by J. D. Robb
"Those are girl shoes."
"Dallas, I don't know how to tell you this, but I am a girl."
"My partner's not a girl. I don't have girl partners. I have cops. My partner is a cop, and those are not the shoes of a cop. You click."
"Thanks, Lieutenant." Peabody smiled down at herself. "I do think it all works well together."
"No, Jesus Christ in spandex. You click when you walk."
"They just need to be broken in." She started to sulk, then saw the case file, the crime-scene stills, on Eve's desk. "What're you doing? Are you working on a cold case?"
"It's hot. I caught it yesterday, right before end of shift."
"You caught a case and you didn't tag me?"
"Don't whine. I didn't call you in because you had The Big Night. Remember how you kept saying it, like it was a vid title? I know how to work a scene, Peabody. There was no reason to screw up your plans."
"Despite your opinion of my shoes, I'm a cop. I expect to have my plans screwed."
"This time they weren't. Shit, I wanted you to have it. If you're going to make a big deal here, you're just going to piss me off."
Peabody folded in her lips. Shifted her stance as the shoes weren't quite as comfortable as she'd claimed. Then she smiled. "I'm not. I appreciate it. It was important to me, and McNab went to a lot of trouble. So thanks. We had a great time. I drank a little more than I should, so I'm a little fuzzy this morning. But a hit of real coffee should help that."
She looked hopefully toward Eve's AutoChef, where there was real as opposed to the sludge disguised as coffee in the bull pen.
"Go ahead. Then sit down. I'll bring you up to speed."
***
"Missing diamonds. It's like a treasure hunt," Peabody decided. "Like booty. It could be fun."
Saying nothing, Eve passed her one of the on-scene stills of Andrea Jacobs's body. Peabody let out a hiss between her teeth. "Okay, not so much. No sign of forced entry? Sexual assault?"
"None apparent from the on-scene."
"She could've brought someone home with her. Bad choice. People make them."
"We'll check that out. I ran her debit card. Her last transaction, which looks like clearing the evening's tab, was at Club Six-Oh. Sixtieth and Second, at eleven forty-five on Thursday night. Estimated time of death was between midnight and one."
"So she'd have gone straight to the Gannon residence from the club. If she had company, she found it there."
"We're in the field," Eve said, gathering the file. "We talk to Gannon's ex, Jacobs's employer and coworkers, hit the club and swing by the morgue to harass people."
"I always like that part. I get to flash my new badge," she added as they walked out. She flipped her jacket open to reveal the detective's badge hooked to her waistband.
"Very nice."
"My new favorite accessory."
***
The powers-that-be at Tarbo, Chassie and Dix obviously subscribed to the theory that a display of excess drew in clients whose finances needed planning. The midtown offices were spread over four floors with a main information center the size of the Yankees' outfield. Eight young men and women, certainly hired as much for their perky good looks as their communication skills, manned an alarm-red island counter that could have housed a small suburb. Each wore a personal communicator and manned slick minidata and communication centers.
Each obviously practiced superior dental hygiene if their dazzling, identical smiles were any gauge.
Around them were smaller counters with more perky, toothy men and women in snappy suits, three waiting areas with cushy-looking chairs, equipped with screens for passing the time with magazines or short vids, and a little, tastefully planted garden with its own tiny blue pool.
Bouncy, repetitive music danced through the air at a discreet volume.
Eve decided she'd be in a padded room for mental defectives in under a week if she worked under similar conditions.
She walked to the main counter over a springy silver carpet. "Chad Dix."
"Mr. Dix is on forty-two." The beaming brunette tapped her screen. "I'll be happy to have one of his assistants escort you. If I might have your name, and the time of your appointment?"
Eve laid her badge on the glossy red counter. "Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. And I'd say my appointment is now. We can get up to forty-two ourselves, thanks, but you might want to tell Mr. Dix we're on our way."
"But you have to be cleared for the elevator."
Eve picked up her badge, wiggled it back and forth. "Then you'd better take care of that." She pocketed the badge and strode to the bank of elevators with Peabody.
"Can I be bitch cop next time?" Peabody whispered as they waited for the doors to open. "I really need to practice."
"Seems to me if you need to practice, it's not a true calling, but you can take a shot." She stepped onto the elevator. "Forty-two," she demanded. And leaned back on the side wall as the car whisked them up. "Take the assistant they're going to toss in our way."
"Hot dog." Peabody rubbed her hands together. Then rolled her shoulders, circled her neck.
"Definitely not a true calling," Eve muttered, but let Peabody lead when the doors opened on forty-two.
This floor was no less opulent than the other, though the color scheme was electric blue and silver rather than red. The waiting areas were bigger, with the addition of wall screens tuned to various financial programs. This information station was the size and shape of a small wading pool, but there was no need to bother with it as the assistant clipped hurriedly through the double glass doors that slid soundlessly open at her approach.
This one was blonde with the sunshine hair done in a mass of corkscrew curls that spilled and spun around her head like a halo. She had pink lips and cheeks and a body of impressive curves tucked snugly into a narrow skirt and jacket the color of cotton candy.
Not wanting to miss her chance, Peabody stepped forward, flipped her jacket open. "Detective Peabody, NYPSD. My partner, Lieutenant Dallas. We need to speak to Chad Dix regarding an investigation."
"Mr. Dix is meeting with a client, but I'd be happy to review his schedule and clear some time for you later today. If you could give me some idea of the nature of your business, and how much time you'll require."
"The nature of our business is murder, and the time we require will depend entirely on Mr. Dix." Peabody dipped her head, lowered her eyebrows in a stern look she enjoyed practicing in the bathroom mirror. "If he feels unable to meet with us here and now, we'll be happy to take him downtown and hold our meeting there. You can come with him," Peabody added.
"I . . . If you'll give me just a moment."
When she scurried off, Peabody elbowed Eve. "'Our business is murder.' I thought that was good."
"It didn't suck." She nodded as the blonde came bustling back. "Let's check the scores."
"If you'll come with me, Mr. Dix will see you now."
"I thought he would." Peabody started to saunter after her.
"Don't rub their noses in it," Eve muttered. "It's tacky."
"Check."
They moved through a fan-shaped hallway to the wide end and another set of double doors. These were opaque and opened when the assistant tapped.
"Detective Peabody and Lieutenant Dallas, Mr. Dix."
"Thank you, Juna."
He was behind a U-shaped workstation with the requisite window-wall at his back. His office suite had a luxurious sitting area with several wide chairs and a display shelf holding a number of antique games and toys.
He wore a stone-gray suit with muted chalk stripes, and a braided silver chain under the collar of his snowy white shirt.
"Officers." His expression sober, he gestured toward chairs. "I assume this has something to do with the tragedy at Samantha Gannon's. I heard about it last night on a media report. I haven't been able to reach Samantha. Are you able to tell me if she's all right?"
"As much as can be expected," Eve answered. "You also knew Andrea Jaco
bs?"
"Yes." He shook his head and sat behind his desk. "I can't believe this happened. I met her through Samantha. We socialized quite a bit while Samantha and I were seeing each other. She was . . . It probably sounds clichйd, but she was one of those people who are just full of life. The reports are vague, even this morning. There was a burglary?"
"We're in the process of verifying that. You and Ms. Gannon are no longer seeing each other?"
"No, not romantically."
"Why is that?"
"It wasn't working out."
"For whom?"
"Either of us. Sam's a beautiful, interesting woman, but we weren't enjoying ourselves together any longer. We decided to break it off."
"You had the codes to her residence."
"I . . ." He missed a beat, quietly cleared his throat. "Yes. I did. As she had mine. I assume she changed them after we broke up—as I changed mine."
"Can you tell us where you were on the night in question?"
"Yes, of course. I was here, in the office until just after seven. I had a dinner meeting with a client at Bistro, just down on Fifty-first. Juna can give you the client's information, if you need it. I left the restaurant about ten-thirty and went home. I caught up on some paperwork for an hour or so, watched the media reports, as I do every night before I turn in. That must have been nearly midnight. Then I went to bed."
"Can anyone verify this?"
"No, not after I left the restaurant, in any case. I took a cab home, but I couldn't tell you the number of the cab. I wouldn't have any reason to break into Sam's house and steal anything, or for God's sake kill Andrea."
"You've had some substance-abuse problems over the years, Mr. Dix."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I'm clean, and have been for a number of years. I've been through rehabilitation programs and continue to go to regular meetings. If necessary, I'll submit to a screening, but I'll want legal representation."
"We'll let you know. When's the last time you had contact with Andrea Jacobs?"
"A couple of months, six weeks ago, at least. It seems to me we all went to a jazz club downtown this summer. Sam and I, Andrea and whoever she was seeing at the time, a couple of other people. It was a few weeks before Sam and I called things off."
"Did you and Ms. Jacobs ever see each other separately?"
"No." His tone took on an edge. "I didn't cheat on Sam, certainly not with one of her friends. And Andrea, as much as she enjoyed men, wouldn't have poached. That's insulting on every level."
"I insult a lot of people, on every level, in my work. Murder doesn't make for nice manners. Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Dix." Eve rose. "We'll be in touch if there's anything else."
She started for the door, then turned. "By the way, have you read Ms. Gannon's book?"
"Of course. She gave me an advance copy several weeks ago. And I bought one on the day of its release."
"Any theories on the diamonds?"
"Fascinating stuff, isn't it? I think Crew's ex-wife skipped with them and made a. really nice life for herself somewhere."
"Could be. Thanks again."
Eve waited until they were riding down to street level. "Impressions, Detective?"
"I just love when you call me that. He's sharp, he's smooth, and he wasn't in a meeting. He had his assistant say so to flip us off, if possible."
"Yeah. People just don't like talking to cops. Why is that? He was prepared," she added, as they stepped out and started across the lobby. "Had his night in question all laid out, didn't even have to remind him of the date. Six days ago, and he doesn't even have to think about it. Rattled it off like a student reciting a school report."
"He still isn't clear for the time of the murder."
"Nope, which is probably why he wanted to flip us off awhile. Let's hit the travel agency next."
***
Eve supposed under most circumstances Work or Play would've been a cheerful place. The walls were covered with screens where impossibly pretty people romped in exotic locales that probably convinced potential travelers they'd look just as impossibly pretty frolicking half-naked on some tropical beach.
There were half a dozen agents at workstations rather than cubes, and each station was decorated with personal memorabilia: photos, little dolls or amusing paperweights, posters.
All of the agents were female, and the office smelled of girls. Sort of candy-coated sex, to Eve's mind. They were all dressed in fashionable casualwear—or she assumed it was fashionable—even the woman who appeared to be pregnant enough to be carting around three healthy toddlers in her womb.
Just looking at her made Eve jittery.
Even worse were the six pairs of swollen, teary eyes, the occasional broken sob or sniffle.
The room pulsed with estrogen and emotion.
"It's the most horrible thing. The most horrible." The pregnant woman somehow levered herself up from her chair. She had her streaky brown hair pulled back, and her face was wide as the moon and the color of milk chocolate. She laid her hand on the shoulder of one of the other women as she began to cry.
"It might be easier if we go back to my office. This is actually Andrea's station. I've been manning it this morning. I'm Cecily Newberry. I'm, well, the boss."
She led the way to a tiny, tidy adjoining office and shut the door. "The girls are—well, we're a mess. We're just a mess. I honestly didn't believe Nara when she called me this morning, crying and babbling about Andrea. Then I switched on the news channel and got the report. I'm sorry." She braced a hand at the small of her back and lowered herself into a chair. "I have to sit. It feels like a maxibus is parked on my bladder."
"When are you due, Ms. Newberry?" Peabody asked.
"Ten more days." She patted her belly. "It's my second. I don't know what I was thinking, timing this baby so I'd carry it through the summer heat. I came in today—I'd intended to take the next several weeks off. But I came in because . . . I didn't know what else I could do. Should do. Andrea worked here almost since I opened the place. She manages it with me, and was going to take over while I was on maternity."
"She hasn't been in to work for several days. Weren't you concerned?"
"She was taking some leave now. She was actually due back today, when I'd planned to start mine. Oh God." She rubbed at her face. "Usually she'd take advantage of our benefits and go somewhere, but she decided to house-sit for her friend and get her apartment painted, do some shopping, she said, hit a few of the spas and salons around town. I expected to hear from her yesterday or the day before, just to check in with me before we switched over. But I really didn't think anything of it when I didn't. I didn't think at all, to be frank. Between this baby, my little girl at home, the business, my husband's mother deciding now's a dandy time to come stay with us, I've been distracted."
"When's the last time you did talk to her?"
"A couple of weeks. I'm . . . I was very fond of Andrea, and she was wonderful to work with. But we had very different lifestyles. She was single and loved to go out. I'm incredibly married and raising a three-year-old, having another child and running a business. So we didn't see each other often outside of work, or talk often unless it was work-related."
"Has anyone come in asking about her or for her specifically?"
"She has a regular customer base. Most of my girls do. Customers who ask for them specifically when they're planning a trip."
"She'd have a customer list."
"Absolutely. There's probably some legal thing I'm supposed to do before I agree to give that to you, but I'm not going to waste my time or yours. I have all my employees' passcodes. I'll give it to you. You can copy anything you feel might help off her work unit."
"I appreciate your cooperation."
"She was a delightful woman. She made me laugh, and she did a good job for me. I never knew her to hurt anyone. I'll do whatever I can to help you find who did this to her. She was one of my girls, you know. She was one of mine."
It took a
n hour to copy the files, search through and document the contents of the workstation and interview the other employees.
Every one of Andrea's coworkers had gone out with her to clubs, bars, parties, with dates, without dates. There was a great deal of weeping but little new to be learned.
Eve could barely wait to get away from the scent of grief and lipdye.
"Start doing a standard run on the names on her customer base. I'm going to check in with Samantha Gannon and verbally smack this asshole ME around."
"Morris?"
"No, Morris is tanning his fine self on some tropical beach. We caught Duluc. She's slower than a one-legged snail. I'm going to warm up with her, then, if there's time, drop-kick Dickhead," she added, referring to the chief lab tech.
"Boy, that should round out the morning. Then maybe we can have lunch."
"We're dealing with the cleaning service before the morgue and lab. Didn't you have breakfast a couple hours ago?"
"Yeah, but if I start nagging you about lunch now, you'll cave before I get faint from hunger."
"Detectives eat less often than aides."
"I never heard that. You're just saying that to scare me." She trotted on her increasingly uncomfortable shoes after Eve. "Right?"
20.
Maid in New York was a pared-down, storefront operation that put all its focus and frills into the services. This was explained to Eve with some snippiness by the personnel manager, who reigned in an office even smaller and stingier than Eve's at Central.
"We keep the overhead to a minimum," Ms. Tesky of the sensible bun and shoes informed Eve. "Our clients aren't interested in our offices—and rarely come here in any case—but are concerned about their own offices and homes."
"I can see why," Eve observed, and Tesky's nostrils pinched. It was sort of interesting to watch.
"Our employees are the product, and all are strictly and comprehensively interviewed, tested, screened, trained and must meet the highest of standards in personal appearance, demeanor and skill. Our clients are also screened, to ensure our employees' safety."
"I just bet they are."
