wythe’s office. Ms. Midderman, Mr. Wythe said to tell you to switch to auto on the desk anytime you want to leave today.”
“Thank you, Carson, I’m fine for now.”
They followed Carson’s long, somewhat gawky strides down a wide corridor of offices, hushed as a church, past a meeting room or law library where a couple of young staffers huddled over laptops and talked in reverent whispers.
They turned beyond a break room, complete with kitchen and Vending, and continued down to glossy wood doors.
Carson knocked, waited for a quick buzz before pushing the pocket doors open.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, Mr. Wythe.”
“Yes, yes. Carson, get us some lattes, then cancel anything I have for the rest of the day. I’m damn well going home.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carson went through a side doorway. Wythe leaned back in the big leather chair behind his massive desk, sizing up his visitors.
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