“Uh-huh. Don’t give her any more information than necessary. We want to be thorough, cover all bases. You know the drill.”
“I’ve never drilled a judge before. And that still comes off shady. Or uncomfortably sexual.”
“Just get the warrant, Peabody.”
Eve thought about something else she had on tap. She happened to be married to a numbers geek. Money was his language, and he was seriously fluent.
She hunted for parking, and considered it her lucky day when she found a spot curbside only a block and a half from the victim’s office building.
“The judge says she’ll make the warrant happen,” Peabody reported, “but it may take a little time. Sensitive material, privacy issues. If we can show reasonable evidence the vic was killed due to her work, it’ll slide right through.”
“We might show evidence if we looked at the work.” But she’d figured as much. At least the wheels were already grinding.
The sky began to spit an ugly, icy sleet, causing other pedestrians to quicken their pace. In seconds, an enterprising street vendor hauled out a cart, popped it open to reveal a supply of umbrellas for about triple their usual rate.
In seconds more, he was mobbed.
“I wouldn’t mind one of those,” Peabody murmured.
“Toughen up.”
“Why doesn’t it just snow? At least snow’s pretty.”
“Until it’s in grimy black mounds against the curb.” Shoving her hands in her pockets for warmth, Eve quick-stepped the last half block. She shoved through the lobby doors, shook her head like a dog, and shot out little drops of cold.
She badged the man at the security podium. “Brewer, Kyle, and Martini.”
“Fifth floor. Is this about Ms. Dickenson? I heard the media report before I came on.”
“Yeah, it’s about Ms. Dickenson.”
“It’s true then.” His lips tightened as he shook his head. “You gotta hope it’s a mistake, you know? She’s a nice woman, always says hi when she comes in.”
“You weren’t on last night?”
“Off at four-thirty. She logged out at ten-oh-eight. I checked the log when I came in, because of the report.”
“Did she work late routinely?”
“I wouldn’t say routinely, but sure, sometimes. All of them do. Tax season?” He waved a hand in a forget about it gesture. “They might as well live here.”
“Has anybody come in, asking about her?”
“Not to me. I mean she gets people, clients, and whatever who come in asking for her and the firm. They have to sign in.”
“Any problem showing us the log for the last week or so?”
“I don’t see why it’d be a problem.”
“How about making a copy for our files.”
Now he shifted, foot-to-foot. “I’d like to clear that one with my boss. If you’re going up, you could stop back on the way out. I think he’ll be okay with it, considering.”
“Good enough. Thanks.”
“She was a nice lady,” he said again. “Met her husband and kids, too. They came in to pick her up now and then. Nice family. It’s a damn shame, is what. A damn shame. First bank of elevators on the right. I’ll talk to my boss.”
“Thanks again. Check in with Uniform Carmichael,” she told Peabody. “See if he’s got anything.”