"No record of another woman?" Eve pursed her lips. "What about another guy?"
"Nope, no dates either way, and no indication of bisexuality."
"Interesting. Run the office logs, McNab. I wonder if Lissy my love was lying about her motive, and if so, why she killed him."
"I'm on it." As he strolled out, he paused just long enough to throw Peabody a loud, exaggerated kiss.
"He is such a complete asshole."
"Maybe he irritates you, Peabody—"
"There's no maybe involved."
"But he was smart enough to see that his report might change a few angles on this case."
The idea of McNab dipping his toe into one of her cases, again, had Peabody bristling. "But the Cooke case is closed. The perpetrator confessed, has been charged, booked, and bonded."
"She got man two. If it wasn't a crime of passion, maybe we get more. It's worth finding out if Branson was bouncing on somebody on the side or if she made that up to cover another motive. We'll take a run over to his office later today, ask some questions. Meanwhile…" She wagged her curled fingers toward the disc Peabody still held.
"Detective Sally's primary," Peabody began as she handed Eve the disc. "He's got no problem cooperating. Basically because he's got nothing. The body'd been in the river at least thirty-six hours before discovery. He's got no witnesses. The victim wasn't carrying any cash or credits, but he did have ID and credit cards. He was wearing a wrist unit—Carder knockoff but a good one—so Sally ruled out a standard mugging, especially when the autopsy didn't turn up a tongue."
"There's a clue," Eve muttered and slid the disc into a slot on her unit.
"ME's report indicates the tongue was severed with a serrated blade, premortem. However, lacerations and bruising at the back of the neck, and the lack of defensive indicate the victim was probably knocked unconscious before the impromptu surgery, then dumped in the river. They strapped his hands and feet before giving him the toss. Drowning's down as cause of death."
Eve tapped her fingers. "Any reason I should bother reading this report?" she asked and earned a grin.
"Detective Sally was talkative. I don't think he'd struggle if you wanted to take the case. He pointed out that since the victim lived in New York, it's a toss-up right now if he was killed here or on the other side of the river."
"I'm not taking the case, I'm just looking at it. You run Arlington?"
"Everything that popped is on side B of the disc."
"Fine. I'll skim through, then we'll head over to Branson's office."
Eve narrowed her eyes as a tall, gangly man in worn jeans and an ancient parka hesitated at her doorway. Early twenties, she judged, with a look of such open innocence in eyes of dreamy gray she could already hear the street thieves and hustlers lining up to pluck his pockets clean.
He had the thin, bony face she associated with martyrs or scholars, and brown hair worn in a smooth tail and liberally streaked from the sun.
His smile was slow and shy.
"Looking for someone?" Eve began. At the question, Peabody turned, gaped, then let out what could only be called a squeal.
"Hey, Dee." His voice creaked, as if he used it rarely.
"Zeke! Oh wow, Zeke!" She took one vaulting leap and jumped into long, welcoming arms.
The sight of Peabody in her ruthlessly pressed uniform with her regulation shoes dangling inches off the floor while she giggled—it was the only word to describe the sound—and pressed cheerful kisses onto the long face of the man who held her had Eve slowly rising to her feet.
"What are you doing here?" Peabody demanded. "When did you get here? Oh, it's so good to see you. How long can you stay?"
"Dee," was all he said, and hauled her up another inch to press his lips to her cheek.
"Excuse me." Well aware how quickly tongues could wag in the unit, Eve stepped forward. "Officer Peabody, I suggest you have this little reunion on your personal time."
"Oh, sorry. Put me down, Zeke." But she kept an arm wrapped possessively around him even when her feet hit the floor. "Lieutenant, this is Zeke."
"I got that far."
"My brother."
"Oh yeah?" Eve took another look, searching for family resemblance. There was none—not body type, not coloring, not in features. "Nice to meet you."
"Didn't mean to interrupt." Zeke flushed a little and held out a big hand. "Dee's had lots of good things to say about you, Lieutenant."
"Glad to hear it." Eve found her hand lost inside one the consistency of granite and as gentle as silk. "So which one are you?"
"Zeke's the baby," Peabody said with such adoration Eve had to grin.
"Some baby. What are you, about six-six?"
"And a quarter," he said with a shy smile.
"He takes after our father. They're both tall and skinny." Peabody gave her brother a fierce squeeze. "Zeke's a wood artist. He builds the most beautiful furniture and cabinets."
"Come on. Dee." The flush became a blush. "I'm just a carpenter. Handy with tools, that's all."
"There's a lot of that going around lately," Eve murmured.
"Why didn't you tell me you were coming to New York?" Peabody demanded.
"Wanted to surprise you. Didn't know for sure I'd come until a couple of days ago."
He stroked a hand over her hair in a way that made Eve think of relationships again. Some weren't about sex or power or control. Some were just about love.
"I got a commission to custom-build cabinets from these people who saw my work back in Arizona."
"That's great. How long will it take?"
"Don't know till they're done."
"Okay, well, you'll stay at my place. I'll get you the key and tell you how to get there. You'll take the subway." She gnawed her lip. "Don't go wandering around, Zeke. It's not like home. Are you carrying your money and ID in your back pocket, because—"
"Peabody." Eve held up a finger for attention. "Take the rest of the day on personal time, get your brother settled in."
"I don't want to be any trouble," Zeke began.
"You'll be more trouble if she's worried about you getting mugged six times before you get to her apartment." Eve added a smile to soften it, though she'd already decided the guy had M for mark all over his face. "Things are slow here, anyway."
"The Cooke case."
"I think I can handle it solo," Eve said mildly. "Anything pops, I'll tag you. Go show Zeke the wonders of New York."
"Thanks, Dallas." Peabody took her brother's hand, vowing that she'd make sure he didn't see the seamier side of those wonders.
"Nice to've met you, Lieutenant."
"You, too." She watched them go off, Zeke bending his body slightly toward Peabody as she bubbled with sisterly affection.
Families, Eve mused. They continued to baffle her. But it was nice to see that, occasionally, they worked.
• • •
"Everyone loved J. C." Chris Tipple, Branson's executive assistant, was a man of about thirty with hair approximately the same shade as the swollen red rims of his eyes. Even now he wept unashamedly, tears trickling down his chubby, pleasant face. "Everyone."
Which might have been the problem, Eve mused, and waited once again while Chris scrubbed his cheeks with his crumpled handkerchief. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"It's just impossible to believe he won't come through that door." His breath hitched as he stared at the closed door of the big, bright office suite. "Ever again. Everyone's in shock. When B. D. made the announcement this morning, no one could speak."
He pressed the handkerchief to his mouth as if his voice had failed him again.
B. Donald Branson, the victim's brother and partner, Eve knew, and waited for Chris to finish.
"You want some water, Chris? A soother?"
"I've taken a soother. It doesn't seem to help. We were very close." Mopping his streaming eyes, Chris didn't notice Eve's look of consideration. "You had a personal relationship?"
"Oh yes. I'd been
with J. C. for nearly eight years. He was much more than my employer. He was…he was like a father to me. Pardon me."
Obviously overcome, he buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. J. C. wouldn't want me to fall apart this way. It doesn't help. But I can't—I don't think any of us can take it in. We're closing down for a week. The whole operation. Offices, factories, everything. The memorial…" He trailed off, struggling. "The memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow."
"Quick."
"J. C. wouldn't have wanted it to be drawn out. How could she have done it?" He fisted the damp cloth in his hand, staring blindly at Eve. "How could she have done it, Lieutenant? J. C. adored her."
"You know Lisbeth Cooke?"
"Of course."
He rose to pace, and Eve could only be grateful. It was difficult to watch a grown man grieve while he was sitting in a chair shaped like a pink elephant. Then again, she was sitting in a purple kangaroo.
It was obvious, with one look at the late J. Clarence Branson's office, that he'd enjoyed indulging in his own toys. The shelves lining one wall were loaded with them, from the simple remote-control space station to the series of multitask minidroids.
Eve did her best not to look at their lifeless eyes and small-scale bodies. It was too easy to imagine them popping to life and…well, God knew what.
"Tell me about her, Chris."
"Lisbeth." He sighed heavily, then in an absent gesture adjusted the sunshade tint on the wide window behind the desk. "She's a beautiful woman. You'd have seen that for yourself. Smart, capable, ambitious. Demanding, but J. C. didn't mind that. He told me once if he didn't have a demanding woman, he'd end up puttering and playing his life away."
"They spent a lot of time together?"
"Two evenings a week, sometimes three. Wednesdays and Saturdays were standard—dinner with theater or a concert. Any social event that required his presence or hers, and Monday lunch—twelve-thirty to two. A three-week vacation every August wherever Lisbeth wanted to go, and five weekend getaways through the year."
"Sounds pretty regimented."
"Lisbeth insisted on that. She wanted conditions spelled out and obligations on both sides clear-cut and in order. I think she understood J. C's mind tended to wander, and she wanted his full attention when they were together."
"Any other part of him tend to wander?"
"Excuse me?"
"Was J. C. involved with anyone else?"
"Involved—romantically? Absolutely not."
"How about just sexually?"
Chris's round face stiffened, the puffy eyes went cool. "If you're insinuating that J. Clarence Branson was unfaithful to the woman he'd made a commitment to, nothing could be more false. He was devoted to her. And he was loyal."
"You can be sure of that? Without question?"
"I made all of his arrangements, all professional and personal appointments."
"Couldn't he have made some of his own, on the side?"
"It's insulting." Chris's voice rang out. "The man is dead, and you're sitting there accusing him of being a liar and a cheat."
"I'm not accusing him of anything," Eve corrected calmly. "I'm asking. It's my responsibility to ask, Chris. And to get him whatever justice I can."
"I don't like how you go about it." He turned away again. "J. C. was a good man, an honest man. I knew him, his habits, his moods. He wouldn't have entered into some illicit affair, and certainly couldn't have done so without my knowledge."
"Okay, so tell me about Lisbeth Cooke. What would she have to gain by killing him?"
"I don't know. He treated her like a princess, gave her everything she could possibly want. She killed the golden goose."
"The what?"
"Like in the story." He nearly smiled now. "The goose that laid the golden eggs. He was happy to give her whatever she wanted, and more. Now he's dead. No more golden eggs."
Unless, Eve thought as she left the office, she'd wanted all the eggs at one time.
She knew as she already consulted the animated map in the lobby that B. Donald Branson's office was at the opposite end of this level from his brother's. Hoping to find him in, she headed down. Many of the stations were unmanned, most of the glass doors locked with the offices behind them dark and empty.
The building itself seemed to be grieving.
At regular intervals, holograph screens were set up to show off Branson Tools and Toys' new or favored products. She stopped at one, watching with equal parts amusement and dismay as a uniformed beat cop action-droid returned a lost child to his tearfully grateful mother.
The cop faced the screen, its face sober and trustworthy, his uniform as severely pressed as Peabody's. "It's our job to serve and protect."
Then the image pulled back, spun slowly to give the viewer a three-sixty view of the product and accessories while the computer's voice stated product and pricing details. A street thief action-droid with airskates was offered as a companion piece.
Shaking her head, Eve turned away. She wondered if the company produced LC droid figures, or illegals dealers. Maybe a couple of psychopaths just to keep the game interesting. Then, of course, you'd need victim-droids.
Jesus.
The clear glass doors opened as Eve approached. A pale and weary-eyed woman manned a sleek U-shaped console and fielded calls on a privacy headset.
"Thank you very much. Your call is being recorded and your condolences will be passed on to the family. Mr. Branson's memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow, at two o'clock at Quiet Passages, Central Park South. Yes, it's a great shock. A great loss. Thank you for calling."
She swiveled the mouthpiece aside and offered Eve a sober smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Branson isn't available. These offices will be closed until Tuesday of next week."
Eve took out her badge. "I'm primary on his brother's homicide. Is he in?"
"Oh, Lieutenant." The woman touched her fingers briefly to her eyes, then rose. "One moment, please."
She slipped gracefully from behind the console, then after a quick knock on a tall white door, disappeared inside. Eve heard the soft beep of incoming calls from the multiline 'link, then the door opened again.
"Please come in, Lieutenant. Mr. Branson will see you. Is there anything I can get you?"
"No, I'm fine."
She entered the office. The first thing she noticed was that it was dramatically opposed to J. C.'s. This was cool colors, sleek lines, rich sophistication. No silly animal chairs or grinning droid dolls. Here the muted grays and blues were designed to soothe. And the wide surface of the desk, uncluttered with gadgets, clear for business.
B. Donald Branson stood behind that desk. He didn't have the bulk of his brother but was slim in a sleekly tailored suit. His hair was a dull gold, slicked back from a high forehead. Eyebrows, thick and peaked, were shades darker over tired eyes of pale green.
"Lieutenant Dallas, it's kind of you to come in person." His voice was as quiet and soothing as the room. "I meant to contact you, to thank you for your kindness when you called last night to inform me of my brother's death."
"I'm sorry to intrude at this time, Mr. Branson."
"No, please. Sit down. We're all trying to deal with it."
"I gather your brother was well liked."
"Loved," he corrected as they took their seats. "It was impossible not to love J. C. That's why it's so hard to imagine him gone, and in this way. Lisbeth, she was like part of the family. My God." He looked away for a moment, trying to compose himself.
"I'm sorry," he managed. "What can I do for you?"
"Mr. Branson, let me get this over with as quickly as I can. Ms. Cooke claims she discovered your brother was involved with another woman."
"What? That's absurd." Branson dismissed the idea with one angry wave of his hand. "J. C. was devoted to Lisbeth. He never looked at another woman."
"If that's true, why would she have killed him? Did they quarrel often, violently?"
"J. C. couldn't maintain an argumen
t for five minutes," Branson said wearily. "It just wasn't in him. He had no violence, and he certainly was no womanizer."
"You don't believe he could have been interested in someone else?"
"If he was—which is difficult to believe—he would have told Lisbeth. He would have been honest with her and dissolved their relationship before starting another. J. C. had almost childishly honest standards."
"If I accept that, then I'm looking for motive. You and your bother were co-presidents. Who inherits his share?"
"I do." He folded his hands on the desk. "Our grandfather founded this company. J. C. and I have been at the helm together over thirty years. In our business agreement it's stipulated that the survivor or the survivor's heirs inherit the partnership."
"Could he have designated any portion of it to Lisbeth Cooke?"
"Not of the company, no. We have a contract."
"Of his personal funds and holdings, then."
"Certainly, he'd be free to designate any or all of his personal estate to whomever he pleased."
"Would we be talking substantial?"
"Yes, I believe we would say substantial." Then he shook his head. "You think she killed him for money? I can't believe that. He was always very generous with her, and Lisbeth is—was—a well-paid member of this company. Money shouldn't have been an issue."
"It's an angle," was all Eve said. "I'd like the name of his lawyer, and I'd appreciate it if you'd clear it so I can have the terms of the will."
"Yes, of course." He tapped a finger on the top of his desk and the center drawer slid open. "I have one of Suzanna's business cards right here. I'll contact her right away," he added, rising as Eve did to hand her the card. "Tell her to give you whatever information you need."
"I appreciate your cooperation."
Eve checked her wrist unit as she left. She could probably hook up with the lawyer by mid-afternoon, she decided. And since she had some time, why not juggle in a trip to Fixer's shop?
*** CHAPTER THREE ***
Peabody shifted two of the three bags of groceries and foodstuffs she'd stopped off for on the trip home and dug out her key. She'd loaded up on fresh fruits and vegetables, soy mix, tofu, dried beans, and the brown rice she'd disliked since childhood.