J. Robb - Born In Death

She recognized him from the ID shot she’d accessed as Robert Kraus.

“Mr. Kraus.”

“I wonder if I could impose on you for a short time. If your associates could continue to deal with this business, my partners and I would like to speak with you in our conference room.”

“We’ve got Byson’s office to do next.”

He looked just a little pained, but nodded. “Understood. We’ll try not to keep you long.”

Eve turned to Peabody. “Everything. Boxed and labeled. Uniforms to transport if I’m not back before you’re done. I’ll find you.”

“First let me apologize for the delay,” Kraus began as he gestured Eve into the corridor. “Ethically and legally we’re obliged to protect our clients.”

“Ethically and legally I’m obliged to protect the rights of the victims.”

“Understood.” He walked past the bank of office elevators to a private car. “I knew both Natalie and Bick, and they had both my professional and personal respect. Kraus to sixty-five,” he said into the speaker.

“Did either of them speak with you about a potential problem, personal or professional?”

“No. But it would have been highly unusual for either of them to do so, certainly if it was personal. If there was a problem or question with one of their accounts, they would have gone to their department head, who – if necessary – would have reported to me or one of the other partners. Certainly, the partners would expect a report or memo on such a circumstance, even if it was resolved.”

“And did you receive such a report or memo?”

“No, I did not. I’m puzzled why you believe or suspect that what happened to them has anything to do with Sloan, Myers, and Kraus.”

“I haven’t told you what I believe or suspect,” Eve said evenly. “Investigating all areas of their lives, their movements, their communications, is standard and routine.”

“Of course.”

The car stopped, and once again he gestured Eve ahead of him.

Here was the power center, she realized. As was so often the case, power – like heat – rose to the top.

A wall of glass with a pale gold sheen let in the city with a gilded light that made statements of industry and wealth. Plush carpeting of deep red was bordered with dark, thick wood. There was no reception area here, no waiting alcove. Eve imagined any client worthy of this floor would never be expected to check in or cool heels.

Instead there was a seating area of lush sofas, thick tables, obviously arranged for informal or personal chats. It boasted a small, stylish bar where she assumed the tony clients could request their drink of choice.

Space and silence were the watchwords here. Office doors were few and distant, and all were dominated by an inner wall of that golden glass. Kraus escorted her over to the wall, subtly waving a hand in front of a small security eye. Glass whisked open to reveal the large conference room behind it.

With the city rising behind them, the other two partners sat at a mile-long table.

The younger, Carl Myers, rose. His black suit was softened by a thin silver chalk stripe. There was a black mourning band around the left sleeve. His hair was a wavy, medium brown brushed high off his forehead. His eyes, a soft hazel, met Eve’s directly as he came around the table and extended his hand.

“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m Carl Myers. We’re sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances.”

“I meet most people under tragic circumstances.”

“Of course.” He never missed a beat. Handsome, fit, he gestured toward the head of the table where Jacob Sloan sat. “Please, have a seat. Is there anything we can get for you?”

“No, thanks.”

“Jacob Sloan, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Roarke’s cop.”

It was a term she was used to now, even when it was said with a hint of derision. Still, she tapped the badge she’d hooked on her belt. “This makes me the NYPSD’s cop.”

He acknowledged that with a faint lift of silver eyebrows. He struck her as honed, face and body, as though he whittled himself down to sheer power. His eyes were stone gray, his suit stark black. Like his face, his body, his hands were thin but with a look of steely strength.

He didn’t offer one to Eve.

“You, as a representative of the police department, are infringing on the rights of our clients.”

“Somebody really infringed the hell out of the rights of Natalie Copperfield and Bick Byson.”

His mouth tightened, but his eyes never wavered. “This firm takes both of those difficult circumstances very seriously. The death of two of our employees – ”

“Murder,” Eve corrected.

“As you say,” he agreed with a nod. “The murder of two of our employees is shocking and tragic, and we will cooperate with your investigation to the letter of the law.”

“Not much choice there, Mr. Sloan. How about the spirit of it?”

“Please, let me get you some coffee,” Myers began.

“I don’t want any coffee.”

“The spirit of the law is subjective, isn’t it?” Sloan continued. “Your concept of it may very well veer from mine, and certainly is bound to veer from our clients’ – who expect, who demand, that we protect their privacy. The circumstances of this terrible thing will reverberate throughout this firm. The concern that sensitive financial data will be viewed by eyes not cleared by this firm to do so will distress our clients. I’m sure as the wife of a powerful, influential, and wealthy man, you understand that.”

“First, I’m not here as anyone’s wife but as the primary investigator of a double murder. Second, the distress of your clients, whoever they may be, isn’t a priority for me.”

“You’re a sarcastic, difficult woman.”

“Having a couple of dead bodies on my hands that were beaten, tortured, and strangled just doesn’t bring out my sunny side.”

“Lieutenant.” Myers spread his hands. “We understand completely that you have a responsibility to fulfill. As we do. And believe me, everyone here wants those responsible for what happened to Natalie and Bick caught and punished. Our concerns on a secondary front are for our clients who trust and depend on us. There are people – competitors, if you will – business adversaries, ex-spouses, the media, who would go to considerable lengths to learn the contents of the files you’re confiscating today.”

“Are you insinuating I’d be open to a bribe by one of these parties to pass on that information?”

“No, no, not at all. But others who lack your integrity may be tempted.”

“Any and all who’ll have access to the information in those files will be hand-picked by me or my commander. You want reassurance that the data will remain secure, you have it. On my word. Unless such information is determined to be the motive behind or connected to the murders of Copperfield and Byson. That’s the best you get.”

She waited a beat. “Since we’re all here, let’s clear up some business. I’ll need your whereabouts for the night of the murders. Midnight to four A.M.”

Sloan laid his hands on the table in front of him. “You consider us suspects?”

“I’m a cynical so-and-so. Your whereabouts, Mr. Sloan.”

He drew breath through his nose, expelled it. “Until approximately twelve-thirty, my wife and I were entertaining our grandson and his friend. At that time, they left our home and my wife and I retired. I remained home with my wife until the following morning when I left for the office. At seven-thirty.”

“Names, please? Grandson and his friend.”

“His name is mine. He was named for me. His friend is Rochelle DeLay.”

“Thank you. Mr. Myers?”

“I was entertaining out-of-town clients – Mr. and Mrs. Helbringer from Frankfurt, their son and daughter-in-law – until sometime after one A.M. We were at the Rainbow Room.” He smiled wanly. “And, naturally, I have the receipts. My wife and I returned home, went to bed just before two, I believe. I left for work the next day about eight-thirty.”