Brotherhood in Death

by J. D. Robb

  He shook his head, but opened the doors.

  Mandy stood, arms crossed, chin up, eyes filled with contempt.

  “This is harassment. I’ll be contacting the governor and our lawyers in precisely three minutes ten seconds.

  “Mrs. Mira, I regret to inform you that your husband’s dead. We’re sorry for your loss.”

  Color hoisted like red flags on her cheeks. “What are you talking about? How dare you come here and say such a thing to me!”

  “His body was found hanging from the entrance chandelier in the house on Spring Street. Visible evidence of physical violence was obvious. His body has been transported to the chief medical examiner, who will determine cause of death.”

  Mandy lost the red flags, and all of her color—every shade of it. But her voice remained full and furious. “You’re a liar.”

  “I am the primary investigator into your husband’s death, and as such have come here to inform you thereof. We understand this is a difficult time for you, but we have some questions. The answers may help us find the person or persons who murdered your husband.”

  “Get out, get out of my house. You’re lying. You’re lying to upset me.”

  “You know I’m not.”

  When she swayed, Hank rushed over, took her by the arm. “Mrs. Mira, ma’am, you need to sit down. You sit down, and I’m going to get you some water.”

  “You’re lying.” But this time her voice trembled.

  Eve didn’t sit, but stepped over to her. The woman didn’t weep, but sat pale as ice. The shock in her eyes struck as genuine.

  “My partner and I entered the house on Spring approximately sixty minutes ago and discovered your husband’s body. I’m a murder cop, Mrs. Mira, a ranked officer. I don’t lie about murder. Can you tell me if you know anyone who would want to kill him?”

  “No one would do this. No one would dare.”

  “Someone did this, Mrs. Mira. Someone dared. They hurt him, are you hearing me? They made sure he felt pain before they ended it. Who wanted to cause him pain?”

  “I don’t know. Go away.”

  Peabody made an attempt, her voice soothing, sympathetic. “Is there anyone we can contact for you, Mrs. Mira? Family, a friend?”

  “I don’t want your help. Get out. Get out or I’ll have you thrown out!”

  Hank rushed back with a glass of water. She grabbed it and flung it across the room. “All of you, get out!”

  “You can reach me at Central if you have any questions or want to make a statement.” Eve turned, walked to the door. She glanced back once, saw that Mandy continued to sit, hands gripped together, eyes shocked but dry.

  “You’re leaving?” Eve asked Hank as he came out with them, shut the doors.

  “I’ll stick for now, in case. I don’t know what to say. Can I contact her son, her daughter?”

  “Go ahead. Make sure you give them my name.” She stepped back on the elevator with Peabody. “Good luck, Hank.”

  “She’s scary.” Despite eyes and ears, Peabody blurted it out. “I know people react in all kinds of ways to death notifications, but she’s scary.”

  “She is what she is, and we did what we came to do.”

  Eve’s head throbbed, a dull but steady beat as she drove toward the Miras’ home. Again, she’d do what she had to do—and didn’t expect anyone to call her a liar or throw a glass. Maybe that’s what made this one harder.

  She found street parking just over a block from the pretty townhome. When they got out, started to walk, she stuck her hands in her pockets and found the gloves she’d forgotten about.

  At least she hadn’t lost them yet.

  “Give Nadine the green.” Rolling her shoulders, she started up the short steps to the front door.

  She rang the bell, focused on her approach, the basic procedure. The woman who opened it had Mira’s coloring, Mr. Mira’s lankier build. Gillian, Eve remembered, the Wiccan daughter who lived in . . . yeah, New Orleans.

  “Dallas. Hi, Peabody.”

  “Hey, Gillian. I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “I came in last night. I had a feeling, something off, and contacted my mother. So here I am.”

  “It’s nice to see you, even given.”

  Gillian smiled at Peabody, stepped back. “The same for you. Mom and Dad are in the living room. This is hard on him, so don’t you be.”

  “We were figuring on hauling him down to Central in restraints where we keep the saps and rubber hoses.”

  Gillian just gave Eve a cool stare with her mother’s eyes. “Let me take your coats.”

  She did her hostess duty, then led them in.

  They’d lit a fire, and the Miras sat together on the sofa in the pretty room much as they had at the crime scene. He looked tired, Eve thought, and felt a pang of guilt knowing she would add to the strain.

  “Cops in the house,” Gillian said, but lightly, before she walked over to sit on the arm of the sofa by her father.

  United front.

  “We’re sorry, Mr. Mira,” Eve began, “for your loss.”

  “Thank you. Edward and I . . . our relationship wasn’t what it had been, but I remember the boy he was. The boys we were together. It was a hard death?”

  He looked at her with those kind green eyes. She wanted to lie to him, give him that much. But she couldn’t spare him. “Yes, it was.”

  “It’s odd, even with Charlotte’s work, and knowing what people can and will do to people, you never expect it to happen to one of your own. Despite our differences, Edward was my family. You’ve spoken to Mandy?”

  “We were just there.”

  “She won’t answer her ’link,” Mira explained. “Dennis is concerned about her.”

  “She . . .” How to put it? Eve wondered.

  “Her personal security was contacting her children,” Peabody put in.

  “That’s good.” He patted Gillian’s knee. “They’re a comfort. I know she’s a difficult woman. You’re too polite to say.”

  “I’m not all that polite,” Eve said, making him laugh, just a little.

  “I’ll bet you haven’t had lunch.”

  The segue threw Eve off balance. “We aren’t really—”

  “You have to eat. I’m going to make sandwiches.”

  “Mr. Mira, I’m sorry, but we need to ask you some questions. I need to interview you, on the record. I need to read you your rights.”

  “You’re not treating him like a suspect.” Gillian shoved off the arm of the sofa, an arrow yanked from the quiver.

  “Gillian, I explained this to you.” Mira rubbed Dennis’s thigh, rose. “It’s procedure, and has to be done.”

  “I don’t care about procedure.”

  “I have to,” Eve said, then looked at Dennis. “I’m sorry. I have to.”

  “Of course you do. But you also need to eat. We can do this in the kitchen while I make sandwiches.”

  “Dad, I made soup, remember?”

  “That’s right, of course, that’s right.” He got to his feet in his baggy green cardigan and tousled hair. “Gilly makes wonderful soup. It’s potato leek, isn’t it?”

  “Chicken and rice.”

  “That’s right. Potato leek was last time. Soup’s a comfort,” he said to Eve. “We could all use it.”

  Eve couldn’t say no, just couldn’t make herself draw the hard line with him. So she ended up in the big kitchen with the comfort of soup scenting the air, sitting across from him in the breakfast nook with the winter sun eking pale through the windows.

  “You eat a bit first, both of you,” he said when Gillian set bowls in front of them. “Charlie tells me that nice young policeman was promoted today.”

  “Trueheart. He got his detective’s shield.”

  “Good for him. He’s a nice young man.
Bright, I take it?”

  “He is. He’s a good cop.” She ate because it was there. “It’s nice soup.”

  “It really is.” Peabody glanced at Gillian. “The sage really makes it. My granny always uses sage in hers.”

  “You like to cook?”

  “Bake mostly, when I have time. It’s relaxing.”

  Eve let the small talk circle around her. She should cut it off. She shouldn’t be cozied up here in the kitchen with soup and conversation. She should—

  Dennis reached over, patted her hand. “You mustn’t worry. You mustn’t worry about doing your job. I want to help you find whoever gave Edward a hard death.”

  “Mr. Mira, you’re not a suspect. Nobody thinks you had anything to do with this. But we have to go through this, and some of the questions I have to ask are going to be pointed, they’re going to feel hard and intimidating. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to be sorry. You go ahead—but finish your soup first.” He shifted to Peabody. “And how is your young man? I like him quite a lot. He’s so colorful.”

  “Yeah, he is. He’s great.”

  Eve finished her soup, caught Mira’s eye and the quiet gratitude in it. So maybe it had been the right thing, just to give Mr. Mira time to settle.

  “I’m going to make hot chocolate,” Dennis announced. “You like my hot chocolate,” he said to Eve.

  “Who wouldn’t, but—”

  “You and Delia— You like hot chocolate?”

  “It’s a big weakness of mine, and now I know why I didn’t get any cake earlier.”

  “It’s better than cake.” He winked at her, tugging hard on Eve’s heart. “You and Delia come sit at the counter while I make it. It’ll keep my hands busy while you interview me. And, Charlie, you and Gillian sit right there. Gilly, you behave.”

  “Maybe.”

  He chuckled as he rose.

  They’d do it his way, Eve decided and got up to switch to a stool at the big kitchen counter while Dennis hunted in cupboards.

  “You make it from scratch?” Peabody’s eyes went shiny as he found a big bar of chocolate, a canister of sugar. “It’s a real treat to watch somebody make hot chocolate from scratch.”

  Eve sent Peabody a look to remind her they weren’t there for a treat.

  As Dennis put an actual pan on an actual cooktop, Eve reminded herself of the same.

  “Record on.”

  6

  Eve entered their names, the case file, into the record. Recited the Revised Miranda.

  “Do you understand your rights and obligations, Professor Mira?”

  He gave her a vague smile at the use of his title, put a pot on top of the pot of water—What was that about?—began to add chocolate. “Yes, I do, thank you.”

  “Edward Mira was your cousin.”

  “Yes, first cousin, on my father’s side.”

  He chose a small metal bowl, put it in the freezer.

  Eve wondered if she should point out his mistake, but decided to push forward with the interview. “Would you relate, for the record, what happened yesterday, with your arrival at the property at 2314 Spring Street?”

  He took them through it, the weather, the cab ride, made her wish she’d warned him not to elaborate as he stated on record he was angry with his cousin. When he said he’d heard voices, Eve interrupted.

  “Can you tell me how many voices?”

  “Oh.” He frowned, looked sweetly bewildered. “I’m not sure, not at all sure, but at least two, as it was a kind of conversation—I should say it felt like hearing a kind of conversation. I couldn’t hear the words, and I’m afraid I was distracted. But they stopped talking when I called out for Edward. I’m sure of that. I called out, as I didn’t want to startle anyone.”

  “At least two voices. You couldn’t make out the words, but could you tell if they were male or female?”

  “That’s an excellent question.” And one he looked a bit startled by. “I assumed one was Edward’s, but I wasn’t paying attention. I often don’t. I have a little trick Charlie taught me that helps me remember when I haven’t paid enough attention. It seems I’m too often thinking of something else.”

  He closed his eyes, took some quiet breaths. “I’m walking into the house. It’s warm after the bitter wind. I smell lemon oil, so I know Sila’s been there to clean in the last day or so. I feel sad because I can imagine it as it was, with my grandparents. Some of the furniture’s been taken because it was left to some of us. There were always fresh flowers on the entrance table. I’m sorry they’re not there any longer, sorry it’s so dim. It’s such a raw, gloomy day, and I wish there was more light. I hear voices. I’m annoyed and sad and hear voices coming from down the hall. The study, I think, but I’m not sure. They’re . . . angry or excited. I didn’t realize, but yes, raised voices. My cousin’s, I think, yes, and someone else. A woman. I think a woman.”

  He opened his eyes again. “I think a woman was with him. Is that helpful?”

  “Yes. What did you do then?”

  “I went back. I hated to be rude, but I intended to tell the Realtor there was no point in being there, as I didn’t intend to sell. I knew Edward and I would argue, but it had to be done. I turned into the study, and saw him. I was . . . thrown off, you could say. Primed to argue, braced for it, and he was in the chair, but the chair was in front of the desk, not behind, and his face was bleeding—at the mouth. His eye—ah . . .” His closed his own again, patted his hands in the air. “His right eye was blackened and swollen. He looked terrified. I started to rush in, to help him, and . . .”

  He lifted a hand to the back of his head. “Something hit me, and the next thing I clearly remember, I was waking up—my head throbbing—on the floor of the study. Edward was gone, and the chair was back behind the desk. I might have thought I imagined it all, but my head was bleeding, and I was on the floor.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I looked for him, called for him. Initially I was a little dazed, and I was confused. I went back to the kitchen, and upstairs, looking for him. When I couldn’t find him, I knew something had to have happened. I contacted Charlie. Charlotte. Dr. Mira. Told her something had happened, and could she come, bring you to my grandfather’s house. I looked some more, then you came.”

  “Why didn’t you call nine-one-one? Your cousin had been injured and was missing, you’d been attacked. But you called your wife instead of the police.”

  “I didn’t even think of it, not then. She works with the police—my Charlotte. She works with you. I probably should have called nine-one-one, as you say, but I wanted you. Something had happened to my cousin.”

  “I’m a murder cop, Professor Mira. Did you believe your cousin had been murdered?”

  “No. No, I never thought . . . I still can’t quite . . . But it’s the cop that counts the most, isn’t it? And you’re the best I know. I knew you’d find out what happened to Edward.”

  “You contacted your wife,” she said again, pushing a little, “and requested a police officer you have a . . . friendly relationship with.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” He measured out milk, poured it into the chocolate. And crushed some sort of bean in a little marble bowl with a little marble dowel. “But then, my wife is a renowned and respected criminal profiler, and you are a renowned and respected police lieutenant. I’d have been foolish to settle for less with such talent available.”

  He added the crushed bean, sugar, and stirred methodically.

  He’d given good answers, she thought. Very good, simple, logical answers. But she wasn’t done.

  “Did you fight with your cousin, Professor Mira?”

  “Oh, yes.” He said it so easily, without even a hint of guile. “Over the years we fought—argued, that is—numerous times. Our worldviews had shifted away from each other’s, on different o
rbits you might say, and we had little in common. Not like when we were boys.”

  “You argued about the disposition of the property on Spring, which was left to both of you equally.”

  “We did.” No hesitation, and no animosity. “We’d promised our grandfather to keep it in the family, and Edward believed that promise had an expiration date. I didn’t.”

  “Did you argue yesterday, at the house?”

  “No. We didn’t even get a chance to speak. I said his name, but then someone struck me. I never got to speak to him, or him to me. I believe we would have argued if . . .”

  Though he continued to stir, he looked down at his pot as if he’d forgotten why it was there.

  “Upon his death, what happens to his share of the disputed property?”

  “I’m sorry? Oh, yes. Unless he changed his will—I can’t be sure—it would go in equal parts to his two children.”

  He took the bowl out of the freezer, along with something she was pretty sure was some sort of whisk. Into the bowl he poured . . . milk, cream—something out of a small container—added some sugar. He stuck the whisk on some little hand tool.

  It hummed busily in the bowl.

  “What’s your relationship with the children?”

  “They’re fine young people. We get along very well. We need to go see them. I hope they’re with their mother now, but we’ll go see them. They’ve lost their father, and will need family around them.”

  “Will they be more inclined to keep the property in the family, Professor Mira?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  She saw he’d made whipped cream. People actually whipped cream to make whipped cream? Who knew?

  He set the bowl aside, used another tool to make shavings from the remaining chocolate bar. “Eve—that is, Lieutenant Dallas, Edward, no matter how determined he was, couldn’t sell our grandfather’s house. There was nothing he could do to make me break my promise. I believe we would have remained at odds, but then, as I said, we haven’t been close since my early college days. We were together at Yale, though he was a year ahead of me. If he’d lived, we weren’t likely to ever be close again, but I would never wish him harm. And he would never have bullied me into selling.”