She made an additional note to verify Byson’s travel, any possible circling back to do the murder.
But there, she and the computer agreed. Dead low probability.
Carlee MacKensie. Jittery, came off pliable, harmless, on the weak side. No alibi, so the comp liked her. And here, Eve didn’t altogether disagree.
“Something a little off there, Carlee. Something not quite right. Too wide-eyed. I don’t think we got the full story from you. I don’t think you rang that truth bell.”
On to Lauren Canford. Total bitch, no two ways about that one. And Eve could see the woman in a violent outburst. She could see her planning a murder with care and cunning.
But . . . Eve didn’t sense passion. She didn’t sense the sort of attachment to or anger with the victim it took to torture and kill.
More the type to backbite—there was an expression that made sense. The type to go behind an enemy’s back and smear reps, plant gossip seeds.
Asha Coppola. Came off honest—if you overlooked the adultery. But largely honest. Screwed up, owned it, working to fix it. It played all the way through for Eve.
Then Charity Downing. Something there, Eve thought again. Something not quite what it seems. Something . . .
“Cagey,” Eve said out loud, studying the face on her board over the rim of her mug. “That’s what I got from you, Charity. You’re cagey. Your alibi’s going to hold up, too, and when it does, I’m inclined to take a look at your day-off pal.
“Lydia Su. Friends lie for friends. We’ll take a look because there was a lie in there somewhere. Some truth, but a lie buried in it.”
She set her mug aside, rearranged the board in her preference.
Charity Downing
Carlee MacKensie
Asha Coppola (maybe her husband wasn’t working on forgiving)
Lauren Canford
She’d have a ’link interview with Allyson Byson, but suspected that name would replace Canford’s at the bottom of her list.
Artist, freelance writer, nonprofit marketing manager, lobbyist, society type.
“Didn’t have a type, did you, Edward? It was more looks and availability. And age. Average age of this group is—shit, math. I don’t know . . . early thirties. And that’s just this group. Bound to be more. What if—”
“Sorry, Dallas.” Peabody rapped knuckles on the doorjamb. “Edward Mira—that’s junior—and Gwendolyn Mira Sykes are here. They want to talk to you—us.”
“Saves us the trip. Set them up in an Interview room. We’ll keep it strictly official.”
“I think B’s open. I’ll take them down.”
Eve nodded, looked back at her board. But her focus had shifted, so she pushed up from her desk. She’d see what the vic’s children, and likely top beneficiaries, had to say.
She walked out, saw Baxter had pulled his chair over to Trueheart’s desk. She didn’t know if they were discussing new angles on the cold case or the cut of a suit, the weight of fabric.
Didn’t, at that point, want to know.
She headed toward the Interview area, saw Peabody coming out of B.
“I’m getting her a sparkling water, him a Coke.”
Eve dug in her pockets for enough to cover it. “Get me a tube of Pepsi, and whatever you want. Official, but pleasant.”
“They’re a little bit wrecked, Dallas. Pushing through it, but you can see it. And they’re a solid unit—really tight.”
“Okay.”
She stepped in, and though she’d already viewed their ID shots, it still struck her that Edward Junior had Dennis Mira’s dreamy green eyes.
He wore his dark hair long enough to pull back in a stub of a tail—as Roarke habitually did when in serious work mode. He had a strong, handsome face—she could see the resemblance to his father—and wore scarred work boots, jeans, and a red-and-black plaid shirt.
His sister had taken her looks from the mother—statuesque and striking despite the reddened eyes. She wore a dark suit, dark tights, and flashy red ankle boots with skyscraper heels.
They sat at the battered Interview table holding hands.
The brother gave the sister’s hand a squeeze, and stood as Eve closed the door.
“Mr. Mira, Mrs. Sykes, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s Ned. Ned and Gwen.” His voice was rough and strained. “Thanks for talking to us, for making the time so quickly. Dennis told us you were working hard to find—to find our father’s killer. We don’t want to get in the way.”
“You’re not in the way. I intended to come to you before the end of the day.”
“We’ve been with our mother.” Gwen cleared her throat. “Their security guard contacted Ned, and he came to get me. We want to apologize first for the way she spoke to you.”
“It’s not on you, and it’s nothing.”
“It’s something,” Ned corrected with a grim smile. “We’ve been on the receiving end. But despite how she behaved, she’s shattered. We know your reputation, Lieutenant, and your work with Charlotte. So.”
He rubbed a hand on his sister’s arm. “You know by now that our parents didn’t have what most think of as a traditional marriage.”
“What did they have?”
Before the question could be answered, Peabody came in with the drinks. “Hope tubes are okay.”
“That’s fine, thanks.” Ned looked back at Eve. “They cared for each other, but the marriage was more a partnership. Political, social.”
“You don’t have to be delicate, Ned. They both had relationships outside the marriage,” Gwen continued. “They produced us—two offspring, male, female—then they were free to pursue other interests. We knew it, growing up, knew it wasn’t to be discussed. As long as we presented the accepted image, everything stayed balanced.”
“You screwed that up,” Ned said, making her laugh a little.
“You screwed up first.” Then her eyes filled. “Oh God, Ned.”
“It’s okay. It’s all right.” He scooted his chair closer to hers, put his arm around her. “I did screw it up first. I didn’t want to go to Yale. I didn’t want to study law, go into politics. So I made sure it couldn’t happen. Tanked my grades, ditched school when I could get away with it. I’d have taken off the minute I hit eighteen, but—”
“He wouldn’t leave me. I’m two years younger, so he toughed it out. I didn’t go to Yale, but took Harvard instead. I did study law. I wanted to. But I used my degree to become a children’s rights attorney.”
“We were disappointments,” Ned finished. “We were constantly at odds with our father, particularly. I partnered up with two friends—who weren’t on the approved list—and we started our own business. We build, repair, recycle, reimagine furniture. I work with my hands, and he never forgave me. Twenty-two years we’ve been in business, but he still called it my rebellion.”
“You’re not— Are you Three Guys Furniture?”
He grinned at Peabody. “Yeah, that’s us.”
“I love your stuff. My father builds furniture, and my brother, so I know quality. I love your work. Sorry,” she said to Dallas, “but you should know his business has a really exceptional rep.”
“I appreciate that. Gwen’s got her own solid rep in her field, but . . .”
“We didn’t follow the plan,” Gwen said. “We didn’t maintain the assigned image. We didn’t marry the sort of people they would have chosen. It didn’t matter that we are both happy, that we married wonderful people we love, both have terrific kids. It wasn’t the plan.”
“My parents would never say we’re estranged,” Ned said, “because that wouldn’t fit, either. But we barely speak, only see each other on holidays when we have to.”
“And when you did see each other or speak?” Eve asked.
“Nine out of ten, it ended in an argument. Charlie said to be brutally honest with you about it, so here we are. Brutal. I didn’t like my father.”