In Death [47] Leverage in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Long walk.”

  “I like to walk,” he said evenly. “After I arrived home, I remained home, until the following morning. My apartment security will verify the time I arrived, and the time I left.”

  “You work in security, Mr. Kinski. I imagine you have access to a lot of interesting toys, and you have the knowledge and skill needed to use them.”

  “My job makes me a suspect in the murder of a man I didn’t know?”

  “This is an inquiry. I haven’t read you your rights. Being security—you are head of Level A?”

  “I am.”

  “Being that level of security in a building that houses financial institutions would likely give you a working knowledge of finance. The market. Maybe some inside information.”

  His gaze remained level, stony. His voice matched it. “Now you’re accusing me of, what, insider trading? I’ve had enough of this fishing expedition. A man’s murdered in Central Park, his valuables taken before he’d dumped in the reservoir. The media terms it a mugging. At least I see you’re not stupid enough to dismiss it as such.”

  “Why would that be stupid?”

  “His neck was broken—manually, according to the reports. I doubt your average mugger’s had the kind of combat training that particular skill requires.”

  “But you have.”

  Still hard, his gaze never strayed from hers. “I have. I live in the same building, I work in security with a background in military service. I’ve been in combat. I was home, alone, on the night in question.”

  “You also have a charge of criminal violence on your record.”

  As the angry flush rose up to his hairline, the first hint of frustration eked through. “I did not strike my ex-wife. I have never put a violent hand on any woman outside of training or combat when they were soldiers. If you looked deeper, you’d find my ex-wife is currently in court-appointed rehabilitation for drug and alcohol abuse, and I won’t discuss that any further.”

  He rose. “I have work. I’ll escort you out.”

  Eve rose, gestured for Peabody to do the same. She waited until they were back in the elevator to look up at Kinski’s rigid face. “Ever been to the Salon?”

  She saw the flicker in his eyes before they narrowed. “The art gallery, the one bombed yesterday? By one of the owners. What is this?”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “No.”

  “You had some training in explosives during your time in the Army.”

  He started to speak, then pressed his lips together. When the door opened to the lobby, he stood, straight as the soldier he’d been. “If you need to speak with me again, I’ll engage a lawyer.”

  “That’s your right,” Eve said easily, and felt his eyes boring into her back as she walked across the lobby.

  “That shook him up,” she commented. “He checks some boxes, no question. No real buzz, but boxes checked. Need to verify the wife’s rehab.”

  “I’ll do it.” Peabody’s voice held quiet—no exclamation point. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s mostly worn off. I mean I feel pretty energetic, but the whooppee’s about gone. I’m so sorry, Dallas.”

  “Forget it.”

  “No, seriously. The last thing you needed was me flying around on a mental trapeze. I’m embarrassed, but even more just sorry.”

  “Fine. If you’re so sorry get rid of that stupid lip dye.”

  “What lip dye?” Peabody asked as they walked up to the car.

  “The one on your lips.”

  Obviously baffled, Peabody flipped down the vanity mirror when she dropped into the driver’s seat. Her gasp sucked up most of the oxygen in the car.

  “Oh my God! When did I do that? I don’t remember doing that. This is all wrong.” She started digging in her bag. “I bought this on impulse, but it’s not my color. It looks terrible on me. I tossed it in my desk drawer weeks ago.”

  “So your main concern is it’s not your freaking color?”

  “It’s not!” Peabody pulled a tiny, wet tissue out of a pack, rubbed it vigorously over her lips. Balled it up when it turned pink, pulled out a second. “And, come on, I’d never wear something called Sexcapade Pink on duty. I’m a cop!”

  In this case, Eve accepted the exclamation point. “Good to have you back.”

  19

  They interviewed three more at places of employment. Two of the three had ready alibies—to be verified for both the weekend of the home invasion and the night of Banks’s murder. The third claimed to have been at home with a cold from Saturday through Monday, and provided the name of the herbalist he’d used for remedies and relief.

  “You can fake a cold and a trip to an herbalist,” Peabody commented.

  “Yeah, you can. And it’s a squishy alibi to have handy if you’re hiding something. We’ll keep him on the high side of the list. We’ll verify the alibis, check off the herbalist. We’re going to head to the apartment building, knock on some doors of the work-at-homes or not-workings.”

  “Can I have coffee now? I drank a gallon of water,” Peabody claimed when Eve gave her a silent stare. “I peed out a gallon when you count I’ve peed at every stop we’ve made. The boost is gone, I swear.”

  “If you start talking about puppies I’ll punch you again.”

  “Deal.”

  Peabody programmed coffee for both of them, drank hers while working her PPC. “We’ve got two still up on the list out of five—once I verify the alibies. I think they’re going to hold. I’ve got Baxter and Trueheart’s update on here. One out of four—and the one’s bumped down a couple notches.”

  “Confirming Kinski’s ex is an addict in rehab doesn’t take him off the hook,” Eve considered. “But it does lead me to speculate rather than spousal abuse he may have been defending himself against a juiced-up attack or trying to keep her from using. He still checks the boxes.”

  “We talk to some of his friends, coworkers, his Army CO.”

  Eve nodded. “Next step on him. Then there’s Markin, because something’s there. The wife says he’s too lazy. Maybe he’s lazy, but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t go into something like this for the fun of it.”

  “Bored rich with a mean streak.”

  “Exactly.”

  She pulled up in front of the apartment building. The doorman, all courtesy, hustled over to open the car door. “Good morning, Lieutenant. What can we do for you?”

  “I’ve got some people to talk to.”

  “No problem. Rhoda will get that going for you.”

  The efficient Rhoda ran down Eve’s list of names. “Mr. Skinner’s out—dentist appointment. I can let you know if he comes back while you’re here. Mr. Lorimer left just after eight for some outside meetings. He didn’t indicate when to expect him back, but again, I’ll let you know. Both Mr. Abbott and Mr. Prinz left for the gym—they go to the same one and are friendly—they’re usually back by two. Everyone else should be in residence.”

  “Good. I have two detectives who’ll be here sometime this afternoon with another list of names.”

  “I’ll be happy to clear them.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  In the elevator, Peabody said, “This is a nice place. Classy.” She lifted her shoulders. “Roarke.”

  “Yeah. We’ll start at the top, work down.”

  At their first stop, Clinton Wirely welcomed them with considerable enthusiasm. Fit and fifty-ish, with gold-and-silver-tipped brown hair, avid green eyes, he sparkled with delight.

  “This must be about The Unfortunate Mr. Banks—it sounds just like a title of a story. Please, sit, sit, sit.”

  “You knew Jordan Banks.”

  “Not a bit, but I know both of you. I’ll be positively glued to the screen Sunday night. I adore the Oscars, and throw a little gala of my own for friends on the night. I’m just devastated I can’t offer you coffee. I’m a tea drinker. I have fresh, organic papaya juice that’s amazing when mixed with some sparkling ginger.”

  Before
Eve could refuse, Peabody piped up, “I’d love some juice, thanks.”

  “Wonderful. You just make yourselves at home. I’ll be back in a snap.”

  He sort of whirled out in his knee-length striped sweater and black skin pants.

  “Sorry, I could really use the juice.”

  Eve took the time to study the living space. Not as grand as Banks’s, but with that same view out the glass wall. Lots of art, she noted, lots of color. Pillows shaped like birds, curved sofas, fancy dust catchers arranged just so, fresh flowers.

  Wirely came back with a pitcher of—as advertised—sparkling juice over ice, a trio of glasses and a plate of thin, frosted cookies, fancy napkins.

  “In case you change your mind,” he said to Eve. “I wondered if the police would talk to residents. I’m so excited you are—I know that’s just terrible of me. The poor man’s dead, after all. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he was a bit of a scoundrel, wasn’t he?”

  “You said you didn’t know him.”

  “I didn’t, but I know of him. I’m an unapologetic gossip,” he added as he poured the juice. “I’m friendly with a number of people in the building. After all, we’re neighbors. And we do love to dish. I can’t say he came up very often while he was still among the living, but since?” He cast his gaze up to the ceiling. “My, my, and my.”

  “Such as?” Eve prodded.

  “Well.” Eyebrows wiggling, he offered the plate of cookies. “I’m sure you know, but in case. A womanizer. He had the most delightful lady friend—I did meet her once in the elevator. That poor woman who was hurt in that hideous explosion this week. Willimina Karson. She’s the head of Econo. I read she’s going to fully recover.”

  He patted a hand on his chest. “So relieved. As I said, delightful. And just lovely. And I’m told while he had this delightful woman, he pursued others. Including our own Ankah—that’s Ankah Si? Gorgeous creature who happens to live just across the hall. He tried his charm on Ankah, sent her flowers, asked her to dinner—all while involved with the lovely Willimina. Our Ankah flicked him off.”

  Smiling, he flicked his fingers with their short, neat, buffed nails to demonstrate. “She has good taste in men. Now this I did know while he was among the living as Ankah was quite insulted, and told the story at one of my little parties. Then after The Unfortunate Mr. Banks’s demise, I heard Ankah was far from the only one.”

  Eve let him ramble some about what he’d heard: the women, the drug use—terrible for the body and soul!—the gambling.

  “You seem to know quite a bit about a man you never met.”

  “Oh, my lovely, I keep my ears open. I may not know everything about everyone in the building, but I’ll wager I know at least a little about most. It’s all grist for the mill. I write short stories. It’s my passion.”

  “I thought you were a lawyer. A legal and financial consultant—estate-law specialist.”

  “That’s duty, not passion. I’m the oldest son of two great legal minds, and I did what was expected of me. Quite well, too, if I say so myself. I do continue to serve clients, but I’ve cut back considerably, and take time to write.”

  “Your brother’s in the military.”

  “Goodness, you know quite a lot, too. Yes, second son, semper fi. A Marine like our grandfather, our uncle—also second sons. Lawyers and soldiers populate my family. We’re not allowed to be lazy and suck, you could say, on the family money teat. We earn our way, unlike Mr. Banks, from what I hear.”

  Rather than answer, Eve glanced around. “You have a lot of art.”

  “Another passion. What’s life without art, after all? Dull and gray and flat. You must agree,” he said to the currently colorful Peabody.

  “I do, completely. I guess you know Banks owned the Banks Gallery—an art gallery.”

  “Yes, but owning and working are different things, wouldn’t you say?” He added a sly smile. “I’m told he didn’t put much effort into the working end of the matter. I must stroll in there one day just to see what I see. I imagine he has a nice collection himself. Is it true someone broke into his apartment? That’s the rumor, but no one can confirm. Apparently the place is all sealed up. Like a crime scene.”

  “We need to keep people out of a victim’s residence,” Peabody evaded. “Until we’re sure we’ve gathered any possible evidence.”

  “Of course. That’s very sensible.”

  Peabody studied the art. “Do you have any Angelo Richie’s?”

  “Oh.” Wirely slapped a hand on his chest. “That is a tragedy. A true tragedy. When I heard about the bombing at the Salon, I nearly collapsed. I’ve bought several paintings there. I deal through the lovely Ilene as we struck an immediate simpatico—though I knew Wayne. I’m sick, just sick to think he’s gone. And Angelo Richie, such a talent. Do you know I planned to attend his opening last night? My current beau is out of town, but I planned to attend with several friends.

  “I don’t understand a world where people would torment a good man like Wayne, a loving husband and father. In all truth hold a weapon to a little boy’s head so the father sacrifices himself. Kills others. A blazing talent in its youth like Richie, the others. The art.”

  He dug out a silk handkerchief, dabbed damp eyes. “The second time in a week, they say on the reports. Another father, more death. It’s not a world I understand when there’s such beauty and joy to be taken and shared.”

  “Yeah. Since you shared an interest in art, I’m surprised you never met Banks. Same building, same interest.”

  “And now I never will.”

  “Why don’t you tell us where you were on the night of the murder. From eight Monday night until four Tuesday morning.”

  Those avid green eyes widened, and once again Wirely slapped a hand to his chest. “I’m a suspect? Why this is marvelous! I know, I know, it shouldn’t be, but it simply is. An old queen like me, a murder suspect. Should you read me my rights?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “It would be exciting, but it’s not at all necessary. I was at home—though I did pop down to see Milicent and Gary. They’re in 4904. Lovely people. We had a drink and a visit. I think it was about eight when I went down. I’m sure I was back here by nine-thirty as I wanted to make myself a snack and watch Valley of Tears. I’m just addicted to that show, and its first run of the new episode came on at ten.”

  Pausing, he tapped a finger to his chin. “Let me see now, after that—elevenish, I wrote for an hour as I expected a call from my beau at midnight, or shortly after. He’s on tour—with Ankah. I met him through Ankah, they’re musicians. My beau is a cellist. He’s adorable. We talked for nearly two hours, then I snuggled right in and went to sleep. I stayed in until, oh, about noon the next day. I had lunch with friends at Bistro on Madison.”

  “That’s a long conversation, two hours.”

  “Well, it wasn’t all talk.” He gave Eve a smile as silky as his handkerchief. “We—how to explain delicately—pleasured each other remotely. It’s a five-week tour, after all.”

  “I need your friend’s name.”

  “Nigel Tudor. He’s adorable, as I said, and would certainly confirm. But I did record our . . . conversation. Audio and video. For the lonely nights? It’s time stamped. I can make a copy if that helps.”

  “We’ll just talk to Nigel, thanks. His contact?”

  Wirely rattled it off. “Do give him my love.”

  “Okay. How about the weekend prior?”

  “Well, Nigel left for tour on Saturday, so we had a gathering Friday night for him and Ankah. I suppose we said goodbye to our last guest about one in the morning. Then Nigel and I . . .”

  “Snuggled in,” Peabody suggested, and had him beaming at her.

  “Yes, we did. My adorable beau and Ankah left at ten sharp on Saturday, and I confess I brooded for the next hour or so—before Pitty and Charo dropped by and dragged me off for a spa day to cheer me up. They’re delightful creatures, and we had a lovely day. We had cocktails
afterward, and met some other friends for an early dinner before going to see the most dreadful play.”

  He let out a sigh, shook his head. “Don’t go to see Goodbye, Jessica, Goodbye. Trust me. We went down to The Blue Note afterward for drinks and music to cleanse the palate. I don’t think I got home until after three. I did drag myself out to Hildago’s brunch on Sunday, about eleven-ish? Then I came home and stayed home. Got some writing done, took a nap, that sort of thing.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  “Absolutely my enormous pleasure. I can’t wait to see what you’re both wearing on the red carpet Sunday.”

  “Her, not me.”

  “Ah, well. I’ll look for you, Detective Peabody. I hope you’ll both come back. Remember, if there’s something I don’t know about someone in the building, I can probably find out.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind.”

  Eve stepped out, walked toward the elevator.

  “You don’t want to check with Milicent and Gary and all the rest?” Peabody asked.

  “He’s covered. He’s too smart to lie about something that easy to verify or tear down. And he’s no killer.”

  “I liked him.”

  “He’s sly, gossipy, and a self-proclaimed ‘old queen.’ I kind of liked him, too.”

  They wrapped up three more, none of whom were as interesting or chatty as Wirely. As they headed for the next, Peabody pulled an energy bar out of her bag.

  “I need a little . . . lift. Don’t want to say boost. Want?”

  “What is it?”

  “Ah, Fruity Nut Carbo Burst—with chia seeds and flax.”

  “I thought they made sheets and underwear and stuff out of flax.”

  “It’s a food and fiber plant.”

  “You’re telling me you’re eating something that’s used to make underwear? Why not just gnaw on your own underwear?”

  Peabody took a determined bite of the bar. “On days—which is most—we don’t stop for so much as a limp soy fry, it’s tempting.”