The In Death Collection 06-10 (102 page)

“Peabody.” Eve held up a finger for attention. “Take the rest of the day on personal time, get your brother settled in.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Zeke began.

“You’ll be more trouble if she’s worried about you
getting mugged six times before you get to her apartment.” Eve added a smile to soften it, though she’d already decided the guy had M for
mark
all over his face. “Things are slow here, anyway.”

“The Cooke case.”

“I think I can handle it solo,” Eve said mildly. “Anything pops, I’ll tag you. Go show Zeke the wonders of New York.”

“Thanks, Dallas.” Peabody took her brother’s hand, vowing that she’d make sure he didn’t see the seamier side of those wonders.

“Nice to’ve met you, Lieutenant.”

“You, too.” She watched them go off, Zeke bending his body slightly toward Peabody as she bubbled with sisterly affection.

Families, Eve mused. They continued to baffle her. But it was nice to see that, occasionally, they worked.

“Everyone loved J. C.” Chris Tipple, Branson’s executive assistant, was a man of about thirty with hair approximately the same shade as the swollen red rims of his eyes. Even now he wept unashamedly, tears trickling down his chubby, pleasant face. “Everyone.”

Which might have been the problem, Eve mused, and waited once again while Chris scrubbed his cheeks with his crumpled handkerchief. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s just impossible to believe he won’t come through that door.” His breath hitched as he stared at the closed door of the big, bright office suite. “Ever again. Everyone’s in shock. When B. D. made the announcement this morning, no one could speak.”

He pressed the handkerchief to his mouth as if his voice had failed him again.

B. Donald Branson, the victim’s brother and partner, Eve knew, and waited for Chris to finish.

“You want some water, Chris? A soother?”

“I’ve taken a soother. It doesn’t seem to help. We
were very close.” Mopping his streaming eyes, Chris didn’t notice Eve’s look of consideration.

“You had a personal relationship?”

“Oh yes. I’d been with J. C. for nearly eight years. He was much more than my employer. He was . . . he was like a father to me. Pardon me.”

Obviously overcome, he buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. J. C. wouldn’t want me to fall apart this way. It doesn’t help. But I can’t—I don’t think any of us can take it in. We’re closing down for a week. The whole operation. Offices, factories, everything. The memorial . . .” He trailed off, struggling. “The memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Quick.”

“J. C. wouldn’t have wanted it to be drawn out. How could she have done it?” He fisted the damp cloth in his hand, staring blindly at Eve. “How could she have done it, Lieutenant? J. C. adored her.”

“You know Lisbeth Cooke?”

“Of course.”

He rose to pace, and Eve could only be grateful. It was difficult to watch a grown man grieve while he was sitting in a chair shaped like a pink elephant. Then again, she was sitting in a purple kangaroo.

It was obvious, with one look at the late J. Clarence Branson’s office, that he’d enjoyed indulging in his own toys. The shelves lining one wall were loaded with them, from the simple remote-control space station to the series of multitask minidroids.

Eve did her best not to look at their lifeless eyes and small-scale bodies. It was too easy to imagine them popping to life and . . . well, God knew what.

“Tell me about her, Chris.”

“Lisbeth.” He sighed heavily, then in an absent gesture adjusted the sunshade tint on the wide window behind the desk. “She’s a beautiful woman. You’d have seen that for yourself. Smart, capable, ambitious. Demanding, but J. C. didn’t mind that. He told me once if
he didn’t have a demanding woman, he’d end up puttering and playing his life away.”

“They spent a lot of time together?”

“Two evenings a week, sometimes three. Wednesdays and Saturdays were standard—dinner with theater or a concert. Any social event that required his presence or hers, and Monday lunch—twelve-thirty to two. A three-week vacation every August wherever Lisbeth wanted to go, and five weekend getaways through the year.”

“Sounds pretty regimented.”

“Lisbeth insisted on that. She wanted conditions spelled out and obligations on both sides clear-cut and in order. I think she understood J. C’s mind tended to wander, and she wanted his full attention when they were together.”

“Any other part of him tend to wander?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was J. C. involved with anyone else?”

“Involved—romantically? Absolutely not.”

“How about just sexually?”

Chris’s round face stiffened, the puffy eyes went cool. “If you’re insinuating that J. Clarence Branson was unfaithful to the woman he’d made a commitment to, nothing could be more false. He was devoted to her. And he was loyal.”

“You can be sure of that? Without question?”

“I made all of his arrangements, all professional and personal appointments.”

“Couldn’t he have made some of his own, on the side?”

“It’s insulting.” Chris’s voice rang out. “The man is dead, and you’re sitting there accusing him of being a liar and a cheat.”

“I’m not accusing him of anything,” Eve corrected calmly. “I’m asking. It’s my responsibility to ask, Chris. And to get him whatever justice I can.”

“I don’t like how you go about it.” He turned away
again. “J. C. was a good man, an honest man. I knew him, his habits, his moods. He wouldn’t have entered into some illicit affair, and certainly couldn’t have done so without my knowledge.”

“Okay, so tell me about Lisbeth Cooke. What would she have to gain by killing him?”

“I don’t know. He treated her like a princess, gave her everything she could possibly want. She killed the golden goose.”

“The what?”

“Like in the story.” He nearly smiled now. “The goose that laid the golden eggs. He was happy to give her whatever she wanted, and more. Now he’s dead. No more golden eggs.”

Unless, Eve thought as she left the office, she’d wanted all the eggs at one time.

She knew as she already consulted the animated map in the lobby that B. Donald Branson’s office was at the opposite end of this level from his brother’s. Hoping to find him in, she headed down. Many of the stations were unmanned, most of the glass doors locked with the offices behind them dark and empty.

The building itself seemed to be grieving.

At regular intervals, holograph screens were set up to show off Branson Tools and Toys’ new or favored products. She stopped at one, watching with equal parts amusement and dismay as a uniformed beat cop action-droid returned a lost child to his tearfully grateful mother.

The cop faced the screen, its face sober and trustworthy, his uniform as severely pressed as Peabody’s. “It’s our job to serve and protect.”

Then the image pulled back, spun slowly to give the viewer a three-sixty view of the product and accessories while the computer’s voice stated product and pricing details. A street thief action-droid with airskates was offered as a companion piece.

Shaking her head, Eve turned away. She wondered if
the company produced LC droid figures, or illegals dealers. Maybe a couple of psychopaths just to keep the game interesting. Then, of course, you’d need victim-droids.

Jesus.

The clear glass doors opened as Eve approached. A pale and weary-eyed woman manned a sleek U-shaped console and fielded calls on a privacy headset.

“Thank you very much. Your call is being recorded and your condolences will be passed on to the family. Mr. Branson’s memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow, at two o’clock at Quiet Passages, Central Park South. Yes, it’s a great shock. A great loss. Thank you for calling.”

She swiveled the mouthpiece aside and offered Eve a sober smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Branson isn’t available. These offices will be closed until Tuesday of next week.”

Eve took out her badge. “I’m primary on his brother’s homicide. Is he in?”

“Oh, Lieutenant.” The woman touched her fingers briefly to her eyes, then rose. “One moment, please.”

She slipped gracefully from behind the console, then after a quick knock on a tall white door, disappeared inside. Eve heard the soft beep of incoming calls from the multiline ’link, then the door opened again.

“Please come in, Lieutenant. Mr. Branson will see you. Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She entered the office. The first thing she noticed was that it was dramatically opposed to J. C.’s. This was cool colors, sleek lines, rich sophistication. No silly animal chairs or grinning droid dolls. Here the muted grays and blues were designed to soothe. And the wide surface of the desk, uncluttered with gadgets, clear for business.

B. Donald Branson stood behind that desk. He didn’t have the bulk of his brother but was slim in a sleekly tailored suit. His hair was a dull gold, slicked back from
a high forehead. Eyebrows, thick and peaked, were shades darker over tired eyes of pale green.

“Lieutenant Dallas, it’s kind of you to come in person.” His voice was as quiet and soothing as the room. “I meant to contact you, to thank you for your kindness when you called last night to inform me of my brother’s death.”

“I’m sorry to intrude at this time, Mr. Branson.”

“No, please. Sit down. We’re all trying to deal with it.”

“I gather your brother was well liked.”

“Loved,” he corrected as they took their seats. “It was impossible not to love J. C. That’s why it’s so hard to imagine him gone, and in this way. Lisbeth, she was like part of the family. My God.” He looked away for a moment, trying to compose himself.

“I’m sorry,” he managed. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Branson, let me get this over with as quickly as I can. Ms. Cooke claims she discovered your brother was involved with another woman.”

“What? That’s absurd.” Branson dismissed the idea with one angry wave of his hand. “J. C. was devoted to Lisbeth. He never looked at another woman.”

“If that’s true, why would she have killed him? Did they quarrel often, violently?”

“J.C. couldn’t maintain an argument for five minutes,” Branson said wearily. “It just wasn’t in him. He had no violence, and he certainly was no womanizer.”

“You don’t believe he could have been interested in someone else?”

“If he was—which is difficult to believe—he would have told Lisbeth. He would have been honest with her and dissolved their relationship before starting another. J. C. had almost childishly honest standards.”

“If I accept that, then I’m looking for motive. You and your bother were copresidents. Who inherits his share?”

“I do.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Our grandfather founded this company. J. C. and I have been at the helm together over thirty years. In our business agreement it’s stipulated that the survivor or the survivor’s heirs inherit the partnership.”

“Could he have designated any portion of it to Lisbeth Cooke?”

“Not of the company, no. We have a contract.”

“Of his personal funds and holdings, then.”

“Certainly, he’d be free to designate any or all of his personal estate to whomever he pleased.”

“Would we be talking substantial?”

“Yes, I believe we would say substantial.” Then he shook his head. “You think she killed him for money? I can’t believe that. He was always very generous with her, and Lisbeth is—was—a well-paid member of this company. Money shouldn’t have been an issue.”

“It’s an angle,” was all Eve said. “I’d like the name of his lawyer, and I’d appreciate it if you’d clear it so I can have the terms of the will.”

“Yes, of course.” He tapped a finger on the top of his desk and the center drawer slid open. “I have one of Suzanna’s business cards right here. I’ll contact her right away,” he added, rising as Eve did to hand her the card. “Tell her to give you whatever information you need.”

“I appreciate your cooperation.”

Eve checked her wrist unit as she left. She could probably hook up with the lawyer by midafternoon, she decided. And since she had some time, why not juggle in a trip to Fixer’s shop?

Peabody shifted two of the three bags of groceries and foodstuffs she’d stopped off for on the trip home and dug out her key. She’d loaded up on fresh fruits and vegetables, soy mix, tofu, dried beans, and the brown rice she’d disliked since childhood.

“Dee.” Zeke set down the single duffel bag he’d packed for New York and added his sister’s two sacks to the one he already carried. “You shouldn’t have bought all this stuff.”

“I remember how you eat.” She grinned over her shoulder at him and didn’t add that most of her larder consisted of things no respectable Free-Ager would consider consuming. Fat- and chemical-laden snacks, red meat substitutes, alcohol.

“It’s robbery what they charge for fresh fruit here, and I don’t think those apples you bought came off a tree in the last ten days.” Plus he sincerely doubted they’d been organically grown.

“Well, we’re kind of short on orchards in Manhattan.”

“Still. You should’ve let me pay for it.”

“This is my city, and you’re the first of the family to visit me.” She pushed open the door, turned to take the sacks.

“There’s got to be some Free-Ager co-ops around.”

“I don’t really do any co-opping or bartering these days. Don’t have the time. I pull in a decent salary, Zeke. Don’t fuss. Anyway.” She blew her hair out of her eyes. “Come on in. It’s not much, but it’s home now.”

He stepped in behind her, scanned the living area with its sagging sofa, cluttered tables, bright poster prints. The windowshade was down, something she hurried over to remedy.

She didn’t have much of a view, but she enjoyed the rush and rumble of the street below. When the light shot in, she noted that the apartment was every bit as untidy as the street below.

And remembered, abruptly, she’d left a disc text on the mind of the serial torture killer in her computer. She’d have to get it out and bury it somewhere.

“If I’d known you were coming, I’d’ve picked up a little.”

“Why? You never picked up your room at home.”

He grinned at her and headed to the tiny kitchen to set down the food sack. Actually, it relieved him to see her living space was so much like her. Steady, unpretentious, basic.

He noted a slow drip from the faucet, a blister burn in the countertop. He could fix those for her, he thought. Though it surprised him she hadn’t done so herself.

“I’ll do this.” She stripped off her coat, her cap, and hurried in behind him. “Go put your things in the bedroom. I’ll bunk on the couch while you’re here.”

“No, you won’t.” Already he was poking in cabinets to put things away. If he was shocked by the stock in her pantry, particularly the bright red and yellow bag of Tasty Tater Treats, he didn’t mention it. “I’ll take the sofa.”

“It’s a pull-out, and fairly roomy.” And she thought she probably had clean sheets for it. “But it’s lumpy.”

“I can sleep anywhere.”

“I know. I remember all those camping trips. Give Zeke a blanket and a rock, and he’s down for the count.” Laughing, she wrapped her arms around him, pressed her cheek to his back. “God, I missed you. I really missed you.”

“We—Mom and Dad and the rest of us—hoped you’d make it home for Christmas.”

“I couldn’t.” She stepped back as he turned. “Things got complicated.” And she wouldn’t speak of that, wouldn’t tell him what had been happening, what had been done. “But I’ll make time soon. I promise.”

“You look different, Dee.” He touched his big hand to her cheek. “Official. Settled in. Happy.”

“I am happy. I love my work.” She lifted her hand to his, pressed down on it. “I don’t know how to explain it to you, to make you understand.”

“You don’t have to. I can see it.” He pulled out a six-pack of juice tubes and opened the tiny friggie. Understanding wasn’t always the answer. He knew that. Accepting was. “I feel bad about pulling you away from your job.”

“Don’t. I haven’t had any personal time in . . .” She shook her head as she stuffed boxes and bags onto shelves. “Hell, who remembers? Dallas wouldn’t have green-lighted it if we’d been jammed.”

“I liked her. She’s strong, with dark places. But she’s not hard.”

“You’re right.” Head angled, Peabody turned back to him. “And what did Mom tell you about peeking at auras without consent?”

He flushed a little, grinned around it. “She’s responsible for you. I didn’t look that close, and I like to know who’s looking out for my big sister.”

“Your big sister’s doing a pretty good job of looking out for herself. Why don’t you unpack?”

“That’ll take me about two minutes.”

“Which is about twice the time it’ll take me to give you the grand tour.” She took his arm and led him across the living space into the bedroom.

“This is about it.” A bed, a table, and lamp, a single window. The bed was made—that was habit and training. There was a book on the nightstand. She’d never understood why anyone could choose to curl up with a palm unit and disc. But the fact that it was a grisly murder mystery made her wince when Zeke flipped it over.

“Busman’s holiday?”

“I guess.”

“You always did like this kind of stuff.” He set the book back down. It comes down to good and evil, doesn’t it, Dee? And good’s supposed to win when it’s over.”

“That’s the way it works for me.”

“Yeah, but what’s evil there for in the first place?”

She might have sighed, thinking of all she’d seen, what she’d done, but she kept her gaze level on his. “Nobody’s got the answer to that, but you’ve got to know it’s there and deal with it. That’s what I do, Zeke.”

He nodded, studied her face. He knew it was different from the routine she’d had when she’d moved to New York and put on a uniform. Then it had been traffic incidents, squabbles to break up, and paperwork. Now she was attached to homicide. She dealt with death every day and rubbed shoulders with those who caused it.

Yes, she looked different, Zeke acknowledged. The things she’d seen and done and felt were there behind those dark, serious eyes.

“Are you good at it?”

“Pretty good.” Now she smiled a little. “I’m going to be better.”

“You’re learning from her. From Dallas.”

“Yeah.” Peabody sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. “Before she took me on as her aide,
I studied her. I read her files, I crammed on her technique. I never expected to be able to work with her. Maybe that was luck, maybe it was fate. We were taught to respect both.”

“Yeah.” He sat next to her.

“She’s giving me a chance to find out what I can do. What I can be.” Peabody drew in a long breath, let it out slowly. “Zeke, we were raised to take our own path, to pursue it, and to do the best we were capable of. That’s what I’m doing.”

“You think I don’t approve, don’t understand.”

“I worry about it.” She slid her hand down to the regulation stunner strapped to her belt. “About what you—especially you—feel.”

“You shouldn’t. I don’t have to understand what you do to know it’s what you need to do.”

“You were always the easiest of us, Zeke.”

“Nah.” He bumped his shoulder against hers. “It’s just when you’re the last coming up, you get to watch how everyone else screws up. Okay if I take a shower?”

“Sure.” She patted his hand and rose. “Water takes awhile to come up to temp.”

“No hurry.”

When he got his bag and took it into the bath, she pounced on the kitchen ’link, called Charles Monroe, and left a message on his service canceling their date that night.

However wise and broad-minded and adult he’d sounded, she didn’t see her baby brother embracing her casual, and just lately spotty, relationship with a licensed companion.

She might have been surprised at just how much her little brother would understand. As he stood under the spray, let the hot water ease away the faint stiffness from travel, he was thinking of a relationship that wasn’t—couldn’t be—a relationship. He was thinking of a
woman. And he told himself he had no right to think of her.

She was a married woman, and she was his employer.

He had no right to think of her as anything else, less to feel this shaky heat in his gut at the knowledge he would see her again very soon.

But he couldn’t get her face out of his mind. The sheer beauty of it. The sad eyes, the soft voice, the quiet dignity. He told himself it was a foolish, even childish crush. Horribly inappropriate. But he had no choice but to admit here, in private, where honesty was most valued, that she was one of the primary reasons he’d taken the commission and made the trip east.

He wanted to see her again, no matter how that wanting shamed him.

Still, he wasn’t a child who believed he could have whatever he needed.

It would be good for him to see her here, in her own home, with her husband. He liked to think it was the circumstances of how they’d met, of where they’d met, that had caused this infatuation. She’d been alone, so obviously lonely, and had looked so delicate, so cool and golden in the deep desert heat.

It would be different here because she would be different here. And so would he. He would do the job she had asked him to do and nothing more. He would spend time with the sister he had missed so deeply it sometimes made his heart ache. And he would see, at long last, the city and the work that had pulled her away from her family.

The city, he could already admit, fascinated him.

As he toweled off, he tried to see through the tiny, steam-misted window. Even that blurry, narrow view made his blood pump just a little faster.

There was so much of it, he thought now. Not the open vastness of desert and mountain and field he’d grown used to since his family had relocated in Arizona
a few years before. But so much of everything rammed and jammed into one small space.

There was so much he wanted to see. So much he wanted to do. As he hitched on a fresh shirt and jeans, he began to speculate, to plot, and to plan. When he stepped back out into the living area, he was eager to begin.

He saw his sister busily tidying and grinned. “You make me feel like company.”

“Well . . .” She’d tucked away every murder and mayhem disc and file she could find. It would have to do. She glanced over, blinked.

Wow, was all she could think. Why hadn’t she noticed in her first rush of delight in seeing him? Her baby brother had grown up. And he was a genuine eye treat. “You look good—sort of filled out and everything.”

“It’s just a clean shirt.”

“Right. Do you want some juice, some tea?”

“Ah . . . I really want to go out. I’ve got this whole guidebook thing. I studied it on the way east. You know how many museums there are in Manhattan alone?”

“No, but I bet you do.” Inside her regulation shoes, Peabody’s toes curled and flexed. Her feet, she decided, were about to get a workout. “Let me change, and we’ll check them out.”

An hour later, she was almost tearfully grateful for the airsoles, for the thick soft wool of her slacks, and the lining of her winter coat. It wasn’t just museums Zeke was after. It was everything.

He took videos with the palm unit he told her he’d splurged on for the trip. It would have been ripped off a dozen times if she hadn’t kept her eyes peeled for street thieves. No matter how often she lectured him to watch himself, to recognize the signs and the moves, he just smiled and nodded.

They rode to the top of the Empire State Building, stood in the freezing, bitter wind until the tips of her ears went numb. And his pale gray eyes glowed with
the wonder of it. They toured the Met, gawked at the storefronts along Fifth, stared up at the tourist blimps, bumped along the sky glides, and gnawed on stale pretzels he’d insisted on buying from a glide-cart.

Only deep and abiding love could have convinced her to agree to skidding over the ice rink at Rockefeller Center when her calf muscles were already weeping from three hours of urban hiking.

But he made her remember what it was to be stunned by the city, to see all it had to offer. She realized, watching him be awed, time after time, that she’d forgotten to look.

And if she had to flash the badge she’d tucked in her coat pocket at a gimlet-eyed grifter looking to score the tourist, it didn’t spoil the day.

Still, by the time she finally talked him into stopping for a hot drink and a bite to eat, she’d decided it was imperative she outline some very specific do’s and don’ts. He was going to be on his own a great deal when he wasn’t working, she thought. He might have been twenty-three, but he had all the naive trust in his fellow man of a sheltered five-year-old.

“Zeke.” She warmed her hands on a bowl of lentil soup and tried not to think about the soy-beef burger she’d spied on the menu. “We should talk about what you’re going to do while I’m working.”

“I’ll be building cabinets.”

“Yeah, but my hours are . . .” She gestured vaguely. “You never know. You’ll be spending a lot of time on your own, so—”

“You don’t have to worry about me.” He grinned at her, spooned up his own soup. “I’ve been off the farm before.”

“You’ve never been here before.”