Calculated in Death Page 6

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. You should sit down. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “I didn’t hear before I came in. I never turn on the screen in the morning. I never have time. When I got here Lorraine—Ms. Wilkie—she was crying. Then everybody was crying. Nobody knew what to do.”

  She looked around the room in a helpless search that had her pressing her knuckles to her mouth. “Sly—Mr. Gibbons was a little late. He tried to contact Marta’s husband, but nobody answered, and he tried to talk to someone at the police, but they didn’t tell him anything, not really. And he said we should cancel any appointments for today and tomorrow. We could go home. Nobody really went home, not yet.”

  “It helps to be around other people who knew her,” Peabody said, and gently led Josie to a chair.

  “I guess. When I heard her voice, I thought, See it’s a mistake. I’ve been trying to tell everybody it has to be a mistake. But it isn’t.”

  “No, I’m sorry, it isn’t a mistake.” Eve leaned back against the desk. “How long have you been Marta’s assistant?”

  “About two years. I came on right out of college. I’m going to grad school part-time.”

  “Have there been any problems lately?”

  “Marta’s printer broke. But I fixed it.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary,” Eve qualified.

  “No, I don’t think so. That’s not true! I forgot. Jim and Chaz were in an accident, a car accident in Las Vegas. They went to a convention out there and were supposed to be back yesterday, but they were in a cab that got hit, and Chaz—that’s Mr. Parzarri—and Mr. Arnold were hurt. That’s why Sly had to give Marta and Lorraine the extra work. That’s why Marta was working late. That’s why.”

  “As her assistant you know what she’s working on. You keep a log of incoming contacts, appointments.”

  “Yeah, sure. Yes.”

  “Have there been any contacts recently that caused concern, that were upsetting or unusual?”

  Josie’s eyes cut away. “No.”

  “Josie.” Eve spoke just sharply enough to have the woman’s gaze zipping back to hers. “You need to tell us.”

  “Marta said I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

  “That was before.” Peabody sat down beside her. “You want to help Marta, to do what’s right for her and her family.”

  “I do. I really do. She didn’t want Sly upset, and she said she’d take care of it.”

  “Take care of what?” Eve demanded.

  “It was just . . . Ms. Mobsley. Um, Marta was doing the audit on her trust fund because the trustees ordered it. Marta was just doing her job, but Ms. Mobsley was really upset, really mad about it. How it’s her money, and she wasn’t having any dried-up numbers cruncher giving the assholes—that’s her word, okay—any lever to cut her off. She said Marta was going to be sorry if she didn’t do what she wanted.”

  “What did she want?”

  “I think, I guess, she wanted Marta to, you know, tweak some numbers so everything looked fine. But the thing is, I’m not supposed to talk about accounts and people.”

  “You’re relaying information to the police about a possible threat,” Eve reminded her.

  “It’s just I helped run some of the numbers, research some of the data, and well, Ms. Mobsley was sort of cheating. She was taking funds she wasn’t supposed to, and covering it, sort of, so it looked like approved expenses. And the trustees are the client, so Marta had to give them a clean report. Marta told her if she kept harassing her she’d have to report the communications to the trustees, and the court. And Ms. Mobsley got mega-steamed. Marta had me come in and close the door, and she told me—I heard some of it anyway—but she said since I was assisting on the audit, I needed to know. And I needed to tell her asap if Ms. Mobsley or anyone else contacted me about the audit, or tried to pressure me about it.”

  “Has anyone?”

  “No. People like Ms. Mobsley don’t notice assistants, I don’t think. I was supposed to tell her—Ms. Mobsley—if she contacted the office again that Marta was unavailable. But to log the call and everything she said. If it didn’t stop, she was going to tell Sly, and they were going to inform the trustees.”

  “Do you have Mobsley’s full name and contact information?”

  “Yes, sure. Candida Mobsley. I can get you her address—addresses,” Josie corrected. “And the trustees. Should I tell Sly? Do you think I should tell him?”

  “I do, but for now, tell me about yesterday. Did Mobsley try to contact Marta?”

  “Not yesterday. We were so busy, and upset, too, because of the accident. Marta took on three audits, and two of them were barely started. I stayed late to help, but she told me to go home about eight, I think. I went home. I was really tired. My roommate just broke up with this guy, so we just hung for a couple hours.”

  “Okay. Get Detective Peabody that information, and why don’t you ask Lorraine Wilkie to come in.”

  “All right.” Josie rose. “She was a great boss, I just want to say. She was mag to work for, and taught me a lot.”

  Peabody waited until Josie went out. “Candida Mobsley’s all over the media. She’s been in and out of rehab for illegals and/or alcohol abuse, which is the excuse used when she wrecks another car, smacks another rival, tears up another hotel suite or whatever. Travels a lot. Third- or fourth-generation money that she’s apparently pissing through as fast as she can.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “McNab and I like to watch the gossip and celeb channels sometimes. It’s fun. She’s been engaged I don’t know how many times, and was married for about five minutes after a mega-multi-million-dollar wedding on this private South Sea Island estate. They said her dress alone cost—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Sorry, got caught up. What I’m saying is, she’s really rich, really spoiled, and has a history of violent behavior.”

  “Someone who could afford to hire a somewhat sloppy hit on an accountant she was pissed at.”

  “Yeah, she could. Plus she ran with some rough types a couple years ago. The type who’d know how to hire a somewhat sloppy hit.”

  “Okay, get her info, and we’ll have a talk with her. And why don’t you go on down, see if the security guy’s got the copy of the logs for us. If not you could try a little pressure there.”

  “I love this job.” Bouncing a little at the prospect of interviewing the rich and infamous, Peabody walked out just as another woman came to the door.

  Where Josie had been soft-featured, young, dewy, and clad in cutting-edge fashion, Lorraine was whittled down like a finely sharpened pencil. Thin and angular, with no-nonsense steel gray hair hacked short, she wore a mannish pants suit in banker navy with a crisp white shirt.

  Her eyes might have been puffy, but they remained dry and steady as they sized Eve up.

  “You’re in charge of finding out who did this to Marta.”

  “I’m the primary investigator.”

  Lorraine nodded briskly as she entered. “You look capable.” She sat, crossed her legs, folded her hands in her lap. “What do you need from me?”

  Eve ran her through the basics. It seemed clear Marta’s coworker knew nothing about trouble from Mobsley. Added to it, she wasn’t as easy to manipulate into divulging information about the work as the soft-featured assistant.

  “What we do here is very sensitive. We have an obligation to confidentiality. And the fact is, Marta and I worked on different accounts. We don’t overlap as a rule. In case of illness or termination—” She broke off, pressed her thin lips together briefly. “I’m speaking of employment termination—Sylvester will assign one of us to an audit or client.”

  “Such as the accident requiring you and Marta to take on other work.”

  “Exactly. This firm has a reputation, earne
d and deserved, for accuracy, discretion, and efficiency, and our department’s part of the reason for that reputation. Clearly Chaz and Jim will be unable to work for several days, if not weeks. The work can’t wait.”

  “Due to the sensitive nature of the work, have you ever been threatened or harassed?”

  “For the most part we’re dealing with corporations and large businesses. Their lawyers may jostle with ours, but most usually they’re too busy jostling with the courts who approved or ordered the audit. There have been times, over the years, when an individual learns who is doing the actual figures, and there are—on rare occasions—angry calls, rarer still a personal confrontation here at the office. In those cases, one has to assume there’s a reason for the anger and fear.” She lifted bony shoulders. “For the most part we work in peace and quiet, and in a very pleasant atmosphere.”

  “How about bribes?”

  Now Lorraine smiled. “Oh, it’s not unheard of for someone mired in an audit to offer the auditor or one of the other staff a bribe to cover up what the audit would expose. Taking one means the risk of prison or a very stiff fine, the loss of a hard-earned license, termination from the firm.”

  “Bribe’s sweet enough, it could be worth it to some.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s foolish and shortsighted. Numbers don’t lie, Lieutenant. Sooner or later, they’ll add up correctly, and that quick, easy money will have proven a very poor choice. Marta would never make that choice.”

  “There’s no question in your mind on that?”

  “None whatsoever. She enjoyed her work, and was well compensated for it. Her husband enjoys his, and is well compensated. They have children, and she would never, never risk embarrassing her family, exposing her children to scandal. And at the core of it, of her? Integrity.”

  For the first time Lorraine’s voice wavered, and those dry, steady eyes went damp. “I’m sorry. I’m trying not to be emotional, but it’s very, very difficult.”

  “I understand. You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything, please contact me. Any detail at all.”

  “I will.” Lorraine rose. “I walk that way in good weather. In fact, Marta and I often walked together. I live only two blocks from where they said she was found. I like to walk in the city. I’ve never worried about walking in that neighborhood. My own neighborhood. Now I . . . It will be some time before I walk easily there again.”

  “One more thing,” Eve said as Lorraine started out. “Do you have any business with or knowledge of the WIN Group?”

  “Win? As in win or lose?” She pursed her lips at Eve’s nod. “It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. I don’t recall ever doing any work for or on them.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  She made the rounds with the rest of the staff, with Peabody when her partner returned with the log copy. While the statements filled in the picture of a woman well-liked by her coworkers, there were no real revelations. She couldn’t claim surprise when the warrant bogged in legal mires, but she left the offices with every confidence Yung would find a way.

  And she had one lead out of it.

  “We’ll track down this Candida Mobsley, but I want to go by the crime scene first, and I want to follow up with the two wits and a talk with Whitestone’s partners. Start that search for the snatch vehicle.”

  She pulled away from the curb. By the time she’d maneuvered the handful of blocks, Peabody was asleep with her PPC in her hand.

  Eve jabbed her with an elbow.

  “Yes, sir! What?”

  “There’s a deli up the block there. Go, fuel up. Get me whatever.”

  “Yeah, okay. Sorry. We hung with Mavis and her gang until about midnight. It’s catching up with me.”

  “Take a booster if you need it.”

  Peabody scrubbed her hands over her face, and yawning, crawled out of the car. Eve skirted around the hood, walked in the opposite direction through the insistent sleet to stand in front of the building where Marta Dickenson died.

  It looked good, she decided, even in the crappy weather. Dignified, old-school, and very, very fresh. She imagined the owners would have little problem filling those spaces.

  If they ignored the small detail of murder.

  Standing in the sleet, she closed her eyes.

  Park the van or the four-wheel, because a mini struck her as absurd for abduction, near the front of the office building. She has to come out sooner or later. Waiting’s just part of the job. Security cams don’t scope all the way to the sidewalk. Let her come out.

  Get out of the vehicle, she imagined. Let her walk by, step in behind her, stun her, muffle her, muscle her in the back in seconds. One in the driver’s seat, one in the back with her. Hold a hand over her mouth, hold her down when she struggles or makes noise. Short drive. One gets out, unlocks the door—one way or the other—comes back.

  Muscle her inside. It wouldn’t take more than seconds.

  How wasn’t hard, Eve decided. How seemed pretty straightforward. The why was trickier.

  “Lieutenant.”

  She turned, watched Officer Carmichael approach, his heavy uniform coat wet, his face pink from the cold.

  “I saw Detective Peabody in the deli. We were about to go in for a meal break.”

  “Whatcha got?”

  “Not a lot. Nobody we’ve talked to heard anything. We dug up one possible wit, other side of the street, fourth-floor apartment, facing this way. She thinks, maybe, she saw a van parked over here last night.”

  “What kind of van?”

  “Dark,” he said with a wry twist of his lips. “Maybe black, maybe dark blue, maybe dark gray. No idea of make, model, plates. Her privacy screen hung up, and she was trying to fix it, thinks she saw a van over here. And she says she’s sure the lights were on in the lower apartment. She noticed that especially as she’s been watching the rehab progress. She figured the van was one of the crew, working late.”

  “What time?”

  “About ten-thirty, she says, give or take a few minutes. She messed with the screen awhile, then went for her cohab. He was sleeping in his chair, kicked off watching the screen. I talked to him via ’link. He doesn’t remember one way or the other. We knocked on a lot of doors. In a neighborhood like this, people mostly open up for the cops. But a lot of people were out during this canvass. We’ll follow up in a few hours.”

  “Good enough. How did Turney do?”

  Carmichael smiled a little. “She don’t give up.”

  “Take her on the second pass if she wants it.” Let her see, Eve thought. Homicide, like most cop work, was walking, waiting, asking questions, and paperwork.

  She walked down the stairs, broke the seal, entered the apartment.

  Nothing to see, really. Same as it had been, but for the fine layer of dust left by the sweepers, and that on-the-edge-of-nasty chemical smell that clung to the air.

  They didn’t take her farther than the front living space. No need to drag it out. Privacy-screened windows—lights showed through, but not movement, not activity. Good soundproofing. A dozen people might have walked by on the sidewalk, they’d never have heard her scream.

  They took her briefcase, that was more than show, more than cover. That was part of the job. Take her work, her files, her memo book, her tablet, whatever she’d carried.

  The woman had two kids at home. She wouldn’t have played the hero. And for what? Numbers, someone else’s money? She’d have told them whatever they wanted to know, if she knew it.

  She didn’t fight back. Did she believe they’d let her go if she told them, gave them, cooperated.

  “Makes the most sense,” Eve murmured as she circled the room. “Tell us, give us, what we want, and it doesn’t have to get ugly.”

  She’d believe them because the alternative was too terrifying.

  Peabody came in
and brought the scent of something wonderful with her.

  “Chicken noodle soup and twisty herb bread. They make it on site, right there. I got us both a large go-cup. Did Carmichael find you?”

  “Yeah. Possible wit on a van parked out front, but no description of said van other than dark. Push the search on that, on the Cargo.” Eve took the go-cup Peabody offered, sniffed, sampled. “Jesus. That’s freaking good.”

  “It’s freaking uptown squared. I started mine on the way back. The smell nearly killed me. It tastes a lot like my granny’s.”

  “There’s probably something illegal in here. I don’t care.” She hadn’t realized how far she’d been flagging herself until she felt her energy rise up again.

  “They got what they wanted from her,” Eve stated. “If she’d said she didn’t know, didn’t have, whatever, they’d have messed her up more, broken some fingers, blackened her eye, hurt her until she gave it up, or they were sure she didn’t have it. They got what they wanted, pretty quick, pretty easy.”

  “And they killed her anyway.”

  “They were always going to kill her. Whatever she knew, had, did—they couldn’t have her pass it to anyone else, talk about it. Her work, and this place, either the owners or somebody on the construction crew. My money’s on the owners, but we’ll see about the construction people. A job like this, they went high-end. High-end construction firms make plenty. And I bet audits aren’t out of the ordinary.”

  Eve bit off a hunk of bread. “Got to be illegal. Let’s go talk to the wit and his partners.”

  “You still want to talk to Candida, right?”

  “After, if you can stay awake long enough to track her down.”

  “I’m totally charged up again. Maybe I should go buy a gallon of that soup. No! I’ll e-mail my granny, and I’ll sweet-talk her into sending me some.”

  “You have no shame, or guile.” Eve led the way out, still sipping soup. “You e-mail her and tell her you just had some soup that’s as good as hers—subtext, maybe better—and it made you think about her, blah blah. How good it was, on a cold, crappy day in New York, yadda, yadda. She’ll cook up a batch and ship it out to prove hers is better.”