Brotherhood in Death Page 7

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. Security notified me of your arrival. How can I help you today?”

  “We need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”

  “Of what?”

  Eve pointed at the enormous logo. “Of this.”

  “I’m afraid Senator Mira isn’t in. If you’d tell me the nature of your visit, I should be able to direct you to the appropriate party.”

  “The second in command.”

  The faintest flicker of annoyance ran through the polite mask. “Perhaps Ms. MacDonald or Mr. Book could assist you. If you’d care to take a seat, I’ll see if either are available.”

  “They’ll want to be.” Rather than moving to the waiting area, Eve simply stood where she was.

  “One moment.”

  The woman tapped a control on the arm of her chair. It glided along the S, stopped at the far curve. She tapped her earpiece, turned one of her lethally clad shoulders.

  “It feels like nobody here knows the founder’s missing.”

  Eve glanced toward the portrait. “The detective on the missing angle’s started the ball rolling. I’d say it hasn’t rolled this far yet.”

  “But wouldn’t his wife—”

  “You had to be there,” Eve said as the receptionist glided back.

  “Ms. MacDonald will see you. If you’ll just take the elevator to three-one, someone will escort you to her office.”

  Eve stepped in, requested the floor. Then shook her head when Peabody pulled out her PPC. “I ran the top dogs last night. MacDonald, Tressa, forty-three. Divorce times two. One offspring, male. Law degree, Harvard with a side of poli-sci. Clerked for Judge Mira back in the day, served as his chief of staff during the senator years.”

  “That’s a lot without notes.”

  “I figure the senator did her along the way, and she deserves a close look.”

  If the entrance to thirty had been slickly professional, the thirty-first floor hit palatial.

  Yeah, Eve thought, this was top-dog territory with its thick red rugs over white marble. Three people worked at the single curve of red counter, and lush potted trees flanked the window wall. Seating ran to slate-gray leather arranged in conversational groupings. Currently the gigantic wall screen split to show six of the twenty-four/seven media broadcasts.

  It wouldn’t be long, Eve thought, before those broadcasts included stories on former Senator Mira—alive or dead.

  As they started for the counter, a beefy man with a neck thick as a boar’s came through double, frosted doors.

  He looked like a brawler wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. I’m Aiden Bannion, Ms. MacDonald’s admin. I’ll take you to her office.”

  She’d never seen anyone who looked less like an admin, but followed him through the doors and into an open office area where workstations were separated by willpower rather than structure.

  She smelled coffee and someone’s take-out breakfast while voices clashed, ’links jangled, keyboards clattered.

  If you took away the fancy floors and colors, the fashionable wardrobe and footwear, it wasn’t much different from her own bullpen.

  They wound through, past offices with doors firmly closed, and to the corner office with the double doors signaling its rank.

  As these were open, he stepped straight in.

  “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”

  “Thanks, Aiden—two seconds.” She tapped her earpiece. “I’m back. If you take care of your end on that, I’ll take care of mine. By end of day. That’s great. We’ll talk later. Bye now.”

  She rose as she signed off, a small, slender woman in a soft gray suit with a little frill of white over the cleavage. She wore her hair, flaming, fiery red, in curls that spilled to her shoulders.

  She came around the desk, assessing Eve with dark green eyes.

  “Tressa MacDonald.” She held out a hand, shook Eve’s, then Peabody’s with a brisk, firm grip. “Someone’s hurt or worse. I know who you are,” she explained in a voice as brisk and firm as her handshake. “I know your reputation. You’re Homicide. If someone’s dead, would you tell me quickly?”

  “There’s been no homicide or death I know of at this time.”

  Tressa let out a short breath. “All right, that’s a relief. Please, sit. Can I offer you coffee? Aiden’s assistant makes a killer latte.”

  “I’d love one,” Peabody said before Eve could deny them both.

  “That’s two lattes. Lieutenant?”

  “Just coffee. Straight coffee. Black.”

  “Thanks, Aiden.” Tressa gestured to her sitting area, taking the sofa in nearly the same shade as her eyes while Eve and Peabody sat in deep blue chairs. “What’s this about?”

  “Yesterday at approximately five P.M. Edward Mira was assaulted—”

  “What?” Tressa’s spine snapped straight. “Where is he? How seriously was he hurt?”

  “I can’t tell you because he’s missing.”

  “What do you mean ‘missing’? I don’t—” She stopped herself, shook her head. “I’m sorry. I know better. One second.” She looked away, drew a breath, then another, slower. “Please, tell me what you know.”

  “Were you aware that Senator Mira had an appointment yesterday with a real estate agent regarding the sale of a property he owns with his cousin Dennis Mira?”

  “No.” She rubbed two fingers over the space between her eyes. “No, I wasn’t aware.”

  “Do you know the name of the Realtor he worked with?”

  “He’d worked with Silas Greenbaum—Greenbaum Realty—until recently.”

  “Until recently?”

  “Yes.” She glanced over as Aiden brought in the coffee, with a dish of thin cookies, on a tray. “Thanks, Aiden. Do you know what Realtor the senator was using?”

  “No, I don’t, not since he severed ties with Greenbaum.”

  “Check with Liddy, would you? See who he had an appointment with regarding the Spring Street property yesterday.”

  “Of course.”

  “And close the door please, Aiden. You believe whoever he met assaulted him?”

  “He was assaulted in the house. His cousin Dennis Mira entered the property, followed the sound of voices to the study. He saw Edward Mira, injured, started in to assist him, and was himself attacked from behind.”

  “Dennis?” Her fingers lifted to the white frill at her bodice. “Is he all right?”

  “You know Dennis Mira?”

  “Yes, very well. You can’t possibly think he had anything to do . . . Of course you don’t.” Now she pushed at her hair. “You work with his wife, you know him. And from everything I know about you, the two of you, you’re not idiots, so you know Dennis would never hurt anyone. I’m sorry to keep interrupting. I can’t sit.”

  She rose, began to pace. “I’ll handle it better on my feet.”

  Since Eve generally felt the same, she nodded. “When Dennis Mira regained consciousness, the senator was gone. Unless he’s shown up since we came in here, he hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Kidnapping? But no demand for ransom? You’ve spoken with Mandy, surely. If there was a ransom demand it would go to her, or come through here.”

  “Yes, I’ve spoken with her. She wasn’t able to offer any information.”

  “He has a house in the Hamptons, and an apartment in East Washington. But you’ve checked.”

  “I have.”

  After a brief knock, Aiden opened the door. “The senator didn’t give Liddy a name, just told her he had an outside appointment. A four-thirty with a new Realtor. He left shortly after four. Vinnie drove him to the Spring Street property. The senator told him not to wait, he had transportation from there. Liddy doesn’t have any information about a new Realtor.”

&
nbsp; “Thank you, Aiden. Would you tell Wyatt to put aside whatever he’s doing and come in here?”

  “Right away.”

  When he left, Tressa squared her shoulders, came back to sit, picked up her latte. “You’ll need to know where I was yesterday. Four-thirty?”

  “Let’s make it from four to six P.M.”

  “I was in meetings here until about a quarter to five. Wyatt, Aiden, and several others can verify. I had drinks scheduled for five with Marcella Candine at Bistro on Lex. We were there until shortly after six. I took a cab from there to my mother’s. It was my sister’s birthday, and we had a dinner party. Family dinner.”

  Wyatt Book didn’t knock. He simply strode in, an imposing man twenty years Tressa’s senior with a shock of hair in an improbable inky black. His crisp suit mirrored the color, as did his eyes. They flicked off Tressa, zeroed in on Eve.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Edward’s missing.”

  “‘Missing’? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Have you seen or spoken with him since yesterday afternoon?” Eve asked.

  “No, but that hardly means he’s missing, and he certainly won’t appreciate having the police hound him or blather gossip to the media.”

  Eve started to rise, but Tressa beat her to it. “Wyatt, sit down, be quiet for a minute. Edward was attacked in his grandfather’s brownstone, and now he’s missing.”

  “‘Attacked’? Absurd. Where was Vinnie?”

  “Edward dismissed him. He went there to meet someone, supposedly a new Realtor. Dennis Mira was also attacked.”

  “Ha.” The mild concern faded into mild amusement. “The two of them probably finally took swings at each other.”

  “Now who’s being ridiculous and absurd.”

  “For God’s sake.” Irritation flashed over his face as he pulled out his ’link. “I’m sending a nine-one-one to his private number, which he won’t appreciate, either. But it will stop this malarkey.” But he frowned. “It’s not going through, even to v-mail.”

  “Which tells me whoever has him is smart enough to destroy his ’link,” Eve put in. “Who’s the new Realtor?”

  “I have no idea, and that’s more malarkey. He’ll go back to Silas once they both cool down.”

  “They had an altercation?”

  “Edward fired him a couple weeks ago because Silas refused to list or show the property.”

  “Which Silas can’t do,” Tressa continued, “as Edward doesn’t own the property outright.”

  “I’m aware. Does Senator Mira have any enemies?”

  Wyatt let out a derisive snort, plopped down on the couch. “Whose coffee is this?”

  “Go ahead,” Eve told him. “I haven’t touched it.”

  “He’s a lawyer who became a judge who became a senator.” Wyatt gulped down coffee. “He made an enemy every time he woke up in the morning.”

  “There have been threats,” Tressa said more frankly. “As long as I’ve known him. Anything serious was investigated. But that’s certainly eased off since he retired from Congress.”

  “Anyone stick out?” Eve waited a beat. “Any of the women he’s been involved with? Someone he severed ties with there, or a spouse who didn’t appreciate the relationship.”

  “I stay out of Edward’s personal life,” Tressa said coolly, but Wyatt leaned forward.

  “We can’t have any talk of extramarital affairs and dalliances leaked to the media.”

  “I’m not interested in gossip, Mr. Book. I’m interested in finding Senator Mira. Investigating his personal life is part of the job, nothing more or less.”

  “I’m warning you—”

  “You want to be careful about warning me when it comes to doing my job. Who’s he seeing now?”

  “She’s an artist.” Tressa stopped Wyatt’s protest with a hot look. “Finding Edward’s more important than pretenses. She’s young. I don’t know her name. I really do try to stay out of it. Aiden can find out.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got that one already. And, surprise, there’s been no media bulletin. Detective Hanson will follow up.” Eve got to her feet. “He’s leading the missing persons investigation. If you have any more information, you can contact him or me.”

  “Is there anything we can do in the meantime?”

  “Find out the name of the Realtor,” Eve suggested. “Thanks for your time.”

  4

  They wound their way out.

  “You don’t want a look at his appointment book, his calendar?” Peabody asked.

  “The place is thick with lawyers. We’re not getting a look at anything without a warrant. Once it’s murder, I’ll get one. Hanson has to run his angle from here—so send him the name of the driver and the former Realtor. We’ll talk to the list of women, his son and daughter,” she began, checking the time. “Later. This took longer than I planned.”

  “We’re heading in? We’re not going to miss Trueheart?”

  “We’re heading in.”

  “Yay!”

  “Hold the yay. Impressions, observations, conclusions,” Eve said as they rode down.

  “The whole place is big on status, and that sort of thing usually comes from the top. I thought places like this—political think tanks, activists, and the like—would be lower key, even a little sweaty. I didn’t get any vibe from either of them, or Aiden, at least not this time around. MacDonald seemed genuinely worried. Book, not so much.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “I’d say Book doesn’t care as much about the senator, not personally. What? You don’t think that’s it?”

  “Might be, part of it anyway. I figure Book thinks the senator’s off snuggled up with the young artist or some other sidepiece. That plays for him more than any kind of abduction.”

  For sentiment as much as warmth Eve pulled on the snowflake hat as they crossed the lobby. “MacDonald had a strong point. Back when he was a judge, then a senator, he likely had a serious enemies list. He was a hard-liner on the bench and in Congress and kept himself in the spotlight pushing agendas. He still goes on those political talk shows and sort of raves about anything he disagrees with. Government spending’s high on the list and he goes off on a lot of social programs. During his last term he went hard after professional parenthood, had all these figures on what it would save the government to gut the law, and how his wife was honored to be a stay-at-home mother when their children came along, and never took a dime of government money for it.”

  “Did anyone point out his wife was rolling in it, and I bet my ass and yours had a staff?”

  “Yeah, that sort of thing, and the fact that the Professional Parent Act is about as popular as they get, is why his numbers tanked. The pundits figure he opted not to run because he couldn’t win.”

  “The pundits.”

  Peabody shrugged, all but buried her chin in the folds of her scarf. “Sometimes I watch when I’m crafting. McNab doesn’t mind because if they have someone like Senator Horseshit on there, or Congresswoman Vidali—you know about her?”

  “I don’t, and don’t want to.”

  “Well, she’s such a liar, and a hypocrite. I hate when people like that start in on how God wants them to whatever, like they have some secret handshake with God the rest of us don’t know about. It gets me pretty worked up. Then we have hot sex.”

  Eve’s eye wanted to twitch, but she willed it away. “You and Vidali.”

  Peabody snickered. “Oh yeah, we’re all over each other. But seriously, mostly I’d like to punch her. I’ll think: Man, I’d like to punch you right in your lying face. So I jump McNab instead. It works for us.”

  Eve thought of the scarf she was wearing, and wondered how many times Peabody had jumped McNab during the making thereof. She decided never to think about it again. Ever.

 
She got in the car, shot into a skinny gap in traffic, and let horns blast in her wake.

  “We’ll take ten after the ceremony, then it’s back in street clothes. I want to talk to the artist first.”

  “In her twenties, right? That’s just icky—and I’m not an age bigot.”

  “What do the pundits say?”

  “Not much on screen. Maybe it’s an unspoken rule or something. But if you go on some political blogs and websites, there’s a lot of chatter about his diddling. Not just him, but this is about him, so . . . I haven’t read anything about the artist. Yet.”

  “Why don’t you dig into that area? The diddling area. Maybe there’s chatter about somebody not on my list, or smoke about bitter breakups. You dig up anything, you copy me and Hanson.”

  “On it, over it, and through it. In fact . . .” Peabody pulled out her PPC. “I’ll get started on it now.”

  Eve drove the rest of the way in silence, broken only by the occasional angry mutter from her partner.

  She took a quick scan when she turned into Homicide. Carmichael hustled in from the locker room, in full dress blues. Trueheart and his trainer, now partner, were either still sprucing up or already headed down for the induction. Both Santiago and Jenkinson sat at their desks, one on a ’link, the other on a comp.

  Santiago obviously still had some time on the bet he’d lost to Carmichael, as he had the cowboy hat perched on his head. And Jenkinson had managed to find yet another eye-burning tie. This one had puke-green and piss-yellow stripes.

  Saying nothing, she circled a finger in the air in a wind-it-up signal, then took five in her office to grab coffee and write up brief notes.

  She made it to the locker room after Peabody and found her partner in her uniform pants, bra, undertank, and tears.

  “What? What is it? Don’t do that.”

  “My pants are loose.”

  “Well, Christ, tighten your belt.”

  At Eve’s impatient order, a fresh tear spilled. “They’re loose in the waist, and even a little baggy in the butt. I lost some weight. I actually lost some weight. I know how this uniform fit the last time I wore it. And now it’s just a little bit loose.”