Calculated in Death

  Peabody slid into the car, stared at Eve. “Have you met my granny, because that’s exactly what she’d do. That’s brilliant.”

  “That’s why I’m the LT, and you’re not.”

  “Too true. Are you going to eat all your bread?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Peabody pulled out her PPC again, and went to work trying to locate Candida Mobsley.

  “She’s in town,” Peabody reported, “according to her personal assistant. Her appointment calendar is full, I didn’t say cop. I didn’t say I wasn’t a cop, but saying cop would’ve maybe had her blowing before we get to her.”

  “At last, some guile.”

  “It must’ve been the soup.”

  • • •

  Eve parked in Midtown. The sleet had eased off, but the cold held tight. She blessed the soup for keeping her bones warm as they moved into a towering office building.

  She badged security, gave her destination, and squeezed her way onto an elevator.

  “Dallas, there are over two thousand Maxima Cargos—’59 and ’60 with New York registrations. More than double that if we include New Jersey.”

  “Dark color. Black, dark blue, dark gray.”

  “That is just dark colors.”

  “Try using the Blue Steel interior to eliminate.” She considered Harpo’s report on the factory sealant. “And stick with 2060 models for now.”

  Eighteen crowded floors later, she pushed off, strode to the menu of choices. “WIN Group.” She pointed, took a left jog, found the nameplate on a set of double doors.

  “Over eight hundred registered,” Peabody reported. “New York alone.”

  “We’ll do a standard search and match with the names we have. If nothing pops, we widen it out.”

  She pushed through the doors. Inside the small reception area they’d gone for energy—lots of reds, bright whites, chrome. The smoldering brunette behind the counter offered a slow, liquid smile.

  “May I help you?”

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.” She set her badge on the counter.

  “Oh, this is about that poor woman Brad found last night. Did you find out who mugged her?”

  “We need to see Mr. Whitestone,” Eve said.

  “Of course. Sorry. He’s really shaken up about it.” She tapped her earpiece. “Brad? The police are here. Yes, Lieutenant Dallas. I will.” She tapped again. “I’ll take you back to his office. Would you like anything?”

  She might never want anything again after the soup. “We’re fine. Are Mr. Whitestone’s partners available?”

  “Jake’s at a business lunch and should be back by two. He has a two-thirty. Rob’s in with a client. I can let his assistant know you’re here if you need to speak with him.”

  “Do that.”

  Before she could open the door, Whitestone stepped out. Like Lorraine’s his shirt was crisp and white. His suit perfectly tailored. But shadows dogged his eyes.

  “Thanks, Marie. Lieutenant, Detective, I hope you’re here to tell me you found the mugger.” He stepped back to let them into a small, slick office. A good window, she noted, a counter for an AC and a minifriggie. Contemporary art, a glossy black workstation, and a couple of visitors’ chairs in that energetic red.

  “We’ve confirmed that Marta Dickenson was killed inside your apartment—”

  “What? Inside?”

  “It wasn’t a mugging. When’s the last time you were in the apartment?”

  “I—” He sat down. “Day before yesterday. I went by to talk to the crew supervisor about a couple of details.”

  “Name.”

  “Jasper Milk. Milk and Sons Contractors. They’re third generation. They’re artists. And they’re reputable. They always secure the building. We have an alarm system.”

  “Yes. I saw it. Who has the codes?”

  “I do, Jasper. My partners. And, ah, the designer. Sasha Kirby. City Style. If this person broke in—”

  “There’s no sign of a break-in.”

  Eve watched his expression change, shift from puzzlement to understanding, then to stubborn denial.

  “Listen, I trust, absolutely, everyone who has the code, who has access. I don’t see how anyone could have gotten inside my apartment.”

  “Evidence doesn’t lie, Mr. Whitestone.”

  “Maybe not, but it sure as hell doesn’t make any sense. That’s a brand-new system.”

  “Brewer, Kyle, and Martini. Accounting firm, auditors. The victim worked for them, and there’s some cross between the clients of your firm and theirs.”

  He no longer looked puzzled or stubborn, but slightly ill. “I don’t know that name offhand. I can have my admin check, but—if you tell me the clients we have in common—”

  “Peabody.”

  At the ready, Peabody reeled off the short list of cross-matches she’d already found.

  “Those aren’t mine. I recognize Abner Wheeler. He’s one of Jake’s. And Blacksford Corporation, that’s one of Rob’s. Those I’m sure of, but to confirm any others, I’d need to check files, or talk to Rob and Jake.”

  “We’re going to need to speak with your partners.”

  “Absolutely. I don’t understand. Why would anyone use our new place to kill that woman?”

  “Good question,” Eve responded.

  WHITESTONE TOOK THEM INTO A SMALL CONFERENCE room, apologizing for its size and sparseness.

  “It’s one of the reasons we invested in the new building. We need the space. We’ve been moving some things over here and there, so we’re in flux right now.”

  “It’s no problem. Business must be good.”

  “It is.” His face lit up. “We’ve been growing steadily, building a solid client base, a good reputation. And the building uptown has character, looks important. Perception’s reality in finance.”

  “In a lot of things.”

  “Let me hunt up Jake and Rob.”

  “Before you do, why don’t you give me a little backstory. How long have you been partners?”

  “Officially? We’re finishing our fifth year. Rob and I went to college together. We invested in our first property our first year of grad school, this dumpy little retail space on the Lower West Side.”

  He relaxed as he spoke, and nostalgia clung to the edges of his tone. “His idea, and he had to talk me into it. I like money,” he said with a grin, “I like the deal, calculating risk and reward, and I was cautious about investing in a little commercial space. Rob wouldn’t give up until I threw in with him. Best decision I ever made, because it jump-started us as a team. We worked like dogs on that place, did most of the work ourselves, and I learned a lot about sweat equity. When we flipped it, made a nice profit, we dumped most of that profit in the market, as partners, played the market together, made some more.”

  “It sounds like you worked well together.”

  “We did, and do. After college I went to work for Prime Financial, and he worked for Allied, but we’d get together and talk about forming our own company. Rob met Jake at Allied, and the three of us just clicked. The three of us bought another place together. Once we turned it, we had what we called the WIN investment fund. We started this place with it. Jake’s uncle—he’s the Ingersol in Ingersol-Williams Corp—gave us one of his subsidiaries to manage, and my father let us take over the management of a small lead trust and we were off and running.”

  “It’s good to work with friends,” Eve said simply. “If you can find yours, we’ll get this done and out of your way.”

  “Give me a minute. Oh, help yourself to coffee or whatever. The coffee’s good here.”

  Maybe, Eve thought, and decided to check it out by programming a cup for herself and one for Peabody. “He’s enthusiastic,” Eve commented.

  “Yeah, but if you’re no
t excited about your work, life’s crap.”

  “He also doesn’t strike me as a moron, which he’d have to be if he arranged or took part in the killing, set it up in what will be his apartment, then, oops, discovers the body.”

  “If he wanted the attention, wanted to put himself inside the investigation.”

  Eve shook her head. “Not him, and not this murder. This was a hit, not a mission.” She narrowed her eyes as she tried the coffee. “This is Roarke’s blend.”

  “Oh God. Our own small miracle.”

  “Business is good,” Eve said again.

  Whitestone came back in. “Rob’s just finishing up with a client, and he’ll be right in. Jake’s heading back from a lunch meeting. It shouldn’t be long. Do you need me to stay? I’ve got a client coming in, but I can reschedule.”

  “I think we have what we need from you for now.”

  “All right. Listen, I know it sounds crass, but can you give me an idea when the crew can get back into the apartment? I’m just trying to work out a time line.”

  “We should be able to clear it by the end of the day, tomorrow latest.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’d advise you to change the codes, and to be very careful who you give them to in the future.”

  “You can count on it. And here’s Rob. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, Robinson Newton.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.”

  He strode into the room covered in an aura of absolute confidence with hints of power. She recognized the combination. Roarke had it—in spades. Robinson Newton cultivated the aura with a meticulously tailored suit in slate gray pinstripes mated with a shirt in a subtly deeper hue, and a bold red tie.

  Under the suit he was built like a quarterback, muscled and tough and honed.

  He wore his hair in a dark skull cap that brought out the ice-pick cheekbones in a face the color of Peabody’s coffee regular. His eyes, a direct and bold green met Eve’s, then Peabody’s. He offered a hand to each—smooth, firm, dry—then gestured to the conference table.

  “We’re a little Spartan at the moment, but please have a seat. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

  “No problem.”

  “I heard about the mugging early this morning. It’s terrible, but when Brad told me you were in charge, I felt better about it. I’ve followed some of your cases, particularly since I read the Icove book. In fact, I just scored tickets to the premiere.” He gave his partner a thumbs-up. “Six, so round up a date. And I apologize,” he said quickly. “You’re not here to talk about Hollywood and red carpets. What can we do to help?”

  “You had access to the apartment.”

  “Yes. We all have access to every area in the building.”

  “Can you tell me where you were last night between nine P.M. and midnight?”

  “I can.” He reached in his pocket, took out a date book, keyed into it, then set it on the table in front of Eve. “Dinner with my fiancée and her parents at Tavern on the Green, they like their traditions. Eight o’clock reservations, and we left a little after ten. Lissa and I caught a cab, then met up with some friends at Reno’s Bar, that’s downtown. We didn’t stay all that long. Maybe an hour. Then we cabbed back to our place. We got home about midnight. Are we suspects?”

  “It’s routine,” Eve said automatically. “The victim was taken inside the apartment, you have access. It’s helpful to know where you were. I’ll need the names of the people you were with, just for the files.”

  “I’ll have my assistant get you a list of names and contacts. But we didn’t even know the victim. Did we?” he asked Whitestone.

  “I didn’t. But she worked for one of your clients’ accounting firm. Blacksford.”

  “She was with Brewer, Kyle, and Martini? I have three—I think three—clients with them.” He took his book back, slid it into his pocket. “But I don’t remember having any contact with her. I work with Jim Arnold.”

  Eve took out Marta’s ID photo. “Do you recall having seen her, having met her?”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry. I’ve had lunch with Jim several times, and with Sly—Sylvestor Gibbons, but I never did business with this woman.”

  “It would help if you got me the names of any clients you have who cross with the victim’s firm.”

  “That’s simple enough. You don’t think this was a random mugging? A random opportunity? I’m sure anyone in that neighborhood knows the building’s being worked on, isn’t tenanted yet.”

  “It wasn’t a break-in,” Eve said.

  “Maybe the crew left the apartment unsecured.”

  “They never do,” Whitestone reminded him.

  “Mistakes happen, Brad.”

  “We’re investigating all possibilities,” Eve began, then stopped when she heard voices.

  “That’s Jake.” Whitestone slipped out, and stepped in again a moment later with his other partner. “My appointment’s on the way up. If you don’t need me—”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Eve told him.

  “Jake Ingersol, Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody. I’m in my office.”

  “What a mess, huh?” Ingersol offered his hand, quick, hearty shakes, then dropped down at the table. “Hell of a thing to happen. Brad’s been sick about it.”

  Where Whitestone projected cheerful competence and Newton smooth confidence, Ingersol was like an energetic puppy, all movement and avid eyes.

  Like his partners, he wore a good suit, a perfectly knotted and coordinated tie, and shoes with a mirror gleam. Sun-streaked brown hair curled around his face, made him seem very youthful, somewhat innocent. But his eyes, though warm brown, were sharp, savvy.

  “Café Diablo,” Newton said mildly.

  “What can I say, it’s what the client wants. I start out hyped,” he told Eve, “add a couple of double Diablo Locas and I’m overwired. I’m getting bits and pieces of what’s going on. Brad said they were inside the apartment? Inside?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “We put in damn good security. I don’t get it.”

  “We believe they had the codes.”

  He opened his mouth, shut it again, and sat back. “Jesus, Rob. One of Jasper’s crew?”

  “We don’t know that,” Newton said quickly.

  “Do you have any reason to suspect someone on the construction crew?” Eve asked him.

  “Just doing the math.” He rose, grabbed a bottle of water out of the friggie. “Not that many people have the codes. We sure as hell didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Jasper and his people worked on my place for six months before they started on the building,” Newton pointed out. “There was never so much as a coffee mug missing.”

  “I know, hey, I know, and I like him, too. A lot. I guess somebody didn’t lock up, that’s all, and whoever killed that woman got lucky.”

  Eve nudged Marta’s photo toward Ingersol. “Do you know her?”

  “No, I don’t . . . wait a minute.” He shifted a little closer, studied the photo. “Maybe, but I can’t pin it down.”

  “She worked for Brewer, Kyle, and Martini,” Newton said before Eve could speak.

  “That’s it!” Ingersol snapped his fingers, right hand, left hand—pop, pop. “That’s where I’ve seen her. We coordinate with our clients’ accountants, on taxes, investments, portfolio strategy. I’ve got some clients who use that firm. I work with Chaz Parzarri and Jim Arnold, but I met her awhile back. Just in passing. Wow. I met her.”

  “Can you tell me where you were last night, between nine P.M. and midnight?”

  His mouth dropped open, briefly. He lifted the water bottle, swallowed. “And another wow. Are we suspects?”

  “It’s routine,” Eve said again.

  “Well, sure, I was . . . let me think.” He pulled out a date book.
“I had drinks with Sterling Alexander, Alexander and Pope Properties, and that’s one of the clients I share with Chaz. We, ah, met at about six-thirty at the Blue Dog Room. I think he left about seven-fifteen, close to that. He was going out to dinner, I think. I finished my drink, then I hooked up with some friends—a woman I’m seeing and another couple—for dinner. Chez Louis. I guess we left about ten-thirty. Alys and I went back to my place. We stayed in.”

  “I’d like a list of names and contact information, for the files.”

  “Sure.” He looked at Newton again. “This is really weird.”

  “I’ll also need a list of any other clients you have who cross with the victim’s firm.” Done, Eve got to her feet. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

  It took some time to get all the names and contacts she needed and the receptionist was chatty.

  She learned she’d only copped the job a year before, when the expanding client list had warranted a separate receptionist rather than the assistants riding herd. The partners planned to connect with a small law firm, establishing them in the new building. They hoped, within the year, to take on an associate.

  “An interesting mix,” Eve commented when they walked out of the offices.

  “I think it works for them. Smooth operator—and slap my ass, is that guy built!”

  “I noticed.”

  “I love McNab’s skinny ass and bony shoulders, but mama! Anyway, Newton’s the smooth one, Whitestone’s the charisma, and Ingersol’s the hamster.”

  “Hamster?”

  “On the wheel. Go, go, get it done.”

  “Something like that.”

  “They’re all alibied up.”

  “We’ll run the alibis through, but I expect they’ll hold. Mr. Body probably has the muscle to snap a neck, but he’d be too smart to use his own place for it. Maybe he, or Ingersol, wanted to flick a little dirt on Whitestone—a twofer—but they wouldn’t get their hands dirty. They’re serious suits.”

  “But run them anyway,” Peabody said.

  “You bet.”

  “None of the three of them have a Cargo registered. Not in their names or the company name.”