Brotherhood in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Sometimes people strike back at bullies.”

  “Yes, they do. I counseled my children to do just that. And I’ve done just that myself with Edward for more than forty years.”

  He turned, took mugs from a cupboard. “Some mistake a mild disposition for weakness. Do you?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “I can—my family will attest—be extremely stubborn when something is important.”

  From across the room Gillian made a little snorting sound that had a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

  “A promise to a man I loved deeply is important, even sacred. I didn’t have to hurt Edward to keep it; I simply had to continue to keep it. I’m not a violent man.”

  He poured the rich hot chocolate into the mugs. “And while I didn’t like Edward, didn’t like the man he’d become, I loved him.”

  “Professor Mira, would you give me your whereabouts from eleven last night to three-thirty this morning?”

  “Right here—or not right here, in the kitchen, that is. In the house. Charlie, my wife, insisted I go to bed early. I can be quite the night owl as a rule. But she was right, I was very tired. I believe I went to bed by ten. She doesn’t think I know she was checking on me every couple hours.”

  He smiled, sweetly, toward the breakfast nook. “And our daughter Gillian snuck in twice to make sure I hadn’t lapsed into a coma—which is exactly what she said to her mother at about midnight. I didn’t sleep very well. I did rest,” he added quickly, with another glance toward the nook, as he piled whipped cream on top of two mugs of hot chocolate. “But I was worried about Edward, and didn’t sleep very well.”

  “Okay. Okay. Thank you for your time and cooperation. Record off.”

  Dennis sprinkled chocolate shavings over the cream, then put the mugs in front of Peabody and Eve.

  “Stand up,” he said to Eve.

  She got to her feet, braced.

  “You need a hug.” He wrapped his arms around her, and melted everything inside her. “There now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “It was horrible.”

  “Well, that’s all right. It’s all done.”

  “I’m so—”

  “Hush. You sit and drink your chocolate.”

  “I could use a hug.”

  Dennis beamed at Peabody, obliged. “You’re a good girl,” he told her. “Gilly, Charlie, come on now. I made enough for everyone.”

  Mira walked over, framed his face with her hands. “I love you, Dennis.”

  “It’s a good thing. Where would I be otherwise?”

  “You sit down. I’ll put the rest of these together.”

  As she dolloped on the whipped cream, Mira looked over at Eve. “You did exactly right. It was hard for you, hard for me to listen to. But you did exactly right.”

  “Sorry, but will you just say it—that you know he was here during the aforesaid hours.”

  “I absolutely do. He’s right. I did check on him every couple hours, and Gilly went to check on him just before midnight, and again around three. We thought he was sleeping.”

  “You’d have started poking at me again if you’d known I was awake.”

  “He’s right about that, too. Do you believe it was a woman?”

  “There had to be at least two involved, and one of them was a woman. I’m sure of that, and Mr. Mira gave that some weight.”

  “He’s never been a suspect,” Gillian put in.

  “No. There’s no motive, no opportunity. I just needed it all spelled out on the record. It’s going to be a feeding frenzy in the media. With this on record, Mr. Mira is firmly, unquestionably a witness.”

  “I just want to say something.” Peabody, eyes closed, took another sip from her mug. “This is the Holy Grail of hot chocolate. Mr. Mira, you’re a genius, but I don’t know how I’m going to settle for the sludge at Central ever again.”

  “Knock it back, Peabody. We’ve got to get back to work.”

  It took a little time—Peabody wanted to savor—but even with the extra, Eve felt lighter when Gillian walked them back, got their coats.

  “I’m going to apologize for wanting to smack you even though I could see it was hard for you to push at him that way.”

  “I want to smack people all the time. And he’s your father.”

  “I love my husband, and one of the many reasons is he’d agree with me when I say my father is the best man I know. You’re a little bit in love with him.”

  “Probably more than a little.”

  “And you’re going to look out for him.”

  “That’s a promise.”

  “All right then. Bright blessings on both of you, and safe travels wherever the path takes you.”

  As they hiked back to the car, Eve shoved her hands in her pockets, found her gloves again. Tugged them on. “Plot us a sensible route to hit the sidepieces.”

  “Already done, and you can cross off Allyson Byson, for now anyway. She’s been in St. Lucia for the past week with her husband and several friends. It’s an annual thing. Spends six weeks there every winter.”

  “Very tidy alibi. We’ll look into her otherwise.”

  “We should start with Carlee MacKensie—he played with her right before he hooked up with Downing. Freelance writer.”

  When they got into the car, Peabody plugged the address into the in-dash. “Then we’d go to Asha Coppola, to Lauren Canford, and finish with Charity Downing, the latest.”

  “I want a conversation with the vic’s children before the end of the day.” Eve considered tactics while she negotiated traffic. “We keep it simple, get the how and when they met, how long the relationship went on, who ended it, that kind of thing. Right now, we’re just fishing.”

  “How did he keep them straight?” Peabody wondered. “We’ve got five, and that’s only covering around a year. So there’s a lot more going back. How did he keep them all straight?”

  “They were all the same to him, that’s my take. Just a score. He was a predator. Spot the prey, stalk it, bag it, play with it awhile. Then, when you’re bored or the prey no longer satisfies, discard it and go after fresh meat.”

  She noted a second-level street spot, zipped over and grabbed it.

  “We could maybe have gotten closer.”

  “We could maybe not have.”

  “Loose pants, loose pants,” Peabody chanted to herself as they clanged down the iron steps to the street.

  “They’ll be a lot looser when I kick your ass up, down, and sideways.”

  “I’m using the power of positive thinking. But to spare my ass the pain, what are you guys getting Bella for her birthday?”

  “I don’t know.” Instant panic gripped her. “How the hell do I know what to get for a one-year-old kid? How does anybody? The kid can’t tell you, and nobody remembers being a one-year-old so it’s just a crapshoot.”

  “The party’s in a couple weeks.”

  “Shut up, Peabody.”

  “Okay, but shutting up means I can’t tell you what I know she’d really go for—and McNab and I can’t really spring for a good one.”

  “What?”

  Peabody clamped her lips smugly.

  “I swear, I’ll drop-kick you from this spot three blocks east so you splat in the middle of Fifth Avenue.”

  “A dollhouse. She’s young for it, but we had her up for a few hours a few days ago, and I’d sent for mine. It’s just a little one my dad made me, but she went nuts for it. Played with it the whole time, and really well, too, rearranging the little furniture, pretend cooking in the kitchen.”

  Eve wondered why—seriously why—anyone wanted to pretend cook.

  “If dolls aren’t alive, why do they need a house?”

  “That’s where pretend comes into it.”

  “Does it
? Does it really? Or is it when you’re sleeping or not around they start having parties in it, drinking brew, eating snacks, watching screen?”

  “You’re creeping me out.”

  “You should be creeped. What’s to stop them from having doll orgies in there? Ever think of that?”

  “Not until right now.”

  “Next thing you know, there’ll be doll weapons and vehicles.”

  “They already have those.”

  “See.”

  Point made, Eve turned to the sturdy building that housed Carlee MacKensie’s apartment. She opted for her master—Why give the woman time to prepare?—and walked into the skinny lobby.

  “I have to pee. You scared the piss out of me, now I have to pee. Don’t make me walk up four flights of steps.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” To settle it, Peabody pushed the elevator button. “I can’t get this image of a bunch of drunk dolls doing it all over the dollhouse. Gay dolls, straight dolls, threesomes. It’s my new nightmare.”

  “They probably make doll strap-ons.”

  “Oh God, I beg you to stop.” Peabody all but jumped into the elevator when it opened. “Loose pants, loose pants. Don’t kick my ass, I’m trying to take my mind off having to pee. And sex-crazed dolls. I’m seeing Gracie Magill with a strap-on.”

  “Who?”

  “My favorite doll as a kid. Loose pants, loose pants.”

  “You had a doll with a last name?” Eve pressed the buzzer on the MacKensie apartment. “Why do dolls need last names?”

  “For their ID, to buy the brew and the strap-ons.”

  “I figured they just stole them when they climbed in and out of windows at night to burgle houses.”

  “You’re just being mean now.”

  “I could keep this up all day.”

  The intercom buzzed. “Yes?” And Peabody breathed a quiet, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  “NYPSD,” Eve announced, and held up her badge. “We’d like to speak with you, Ms. MacKensie.”

  “What about?”

  “Edward Mira.”

  After a moment, locks clicked off, the door opened a couple cautious inches. Eve saw pale red hair messily bundled into a top bun and a pair of suspicious blue eyes.

  “What about him?”

  “Do you want to discuss your relationship with him out here, Ms. MacKensie?”

  Eve saw the lips compress, the eyes dart left then right. “We don’t have a relationship,” she said, but opened the door.

  She wore baggy sweatpants and a hoodie with thick socks. Her skin was so white it nearly glowed beneath its scatter shot of ginger-colored freckles.

  “You did have,” Eve said and stepped in.

  “I haven’t seen or talked to Edward in weeks, since the end of November.”

  “Excuse me. I’m sorry,” Peabody interrupted. “Could I use your bathroom?”

  Now Carlee bit her bottom lip, but nodded. “Ah, okay. I guess. It’s . . .” She gestured, but Peabody was already on the move.

  “Thanks!”

  “I guess you want to sit down.”

  “I can stand if you’d rather,” Eve told her.

  “I guess we’ll sit down.”

  She had a couch and a couple of chairs, facing an entertainment screen—and facing away from a workstation under the window.

  Carlee chose a chair, sat with her knees together, her fingers linked in her lap. “I don’t understand why you want to talk to me about Edward.”

  “He’s dead, Ms. MacKensie.”

  Carlee’s tightly pressed lips fell apart. “What? How? When?”

  “He was murdered last night.”

  “Mur-murdered?”

  “You say you haven’t seen him since November.”

  “That’s right. Are you talking about Senator Mira?”

  “Yes. How did you meet him?”

  “It was— It was a political fund-raiser. I had a media pass because I was researching an article, and . . .” She paused as Peabody came back.

  “Thanks,” Peabody said again, and sat beside Eve.

  “That’s okay. I, um, usually tend to observe rather than ask a lot of questions. I guess I was about the only one there with a media pass who wasn’t asking questions, so he came over to me when I was sitting, taking notes, brought me a glass of wine. He said how if I didn’t have any questions for him, he had some for me. I was a little flustered, but he was so charming.”

  “How soon did you begin a sexual relationship?”

  Carlee flushed brightly, hotly pink, and her eyes darted away. “I know it was wrong. He was married—I knew he was married. He said he and his wife had an arrangement, but that doesn’t make it right.”

  “We’re not here to judge you, Ms. MacKensie,” Peabody told her. “We need to gather information.”

  “I knew it was wrong,” she repeated. “He said we’d go have a drink, and I thought how I could get a bigger article, or maybe a couple of stories, so we left there and went to have a drink. Then two. He had his driver take me home. Nobody’s ever done that for me. And he paid such attention. I don’t know how to explain it, but he made me feel pretty and sexy.”

  She looked down at her hands. “So when he contacted me the next day and said he was taking me out to dinner, I went. I knew where it was heading. He was married and, okay, a lot older, but I knew where it was heading. I went anyway. And I went with him to the hotel. The Palace. He has a suite there, just beautiful, like something in a vid. And dinner was waiting, and a bottle of champagne. I slept with him. We only saw each other like that for about five weeks, then he sent me flowers—white roses—with a card. It said how all good things had to end, and it had been lovely.”

  “That must’ve pissed you off.”

  “A little, but more it was hurtful. He could have told me in person. I’m not stupid; I knew it wasn’t going to last. But he should have told me face-to-face. I thought about contacting him, but I didn’t. And he never contacted me again.”

  She let out a breath. “It was like it never happened.”

  “Were you in love with him?” Peabody’s tone was gauged to sympathy.

  “Oh, no.” MacKensie’s blue eyes rounded—guileless. “No, but it was exciting, those few weeks. Maybe, at least partly, because I knew it was wrong. I felt a little . . .” She trailed off with a quick little gasp. “Am I a suspect? You think I killed Edward?”

  “Did you?” Eve asked coolly.

  “Oh my God, my God.” She trembled all over, hunched her shoulders, gripped her hands together under her chin. “No. No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill anyone. You said last night?”

  “That’s right,” Eve said, and left it there.

  “I-I-I was here, working.” She gestured to her workstation with a hand that shook. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

  “Did you see or speak to anyone?”

  “No. No. I was working on a piece, and I stuck with it. I had leftover Chinese and went to bed early. I think it was around ten because my brain was tired. Do I need a lawyer?”

  “That’s up to you. Have you ever been to his property on Spring Street?”

  “Spring? I didn’t know he had any. We always met at the hotel. Officer—”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenant, I lead a quiet life, by choice, by inclination. This was a few weeks of excitement, and, and”—she flushed again—“sex.”

  “Which he ended with flowers and a card.”

  “You don’t kill somebody for ending an affair.”

  Eve lifted her eyebrows. “You’d be surprised.”

  They left MacKensie wrapped in jittery nerves, rode back down to the lobby.

  “Impressions?”

  “Not used to being noticed or singled out, I’d say,” Peabody res
ponded. “A little OCD. The bathroom was as clean as an operating room, and more organized. Everything matches. Same with the bedroom. I glanced in. Bed’s perfectly made, no clothes or shoes tossed around. She’s the type who figures she’s going to get dumped, so isn’t surprised when it happens. She didn’t buzz for me.”

  “She doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “If I planned to kill a former U.S. senator, I’d have one wrapped tight.”

  “Having absolutely none’s not a bad strategy,” Eve countered. “She asked how he was killed when we first got there. I never gave her an answer, she never asked again. How do you write articles on anything without asking questions, pushing the follow-up?”

  “She seemed really flustered and embarrassed.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. Right now, she stays on the list. Let’s talk to the next.”

  7

  The Brighton Group proved both efficient and unimposing. It held offices over a bustling deli in a squat building tossed up post-Urbans. The casually dressed staff worked together in a cacophony of noise that struck as cheerful. Some glass partitions separated the higher-ups.

  Personal photos, plants, files, paperwork jumbled together on desks. The air smelled candy sweet—which Eve understood as they were offered birthday cake minutes after arriving.

  “Asha’s through there.” The cake-bearer gestured to one of the glass-walled offices. “We’re all just getting back to it after celebrating Sandy’s birthday at lunch.”

  “We’ll pass, but thanks.”

  “If you change your mind, just dig in. You can go right in—Asha’s office is always open.”

  “Cake,” Peabody mumbled as she followed Eve. “Why did it have to be cake?”

  “Toughen up, Peabody.”

  Eve studied Asha through the glass. The woman wore a poppy-red sweater that suited her caramel-toned skin. She had snug black trousers tucked into stubby-heeled knee-high boots, and wore her hair scooped back from her sharp-boned, big-eyed face in a mass of red-tipped black curls.

  She turned from the mini-friggie where she’d taken a bottle of water, put on a professional smile when Eve stepped to the doorway.

  “Hi. What can I do for you?”

  “NYPSD.” Eve lifted her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We’d like a few minutes of your time.”