J Robb - Imitation in Death

“Some security you’ve got here,Mr.Newkirk.” She spotted cameras and motion sensors along the corridor. Eyes and ears everywhere, she thought. Who could work that way?

He followed the track of her gaze. “You stop noticing. Just a price to be paid for safety and freedom.”

“Uh-huh.” He had a square face, a jaw so sharp and straight it might have been sliced off with a sword. Very pale, very cool blue eyes and a ruddy complexion under short, bristly sandy hair.

He walked very erect, with a purposeful stride, his arms straight at his sides.

“You former military?”

“Captain, RAF.Mr.Renquist has a number of former military on staff.” He used a key card to access another door, and Renquist’s suite of offices.

“Just one moment, please.”

While she waited,Eve studied the area. Another warren of rooms, most separated by glass panels so that the staffers were exposed to each other, and the cameras. It didn’t seem to bother them as they worked away at keyboards or headsets.

She glanced in the direction Newkirk had taken and saw that it ended in a closed door with Renquist’s name on it.

It opened, and Newkirk stepped out again. “Mr.Renquistwill see you now, Lieutenant.”

It was a lot of buildup for an ordinary man, which was her first impression of Renquist. He stood behind a long, dark desk that might have been wood, might have been old, with anEast River view at his back.

He was tall, with the kind of build that told her he used a health center regularly or paid good money to a body sculptor. She also figured his build was wasted in the dull gray suit, though the suit had probably cost him a great deal.

He was attractive enough, if you went for the polished and distinguished type. He was fair-skinned, fair-haired with a prominent nose and a wide forehead.

His eyes, a kind of sooty gray, were his best feature, and met hers directly.

His voice was clipped, and oh-so-British she expected crumpets-whatever the hell they were-to come popping out of his mouth along with the words.

“LieutenantDallas, I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve read and heard quite a bit about you already.” He held out a hand, and she was treated to a firm, dry, politician’s shake. “I believe we met once, some time back, at a charity function.”

“So I’m told.”

“Please have a seat.” He gestured, and sat behind his desk. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

She sat in a sturdy cloth chair. Not a comfortable one, she noted. Busy man, can’t have people sitting around in his office taking up too much of his time.

His desk was another hive of industry. The data and communication system with the screen blinking on hold, a short stack of discs, another stack of paper, the second ‘link. Among the work was a duet of framed photographs. She could see a slice of a young girl’s face and curly hair-both fair like her father’s-and assumed the other shot would be of his wife.

She knew enough about politics and protocol to at least start out playing the game. “I’d like to thank you, for myself and on behalf of the NYPSD for your cooperation. I know you’re extremely busy and appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.”

“I believe strongly in assisting the local authorities, wherever I am. The U.N. is, on an elemental level, the world’s police force. In a way, we’re in the same profession, you and I. How can I help you?”

“A woman namedJacieWooton was murdered the night before last. I’m the primary investigator.”

“Yes, I heard of the killing.” He leaned back, but his eyebrows lowered. “A licensed companion, in theChinatown district.”

“Yes, sir. In the course of my investigation, I’ve had reason to research and trace a certain brand of stationery. You purchased this brand of writing paper six weeks ago inLondon.”

“I was inLondon this summer for a few days, and did, indeed, buy stationery. Several different types, as I recall. Some for personal use, some for gifts. Am I to understand that this purchase makes me a suspect in this woman’s death?”

He was cool, she thought. More intrigued than worried or annoyed. And, if she wasn’t mistaking that faint curve of mouth, he was a little amused. “In order to expedite my investigation, I need to check all the names of purchasers, and verify their whereabouts on the night in question.”

“I see. Lieutenant, can I assume this line of investigation is secure and discreet? Having my name linked, however loosely, with a licensed companion and a murder would generate considerable unwanted media attention on myself, on Delegate Evans.”

“The name won’t be made public.”

“All right. Night before last?”

“Betweenmidnight and three.”

He didn’t reach for his book, but instead steepled his fingers, watchedEve over the tips. “My wife and I attended the theater. A production of Six Weeks byWilliamGantry, a British playwright. AtLincolnCenter. We were in the company of two other couples, left the theater at about eleven, then had a post-theater drink atRenoir ’s. I believe we left there, my wife and I, aroundmidnight. We’d have been home by twelve-thirty. My wife went to bed, and I worked in my home office for perhaps an hour. It might’ve been a little longer. Following habit, I would have watched about thirty minutes of news, then retired for the night.”

“Did you see or speak with anyone after your wife went to bed?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t. I can only tell you that I was home, tending to my work when this murder took place. I’m confused how buying this paper connects me to this woman, or her death.”

“Her killer wrote a note on that stationery.”

“A note.” Now Renquist’s eyebrows lifted. “Well. That was rather arrogant of him, wasn’t it?”

“He’s not really covered for the time of the murder either,”Peabody pointed out as they walked back to the car.

“That’s the problem when somebody buys it at two in the morning. Most of the suspects are going to claim they were home, innocently tucked into their own beds. They got their own security, or a way around hotel or apartment security, it’s tough to call them a stinking liar.”

“Do you think he is a stinking liar?”

“It’s early yet.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

She trackedElliotHawthorne down on the eleventh hole of a private club onLong Island. He was a sturdy, tough man, with a shock of white hair fluttering around under a tan cap, matched by the luxurious white mustache that set off his tanned face. There were lines scored around his mouth, fanned out from his eyes, but the eyes themselves were sharp and clear as he drove the ball off the tee.

He passed the driver back to his caddy, hopped in a small white cart, then signaled forEve to join him. “Talk fast” was all he said as he sent the cart zipping forward.

She did, giving him the details asPeabody and the caddy followed on foot.

“Dead whore, fancy writing paper.” He gave a little grunt as he stopped the cart. “Used whores from time to time, never kept track of their names.” He jumped out, circled his ball, studied the lay. “Got a young wife, don’t need whores now. Don’t remember the paper. You got a young wife, you buy all sorts of useless shit.London?”

“Yes.”

“August.London,Paris,Milan. I still got my fingers in some business, and she likes to shop. If you say I bought the paper, I bought the paper. So what?”

“It’s tied to the murder. If you could tell me where you were betweenmidnight and three, night before last-”

He let out a bark of laughter, stood from where he’d crouched by the ball and gave her his full attention. “Young lady, I’m more than seventy. I’m fit, but I need my sleep. I play eighteen holes every morning, and before I do, I have a good breakfast, read the paper, and check the stock reports. I’m up every morning at seven. I’m in bed every night by eleven unless my wife drags me out to some shindig. Night before last I was in bed by eleven, and after making love to my wife-a process that doesn’t take as long as it once did-I was asleep. Can’t prove it, of course.”