In Death [47] Leverage in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “As soon as he can. My husband,” Liana told Eve and Peabody. “He’s upstairs with our son, and Drew and Sybil’s children. Noah’s only six, and Drew’s children are so young. Noah and my father were especially close. He’s upset.”

  “We’ll try not to take much of your time,” Eve began.

  Stuben wheeled in a large tray holding the coffee and tea service.

  Sybil rose quickly. “Let me help you, Bessie. You’ll have some tea, Rozilyn.” The educated British accent suited her roses-and-cream looks, the long fall of chestnut hair she’d pulled back in a tail. “Lieutenant?”

  “Coffee, black. Thanks.”

  “And, Detective?”

  “Coffee regular.” At Sybil’s blank look, she explained. “Ah, cream—or milk—two sugars. Thanks.”

  Obviously comfortable having a task, Sybil worked with Stuben to pour and serve. Eve gave them the time to settle.

  “Mrs. Pearson, do you know of anyone who wanted to harm your husband, his business, or this merger?”

  “No. No. Derrick’s a good man, a wonderful father and husband. He’s a caring man to his employees. Everyone loves him. Isn’t that right, Liana? Everyone loves your father.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “He treated Paul like family!” Those glazed eyes cleared enough to show fury and terrible grief. “Paul and Cecily were always welcome in our home. Melody played with our grandchildren! And he murdered my Derrick.”

  “Mom, Mom.” Liana tried to get arms around her mother, but Rozilyn pushed her aside.

  “Don’t tell me Paul’s a victim! Don’t you tell me he was forced. That murderer made a choice. He made a choice and he killed your father. He killed my Derrick. My husband’s dead.”

  Her voice pitched high as the words spewed out until they rang on hysteria. Tears spurted and gushed.

  “She can’t do this,” Liana said, starting to rise.

  “I’ll take her upstairs.” Stuben walked around the sofa, leaned down, gathered Rozilyn up. “Let’s go on upstairs now, Miz Roz. You need to go up with me.”

  “What will we do, Bessie? What will we do?”

  “You need some rest,” Stuben soothed as she guided the sobbing woman out.

  “She can’t—” Liana broke off, looking away as she fought for composure. Sybil, silently weeping, sat beside her, gripping her hands.

  “My parents—” Drew cleared his throat. “My parents,” he began again, were married for thirty-nine years. They knew each other since childhood. She’s just not able to do this now.”

  “I understand. If you’d rather we came back to interview the rest of you—”

  “No, please. God, let’s get this done, Drew.” Liana pressed her free hand to her face. “Let’s just get this done. I spoke with Cecily.”

  “You—when?” her brother demanded.

  “Earlier this morning. I needed to. It was hard, for both of us. We got to be friends—or very friendly,” she told Eve. “Her daughter’s older than Noah, but they often played together—and with Drew’s children when they were here, so we got to be friendly. It was hard, but she told me what happened to her, to Paul, to Melly. My mother can’t understand, can’t forgive, and I won’t ask her to. But I can. I can. I have a child. You have children,” she said to Drew and Sybil. “What wouldn’t you do to protect them?”

  She took a breath. “I’m so angry, so angry. I can’t push that anger on Paul and Cecily and that little girl. I wanted to, but I can’t. What do I do with this anger? Who did this, to all of us?”

  “We’re working to find that out. Did your father have enemies?”

  “Competitors—your own husband is one. Competitors and rivals, but enemies? Someone who wanted to kill him? To kill all those people? No. Just no.”

  “You work in the New York offices, so closely with your father. Were there any serious disagreements regarding the merger?”

  “Some, of course. It was a major step, a big change, but in the end a very good deal for everyone. Paul himself wasn’t fully on board at the outset, but he got there.”

  “Why weren’t you in New York for the presentation?”

  “Dad wanted a family rep in Rome. Drew’s London, and Jean-Phillipe—our cousin—is in Paris, but Dad wanted me in Rome. Willimina had key people in important hubs as well.”

  “To give the presentation a global impact,” Drew went on. “The big reveal,” he said with a ghost of a smile.

  “Have any of you received any threats?”

  “No.” Drew looked at his wife, his sister, got headshakes. “This came without warning.”

  “Who have you talked to about the merger? Outside of the business?”

  “The media,” Drew said. “At least in the last few weeks. Sybil handles most of that in Europe.”

  “I’m media chief for Quantum Europe, based in London with Drew. I’d been on parental leave for more than a year, but I came back to take the lead on this.”

  “You fed the media?”

  “In small bites, strategic bites,” she added. “Until we got the approval to push stories, we kept it locked down. An occasional leak—timed to stir some interest—but closed on real details.”

  Eve shifted gears. “How well do you know Jordan Banks?”

  She saw the shock in Sybil’s eyes before the woman cast them down. And her hand reached up nervously to smooth at her hair.

  10

  “I know that name,” Liana murmured. “How do I now that name? Drew?”

  “It’s not ringing for me, sorry.”

  Sybil said nothing, just gave a quick shake of her head without making eye contact.

  “He was involved romantically with Willimina Karson up until a few weeks ago,” Eve said.

  “That’s it. The Banks family, Drew? Communications, entertainment. The wastrel son.”

  “Oh.” He frowned a little. “I never met him, that I remember. I’ve met Morgan Banks. Is this his brother?”

  “I think it is.” Liana seemed to settle, drank some of the coffee she’d ignored. “I actually never met him, either, but I’ve heard things. I think I did know Willimina was seeing him at some point. I got to know her, of course, through the course of the merger, but—wait, wait, I did meet him. At a dinner party. It had to be months ago, maybe last fall. Why?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Sybil froze; her color drained. Drew leaned forward.

  “Is this connected? Was Jordan Banks somehow involved in the bombing?”

  “We’re looking into it.”

  “But Willimina was in the room!” Obviously incensed, Liana set her cup and saucer down with a snap. “She might have been killed. As it was, she was seriously injured. You can’t tell me he engineered this to get back at her for ending their relationship.”

  “We don’t believe that was the motive, but he may have been involved, directly or indirectly.”

  “He has a reputation as a womanizer, but this was evil. Just evil. Did he know Paul?”

  “We haven’t found any connection between them.” Eve kept her tone brisk, her gaze on Liana. Her focus on Sybil.

  “I’m not able to share any more with you on that line of inquiry,” she continued. “We don’t want to keep you much longer, but it would be helpful if we could speak to each of you for a few minutes, separately.”

  “Separately?” Drew repeated.

  “It would be helpful, then we can leave you alone.”

  “I’d like to check on Brad and the kids anyway.” As she spoke, Liana got to her feet. “I could send Brad down, stay with Noah, if you want to talk to him.”

  “That works. Mr. Pearson, if you’d give us the room. We’ll speak with your wife, then send her to get you. We’ll work our way through this, and get out of your way.”

  “All right.” He stood, skimmed a hand over his wife’s hair, and went out with his sister.

  Eve waited until she was certain they were out of earshot. “Tell me,” she demanded.

  Sybil blink
ed. “Pardon?”

  “You knew Banks. Denying it isn’t going to work.” She kept her voice low and hard. “Twelve people are dead. Thirteen including Banks. So you’ll tell us. I’m going to read you your rights.”

  “Oh God, my God.”

  She unlinked the hands she’d gripped in her lap, wrapped her arms around herself as Eve recited the Revised Miranda. “Did you have an affair with Jordan Banks?”

  “No! No, no, it was nothing like that. I mean to say, it was only a . . . flirtation. I never—we never—I couldn’t, wouldn’t betray Drew. It’s just . . .”

  “Did you meet him in London?” Peabody asked, more gently than Eve.

  “Yes. Over a year ago. The baby was only three months old. Jacey was just three months old—and Trey, our boy—had just turned two. We wanted to have our babies close together, you see.”

  She linked her hands again. “Drew and Liana are so close, so we wanted to have our babies near in age, so they’d have that kind of bond. And I just . . .”

  “Two kids under three.” Peabody offered a sympathetic look. “Exhausting.”

  “Yes. Of course, I had help. My mother, a nanny, but I—”

  She broke off, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I have no excuse. Drew was just starting the ground floor of the merger, the meetings, the plans, the trips back and forth to sit down with his father, the board. And I felt overwhelmed and tired and neglected and—and undesirable. Selfish, I was selfish. Two beautiful children, a man I love who loves me and our babies, and I felt neglected because he had important work.”

  “You were on leave. You’d been used to having important work outside the home,” Eve put in. “To being part of it.”

  “Maybe a little post-baby depression, I don’t know. It’s no excuse, but I bounced back so fast with Trey, and I just wasn’t with Jacey.”

  “How did you meet him?” Eve asked.

  “There was an art showing I wanted to attend. An opening, and Drew had promised to take me. A night out, just the two of us. An adult night—no feedings, nappies, bedtime stories. I was all dressed, ridiculously excited, and he rang me up, and told me how sorry he was, but he’d gotten caught up in something and needed to deal with it.”

  “You were upset.” All sympathy, Peabody nodded. “Disappointed.”

  “Crushed, beyond reason really. We’d already arranged for the nanny to stay the night. I’d bought a new frock. I just went. The hell with it. I wanted to go to this opening, I’d just go. So I did.”

  “You met Banks,” Eve finished.

  “Yes. He was there, and somehow we started talking about one of the paintings. He was so charming and attentive. I flirted, I did, partially because I was angry with Drew, but primarily because it felt so good to have someone pay attention.”

  “You’d spent nearly two years of the last three pregnant.” Sticking with the theme, Peabody layered on more understanding. “You wanted to feel like a person, a woman. Not just a mother.”

  “Oh, God, yes. It was wrong, but I had a drink with him after, and we talked, about art and literature and cinema. We just talked. He kissed my hand when he put me in a cab. Just my hand. But he said he’d only be in London for a few days, and wouldn’t I have lunch with him. He hated to eat alone.

  “So I did. The next day, I left my babies with the nanny and I went to have lunch with him, and flirt with him. And the next day I met him again. A drink, in the middle of the afternoon. It felt so wonderfully wicked. And this time he kissed me, and I let him. In the bar of his hotel. And he asked me to come up to his suite.”

  She stopped, pressed both hands to her face. “I almost did. I’m so ashamed of that. Part of me wanted to. But the rest of me was appalled. What was I doing? What was I doing with this man I didn’t even know while my husband was working, while my babies were home with the nanny? I told him no. I apologized because it was my doing, it was my fault. I left, and I never saw him again. I swear to you.”

  “What did you tell him about the merger?”

  “The merger? We didn’t really talk about—”

  “You told him you were married,” Eve interrupted. “You wear a ring. Did he sympathize, say flattering things when you told him your husband was always working.”

  “I . . . yes, I suppose so. Yes. He said—something like—he’d never be able to keep his mind on work with such a beautiful, vibrant woman at home. And he asked what was so important it kept him away.”

  “And you told him.”

  “I . . .” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I did, just that it felt like the family business was more important than family to him right now, and he was so wrapped up in crafting this deal with Econo, he barely knew I was home.”

  “You mentioned Econo specifically?”

  “I did. Yes, I did.”

  “Did he ask you more about it?”

  “He might have. Yes, of course he did. I was complaining, and someone—a very attractive, charming man—listened to me, sympathized with me.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “There wasn’t much to tell, honestly. It was all just getting started. Things like Drew and his father, some others were meeting with Willimina Karson and some of her people. How Drew spent so much time traveling to New York, and in meetings. I resented it, all of it, and maybe because I wasn’t part of it. Honestly, I was stupid and selfish, but there wasn’t enough to tell. There weren’t any real details. If he was involved in this, I don’t understand, I don’t understand at all.”

  Eve did, but she let Sybil go. And though it was only for form, spoke with the others.

  “Well, shit,” Peabody said when they got back in the car. “Do you think she’ll figure out she got the exploding ball rolling?”

  “Maybe. But Banks took that fragment of a ball, rolled it over to Karson and expanded it. Then for ego or profit, he tosses the expanded ball around. Somebody else fields it, weaponized it, and boom.”

  “Do you think Banks set up Sybil?”

  “No way he could know she’d come to that art opening, and come alone. He saw an opportunity—good-looking woman and wealthy, as the rock she’s wearing on her finger would tell him. Also married, but alone. Strike up a conversation, get a feel. Okay, the lady’s vulnerable, unhappy,” Eve said as she pulled into traffic. “He just exploits that. Probably figuring he can get laid, maybe skin her for a few bucks. Then she drops the seed of the merger in his lap.”

  “He does a little research,” Peabody continued, staring out into the rain as she thought it through. “And look here, Willimina Karson—very attractive, unattached, and a good source for more information. Arrange to meet her, charm her, pursue her, attach, and milk her for whatever he can get. I think he probably figured to make some money on the insider trading part of it—or whatever it’s called—and puffed himself up bragging about it. To the wrong people. Now he’s dead, too.”

  “It plays,” Eve agreed. “Right down the line. Here’s how I see it: The idiot contacted them, or one of them. He tells them he’s figured it out, and wants a cut. Maybe he threatens to rat them out, maybe he’s that stupid, but the wanting a cut’s enough. Loose end.”

  Eve made a fist, twisted it.

  “Snap.”

  “We’re probably not looking for an inside man,” Eve concluded. “Anyone on the inside wouldn’t need the tidbits Banks could blather about. But he knew them, or at least one of them, well enough to brag, maybe offer the information for a small fee or favor. Well enough he walked into Central Park to meet up.”

  “People like Banks? They do so much slithering and sliding they don’t think anything’s ever going to stick to them. He figured he had those two over a barrel.”

  “Yeah. Let’s go see what Morris can tell us about Banks falling off the barrel and breaking his neck.”

  * * *

  By the time Eve walked through the white tunnel of the morgue the rain had eased to a piss-trickle of chilly wet, one that looked and felt as if it would continue to
drip, drip, drip, until somebody came along with a giant wrench and fixed the damn faucet.

  The morgue smelled of chemical lemons and death, and through Morris’s double doors, low-down blues played. He wore a protective cape over a suit of forest green with needle-thin gold stripes. He’d paired it with a shirt of dull gold, a deep green tie, and used both colors in cords wound through his long, dark braid.

  With sealed hands he lifted the liver from Banks’s splayed torso to weigh. Smiled over at Eve and Peabody.

  “A morning made for blues and bed, but since we can’t have both . . .” Still, he ordered the volume on the music to decrease.

  “It’s slowing down,” Eve told him. “It’s down to really freaking annoying.”

  “Could be worse,” he said, cleaning the blood off his sealed hands. “Could be snowing, and I’ve had enough of that this winter.”

  “I’m forcing some narcissus—paper whites—in the kitchen,” Peabody told him. “They get me through the last of the winter.”

  “I’ll have to try that myself.”

  “The dead guy probably doesn’t care about rain or snow or whatever narcissus is,” Eve pointed out.

  “A very pretty and fragrant flower,” Morris told her. “A harbinger of spring. In any case . . . I’m told our dead guy was pulled out of the JKO by a couple of boys too insulated by various substances to worry about the filthy weather or the jump into the drink.”

  “Young and stupid. Without the young or stupid, Banks would have spent another couple of hours in the water. Not a prime day for jogging in the park.”

  “Your killer had to have some muscle to get Banks over the fence.”

  “There were probably two of them.”

  “Ah, that would help. Still, it took some upper-body strength and skill to break this neck manually.”

  “Military training, most probable.”

  “And logical. From behind,” Morris added. “Dominant right hand. The late Mr. Banks didn’t put up a fight. No defensive wounds, no other injuries. He’d consumed quite a bit of red wine along with some brie and herbed crackers—rosemary—two deviled dove eggs, about a quarter ounce of beluga, with the accoutrements: a few marinated olives, some goose liver pâté. He capped all that off with a few ounces of absinthe.”