“A little cream, two sugars. Thanks.”
“There’s no point in arguing, Marshall,” she continued as she poured the tea. “I’m staying. You were saying something about connections, Lieutenant.”
“The two victims have more in common with each other, and with you, Mr. Easterday, than politics.”
Petra made a sound—not quite a gasp—and passed Eve tea that Eve didn’t want. “You think Marshall . . . This person who killed Edward and Jonas, you think he might try to hurt Marshall?”
“Now, Petra—”
“Don’t placate me, Marshall. It’s something that caught me by the throat after I got over the shock of hearing about Jonas. I dismissed it, but . . .” She looked back at Eve, dead in the eye. “Is this what you think?”
“It’s something we have to consider, and have to take seriously to ensure your husband’s safety.”
“Yes. Good. Take it seriously. We’re all going to take it very seriously.”
“Petra, Edward and Jonas shared political networks and leanings I haven’t.”
She only shook her head. “You’ve been friends for decades. You socialize regularly, you golf, play poker, travel together. You lived in the same house for years back in— Oh God! Fred and Ethan.”
“That’s Frederick Betz,” Eve said quickly. “Who’s Ethan?”
“Ethan MacNamee,” Easterday told her. “One of our housemates back at Yale. He and Edward didn’t stay particularly close, and he lives in Glasgow most of the year. I only see him myself every few months.”
“And when you get together, it’s like no time’s passed,” Petra insisted. “You’re like brothers.”
“A brotherhood,” Eve said, watching Easterday’s face.
That face went stony, and his eyes cut away, just for an instant. “Yes. We’re like brothers, you could say, and I’ve lost two.”
“Three,” Petra said quietly, and took her husband’s hand. “There were six of them who shared the group house at Yale. The other was William Stevenson—Billy. He died, tragically, just before Marshall and I were married.”
“What happened?”
“He suffered from depression.” Marshall began to rub his temple. “He’d poured considerable money into a new business venture that failed, and was going through a second, brutal divorce. His father was—and is—a hard man, and berated him. It was a terrible series of blows.”
“He self-terminated?”
“He did, yes, without the legal authority, without going through the necessary counseling. He went to his family home in Connecticut, locked himself in his old bedroom, and hanged himself.”
“Hanged himself.”
“You can’t connect that to the murders. It was clearly suicide, and more than fifteen years ago. And while we were and are good friends, Edward and Jonas were the closest to each other. They shared more interests, and again, those political and social views.”
“What else did they share?” Eve asked. “Edward Mira had regular sexual relationships with a variety of women.”
Easterday struck a fist to his thigh. “I’m not going to sit here while my friends are on slabs at your morgue and impugn their reputations.”
The bluster was insult, but fear glinted through it.
“I have a list of names, of women Edward Mira had relationships with during just the past year. One of those women might be responsible for what was done to him. I need to know if Jonas Wymann shared any of those women, or shared the predilection for women.”
“Marshall.” Before he could speak, before he could release the anger Eve saw in his eyes, Petra took his hand. “They’re dead, and if this is why, you owe it to them to speak out. Please.”
“Edward made no secret of his enjoyment of women outside his marriage. And Mandy was aware.”
Easterday bit the words off.
“Their marriage was their business. Jonas was more circumspect, but . . . His habit of enjoying women outside marriage certainly led to the dissolution of both of his. However, if they shared a woman, I’m not aware.”
“And you, Mr. Easterday? Do you go outside the lines?”
“This discussion is over.”
“It’s not!” Now Petra gripped his arm. “Marshall and I have a relationship based on trust as much as love and respect. I’m fully aware he was unfaithful to his first wife. My first husband had affairs. I refused to marry Marshall for more than a year due to trust issues. We met not long after our mutual divorces.”
“I’ve never had an affair—not since you and I began.”
“I know it.” Petra laid a hand on his cheek. “I lived with a cheat,” she said to Eve. “I know the signs. Every one of them. I promised myself I’d never live with one again. I don’t break promises, Lieutenant. Marshall and I have built a strong, healthy marriage—and trust, fidelity, respect—those are cornerstones.”
“You’d know where to look,” Marshall said to Eve. “You can check my finances, my travel, you can speak to anyone at my firm. I haven’t had a relationship with another woman since I met Petra.”
“What about Betz?”
“Lieutenant, I appreciate your concern for my safety, and I respect your position, but I’m not going to gossip about my friends. Speak to him yourself.”
“I intend to. Are you friendly with Senator Fordham?”
“Not really. He’s Edward’s friend. We’ve socialized, of course, but I’d consider us acquaintances.”
“He’s not a brother then.”
“No,” Easterday said flatly, and the hand holding the teacup trembled. He set the cup down. “I’m finished with this. I don’t see how it’s in any way helpful, and you put me in the position of being disloyal to dead friends. I want to rest now.”
“Yes, you should. I’ll be right up,” Petra told him. “I’ll show the officers out, and be right up.”
To Eve, the weight on his shoulders seemed heavier as he left the room.
“We have good security,” Petra said briskly, “and I’ll make certain it’s in full use. He won’t go anywhere without me. I can hire private security to stay with him until this is resolved if you think I should.”
“I think it wouldn’t hurt. He shouldn’t keep any appointments alone,” Eve said as she rose. “That’s how both victims were lured.”
“He’s not like them—not the way you mean. He loved them, deeply, but he’s not like them. I’m not Mandy Mira, Lieutenant. Believe me.”
“I do.” Eve held her gaze. “I believe you. Thanks for your time, and your cooperation.”
Eve stepped outside, took a long breath. “Impressions, Peabody?”
“He knows things, things he hasn’t told his wife. Things he doesn’t want her to know. And he’s scared shitless. But she’d know if he cheated on her, and it came off sincere when he said he’d been faithful.”
“He didn’t use that word,” Eve pointed out. “He said he hadn’t had affairs, hadn’t had other relationships. That’s a distinction to my ear.”
“I don’t hear it.”
“He doesn’t cat around like his friends—and, yeah, she’d know if he did. She’d toss him out for it. But rolling in the sheets at a hotel, having drinks, maybe dinner, conversations? That’s different from targeting a woman, raping her, then moving on.”
“Well, Jesus.”
“Yeah. Add he knows things. Add he’s scared. Scared and angry, and defensive. He’s part of the brotherhood, Peabody, and loyalty to them, trying to hide what he’s part of from his wife, could get him or one of the others killed. Let’s see if we can shake more out of Betz.”
—
The Upper East Side home of Frederick Betz had once been a small, exclusive boutique hotel for the ridiculously rich. The ridiculously rich made it a prime target during the Urbans. It hadn’t been razed, but it had been gutted with all the original marble, stone, wood, gilt, crystal, and silver leaf chipped, hacked, pried, and hauled off.
It sat, a sad, graffiti-laced shell, for nearly two decades before Betz—an enterprising soul—bought it for a song and dance right on the edge of the revitalization trend.