Born In Death

She paused. “Pick a door.”

Eve actually heard the woman suck air through her nose.

“You’ll have to tell me what this is about.”

“No, I really don’t. You may want to ask your boss if he’d rather speak to me now, or come into Central in the immediate future and spend considerable time being interviewed formally. Or you can make that decision for him. Up to you.”

“But…” Peabody tapped her wrist unit. “Time’s a-wasting.”

“Wait here.”

Eve waited until Bruberry had clicked off on her sharply heeled boots. “Time’s a-wasting?”

“It just worked for me. Kind of pissy, wasn’t she? And she knows why we’re here.”

“Oh, yeah, she does. Interesting.” Idly, Eve turned to study one of the countryscapes. “How come people live and work in urban areas, then put up pictures of rural areas on the wall? Can’t they make up their minds where they want to be?”

“A lot of people find rural landscapes relaxing.”

“Sure, until you start wondering what’s creeping behind those trees, or slithering along in the grass.”

Peabody shifted uncomfortably. “Some people think bounding instead of creeping, as in pretty little fawns, and frolicking as opposed to slithering, like cute little bu

“Some people are fools. Let’s entertain ourselves, Peabody, and start a run on Bruberry. And one on Cavendish.”

“It could be fawns and bu

Moments later, Bruberry stepped out of another door. Her back was poker straight, her tone cool and aloof. “Mr. Cavendish will see you now. Ten minutes.”

10

FROM CHURCH TO MUSEUM, EVE THOUGHT, THEN through the door into the men’s club.

Walter Cavendish presided over an office with wide-armed, port-colored leather chairs and sofas, and dark, heavy woods. The carpets were thickly padded Orientals, likely the real deal, in rich tones and complex patterns. Amber liquid swam in thick crystal decanters that would have doubled as very effective murder weapons.

A trim black data and communication center stood alongside leather and brass accessories that were arranged just so on the antique desk where Cavendish sat looking prosperous, tailored – and to Eve’s gauge – nervy.

He was in his early fifties, with a good head of the hair people called sandy in men, mousey in women. His face was ruddy, his eyes a light blue that skipped over Eve’s face, then over her shoulder. His suit was a muted brown with just a hint of a gold stripe to show he liked a little pizzazz.

He rose, and his not-quite-handsome face set in solemn lines. “I’d like to see some identification.” He spoke, to Eve’s mind, in the rounded, fruity tones of a hammy Shakespearean actor.

Both she and Peabody took out badges. “Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve said, “and Detective Peabody. Looks like your meeting broke up. Fu

He looked momentarily confused, and those nervous eyes slid to Bruberry even as the admin spoke.

“It was a ’link conference.”

“Yes, a ’link conference. With London.”

“That’s handy.” She kept her eyes on Cavendish in a way that told him she knew he was already lying. “Since you’ve got a few minutes now, we have some questions in co

“So I’m told.” He gestured, started to sit. When he didn’t offer a hand, Eve shot hers out deliberately. She wanted the feel of his.

He hesitated, and she saw his gaze dart toward his admin yet again before he took Eve’s hand in his.

A little soft, she noted, a little damp.

“What’s the nature of your investigation?”

“Homicide. Natalie Copperfield and Bick Byson. Are those names familiar to you?”

“No.”

“You don’t watch the media reports, I take it. Don’t scan the newspapers.” She flicked a glance of her own toward a wall screen framed in the dark wood that dominated the room. “These individuals were murdered three nights ago in their respective residences. Both were employed by the accounting firm of Sloan, Myers, and Kraus. And fu

“I don’t retain the names of everyone I might hear of or read of. I’m a very busy man. As far as accounting, Ellyn – my assistant – deals with that area.”

“I’m aware of Ms. Copperfield,” Bruberry stated. “What does her death have to do with this firm?”

“At this point, I’ll be asking the questions,” Eve said coolly. “Where were you, Mr. Cavendish, three nights ago between the hours of midnight and fourA.M.?”

“At home, in bed. With my wife.”

Eve lifted her eyebrows. “You can’t remember the names of two people who’ve been all over the media reports, but you know – without a second’s hesitation or without checking your book – where you were three nights ago?”

“At home,” he said again. “In bed.”

“Have you had any contact with Ms. Copperfield or Mr. Byson?”

“No.”

“That’s odd. Don’t you find that odd, Detective, that Mr. Cavendish would have no contact whatsoever with the person who handles his firm’s accounts?”

“I have to say I do. Me, I’m on a first-name basis with the guy in Payroll back at Central.”

“I may have, at some point, met – ”

“I corresponded and met with Ms. Copperfield,” Bruberry interrupted. “When necessary. Such matters are, primarily, dealt with through our home office in London.”

“And just what do you do here?” Eve asked, speaking directly to Cavendish.

“I represent our firm’s New York interests.”

“Which means?”

“Exactly that.”

“That clarifies it. And you also represent the legal interests of Lordes C. McDermott, who was a client of Bick Byson.”

“Ms. McDermott is a family relation, and naturally is represented by our firm. As to her financial manager, I couldn’t say.”

“Really? Gee, seems like one hand doesn’t keep a grip on the other around here. And, second gee, I don’t think I said Byson was her financial manager, just that she was a client.”

Cavendish fiddled with the knot of his tie. Nervous tell, Eve thought.

“I assumed.”

“While we’re at it, your whereabouts on the night of the murders, Ms. Bruberry?”

“At home. I was in bed before midnight.”

“Alone?”

“I live alone, yes. I’m afraid that’s all the time Mr. Cavendish can spare.”

Eve got lazily to her feet. “Thanks for your cooperation. Oh,” she continued. “Your firm also represents…” She took out her memo book as if to check on a name. “The Bullock Foundation.”

And there, she noted, just that little ripple over the face. The tightening of the jaw, the flicker in the eyes. Another brush of the fingers over the knot of his tie. “That’s correct.”

“Ms. Madeline Bullock and Mr. Winfield Chase were recently in the city. I suppose you met with them while they were here.”

“I…”

“Ms. Bullock and Mr. Chase had a luncheon meeting here with Mr. Cavendish. That would have been on Monday afternoon. At twelve-thirty,” Bruberry added.

“You had your meeting, and your lunch with them here. In the office.”

“That’s correct,” Bruberry snapped before Cavendish could respond. “Would you like me to find my notes on the menu?”

“I’ll let you know. This has been just swell. Thanks for the time.” Eve turned to go, hesitated at the door. “You know, it’s odd that while you’re so busy representing your firm’s New York interests, you didn’t take regular meetings with the senior accountant who looks after their finances.”

“I’ll see you out,” Bruberry said when Cavendish remained silent.

“That’s okay. We can manage it.”

Somebody’s got a secret,” Peabody said when they were back on the street.

“Bet your ass. That guy had guilt and fear plastered all over him. Could be we’ll find he’s just cheating on his wife or wearing women’s underwear.”