Calculated in Death (In Death 36)

“I want to stay, to help. We couldn’t reach everyone who has an appointment. I just need—a few minutes.” She rose, dashed off.

“It’s going to take longer than minutes.” He passed a weary hand over his face, turned to Eve and Peabody. “Lieutenant Dallas?”

“Mr. Gibbons?”

“Yes. Ah, we’re not ourselves this morning. Marta—” He shook his head. “We should go back to my office.” His movements ungainly, as if he couldn’t quite deal with the length of his limbs, he led the way through a cubical area—more tears, more watery eyes—and down a short hall where office doors stayed closed.

“Marta’s office . . .” He stopped, stared at the closed door. “Do you need to see?”

“We will, yes. I’d like to talk to you first. Is the door secured?”

“She would have locked it when she left, that’s policy. I unlocked it when I came in, after I heard . . . Just to see if there was anything . . . Honestly, I don’t know why. I locked it again.”

They passed a break area where a few people sat speaking in muted voices, and to the end of the corridor.

Gibbons’s office took a corner, as supervisors’ often did. It struck Eve as minimalist, efficient, and scarily organized. His desk held two comps, two touch screens, several folders neatly stacked, a forest of lethally sharpened pencils in several hard colors, and a triple picture frame holding snapshots of a plump, smiling woman, a grinning young boy, and a very ugly dog.

“Please sit down. I—coffee. I’ll get you coffee.”

“It’s all right. We’re fine.”

“It’s no trouble. I was getting coffee,” he said vaguely. “I was in the break room, trying to . . . comfort, I guess. We’re not a large department, and we’re part of a, well, tightly knit firm. Everyone here knows each other, has interacted, you could say. We—we—we have a company softball team, and we celebrate birthdays in the break room. Marta had a birthday last month. We had cake. Oh my God. It’s my fault. This is all my fault.”

“How is that?”

“I asked her to put in some overtime. I asked her to work late. We’ve been shorthanded this week, with two of our auditors at a convention. They were due back, but there was an accident—a car accident. One has a broken leg, and the other’s in a coma. Was, I mean. I just got word he came out of it, but they’ve put him under again for some reason. There’s no brain damage, but he has broken ribs and needs more tests and . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That’s not why you’re here.”

“When did you ask Marta to work late?”

“Just yesterday. Yesterday morning when I talked to Jim, the one with the broken leg. They won’t be able to travel back. They’re in Vegas, at a convention. I told you that. Sorry. They won’t be able to come back to work for several days, at least, and we had audits pending. I asked Marta to pick up the slack. I worked until eight myself, but then I took the rest home. Marta was still here. She said thanks for dinner, Sly. I ordered us some food about six. For myself, Marta, and Lorraine.”

“Lorraine?”

“Lorraine Wilkie. She and Marta both worked late. Lorraine and I left at the same time, but I’d given Marta the bulk of the work. She’s the best we have. She’s the best. I didn’t know she’d stay so late. I should’ve told her to leave when I did. I should’ve gotten her into a cab. If I had, she’d be all right.”

“What was she working on?”

“Several things.”

He took out his pocket ’link when it signaled, glanced at the readout, hit ignore.

“I’m sorry, that can wait. Marta was finishing up an audit of her own, had just begun another. And I gave her three more—one assigned to Jim, and the others to Chaz. And I asked her to look over some work done by a trainee.”

“Would Marta have told anyone about these assignments—details, I mean—names?”

“No. That information would be very confidential.”

“We’re going to need to see her work. I’ll need you to give me access to her files.”

“I . . . I don’t understand.” He lifted his hands, palms up, like a man offering a plea. “I’d do anything to help. But I can’t give you confidential material. I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Gibbons, we have reason to believe Marta wasn’t the victim of a random mugging, but was abducted when she left the office, taken to another location where she was killed. Her briefcase was taken. That would have contained at least some of her work, some of her files.”

As his hands lowered, he simply stared. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t understand you.”

“We have reason to believe Marta Dickenson was a specific target, and that she may have been killed due to her work.”

He sat down heavily. “They said—on the report—it was a mugging.”