J. Robb - Born In Death

“She’s one of my senior account execs and on a fast track. She’s good. I mean… Oh, God, oh, God, she was good. Excellent. Personable, smart, hard-working. I planned to promote her, offer her a VP slot.”

“You were friends,” Peabody put in.

“Yes. Not best pals. I have to keep some distance being her boss, but yes.” Closing her eyes, she pressed the chilled bottle to her forehead. “We were very friendly. I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Why don’t you tell us where you were between midnight and four this morning.”

“You don’t think…” Cara sat again, and this time she opened the water bottle and drank. “I was home, with my husband and our twelve-year-old son. My husband and I went to bed just after midnight. God, how was she killed?”

“We’re not releasing the details of that at this time. Since you were friendly, and you were in a position of authority, did she say anything to you about being worried or bothered? Threatened?”

“No. No. No. I’d say she seemed a little off the past couple of weeks, but I put that down to distraction. Wedding plans. She’d have told Bick if someone was bothering her. She told him everything.”

Yeah, Eve thought, most likely she did. And that’s why he was dead.

“What was she working on?”

“She had several accounts, heads quite a number and is on teams that hold others.”

“We’re going to need a list of all her accounts, and we’ll need to see her files.”

“I can’t do that. I can’t. We have to protect our clients’ privacy. We’d be sued up the butt if I turned confidential files over to the police.”

“We’ll get a warrant.”

“Please do. I mean that, sincerely. Please get a warrant and I’ll personally see that you have any and all data the law demands. I need to contact Mr. Kraus,” she continued as she got back to her feet. “I need to tell him what’s going on. What’s happened. And Bick. You’ll need to talk to Bick.”

“Bick Byson was also murdered early this morning.”

She lost all of her color, every drop of it. “I – I can’t think. I don’t know what to say. This is horrible.”

“I’m sorry. I understand it’s a shock. We need to speak with Mr. Byson’s supervisor.”

“Um, that’s – oh, God, I can’t think. Myra. Myra Lovitz. I can contact her for you.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t talk to her until we have. Who else would have worked on accounts with Ms. Copperfield?”

“I’ll get you a list of names. Sorry.” She clipped to her desk, yanked open a drawer, pulled out a tissue. “Sorry, it’s starting to sink in. I can call upstairs, have Myra ’s admin tell her you’re coming. Would that help?”

“That’d be good. Thanks for your cooperation. We’ll be back, with a warrant, for the files.”

Upstairs, they were met by the admin and escorted straight back into an office similar to Cara’s.

Myra Lovitz sat behind a desk covered with files, discs, notes. She was into her early sixties, Eve judged, and had let her hair go stone gray in a way that suited her tough, sharp-angled face. She wore a suit – blue pinstriped and all business. She smiled sourly as Eve and Peabody came in.

“Okay, what is this, a raid?”

“We’re here concerning Bick Byson.”

Even the sour smile faded. “Something happen to the boy? We’ve been trying to reach him all morning.”

“He’s dead. He was murdered last night.”

Her lips folded in, her hands fisted on the desk. “Goddamn city. Goddamn it. Mugged?”

“No.”

Eve let Peabody take point on this one, ask the questions, get the statements. It was nearly a replay of the first interview, but with Myra ’s more acerbic style.

“He’s a damn good kid. Smart, reliable. Knows how to schmooze the clients when they need it, how to be all biz when they want that. Good reader of people, you know? He and that sweet kid from accounts downstairs? Both of them? God, what a world.”

“What were they working on?” Peabody asked her.

“They? Bick and Natalie didn’t work on the same accounts. He did individuals, domestic, she did corporate, primarily foreign.”

“How did he seem to you the last couple of weeks?”

“A little jumpy, now that you mention it. Wedding coming up, and they just bought a place in Tribeca. Having it rehabbed, doing decorating, furniture shopping. Man’s bound to be jumpy.”

“He didn’t mention any concerns to you?”

“No.” Her eyes sharpened. “This wasn’t just some random killing, was it? Are you telling me someone deliberately murdered those two kids?”

“No, ma’am,” Eve interrupted. “We’re not telling you anything just now.”

After starting the ball rolling on the warrant, Eve wanted only one thing. To get back to Central, and from there do both her written and oral reports, write up her timeline, start her murder board.

But Peabody would not be denied.

“You put it off, you’ll be sorry, and you’ll have to shop by yourself for baby stuff.”

“I’m not shopping, with or without you. I’m just going to buy something. And it better not take over ten minutes.”

“Then we can get food, right?”

“It’s always something with you. There probably won’t be anywhere to park. I should just get something online. You can just tell me what I should get and I’ll get it. Isn’t that enough?”

“No.”

“Bitch.”

“You’ll thank me when Mavis gets all soft and gooey.”

“I don’t like soft and gooey unless it comes in chocolate.”

“Speaking of chocolate, what kind of cake are we having for the shower?”

“I don’t know.”

Sincerely shocked, Peabody jerked around in her seat. “You didn’t get cake?”

“I don’t know. Probably.” Because the idea of the shower, what she had to do, hadn’t done, should do, made her stomach jitter, Eve squirmed. “Look, I called the caterer, okay? I did it myself. I didn’t dump it on Roarke, I didn’t ask – God forbid – Summerset to handle it.”

“Well, what did you ask for? What’s the theme?”

The jitters escalated into a roiling. “What do you mean, theme?”

“You don’t have a theme? How can you have a baby shower without a theme?”

“Jesus Christ, I need a theme? I don’t even know what that means. I called the caterer. I did my job. I told her it was a baby shower. I told her how many people, more or less. I told her when and where. She started asking me all kinds of questions, which gives me a fucking headache, and I told her not to ask me all kinds of questions or she was fired. Just to do whatever needed doing. Why isn’t that enough?”

Peabody ’s sigh was long and heartfelt. “Give me the caterer’s info, and I’ll check in with her. Does she do the decorations, too?”

“Oh, my God. I need decorations?”

“I’m going to help you, Dallas. I’m going to run interference with the caterer. I’m going to come over early on the day and help get it set up.”

Eve narrowed her eyes and tried to ignore the joy and relief bubbling in her breast. “And what’s this going to cost me?”

“Nothing. I like baby showers.”

“You’re a sick, sick woman.”

“Look, look! That car’s going to pull out. Get the space! Get the space! It’s first level, almost at the door. It’s a sign from the goddess of fertility or something.”

“Damn Free-Ager,” Eve mumbled, but beat out a Minibug for the parking slot.

She thought she’d hate shopping in a baby boutique. And Eve was a woman who knew herself well. There were gargantuan stuffed animals and mind-numbing music. There were tiny little chairs, strange mesh cages, other animals, or poofy stars hanging from the walls and ceiling. Racks were full of odd miniature outfits. There were shoes no bigger than her thumb. Thumb-sized shoes, she thought, were unnatural. Nothing that small should be able to walk on two legs, so why did it require shoes? Things rocked and swayed and played more tinkling music if you looked at them crooked. And there were a number of gestating women, and others who carried the fruit of their wombs in colorful slings or strange padded seats that hooked over their shoulders. One of those fruits was wailing in a thin, alien cry. And there were others, bigger ones, who sat in pushcarts or wandered around free to pummel the animals or climb on everything in sight.