“Brewer, Kyle, and Martini,” Tuva supplied.
“We’re firing their asses, you can bank on it.”
“We aren’t clients,” Tuva told him. “They were assigned by the courts.”
“Then get the damn lawyers, and get somebody who’s not a fucking idiot assigned.”
“Are you aware,” Eve put in, “that Marta Dickenson’s body was found by Bradley Whitestone, outside of the building under remodeling for the WIN Group?”
“Goddamn it, get Rob on the ’link,” Biden ordered. “And give Roarke’s get-out-of-jail-free card here the names of our lawyers. We’re done.”
Eve rose slowly, and whatever he saw in her face had Biden shifting. “No offense.”
“Considerable taken. You want to be careful about offending cops, Mr. Biden, especially when you’re mired in a murder investigation.”
“Talk to the lawyers. I’m done.” He shot to his feet. “And get Rob now, send it to my office.” He stormed out.
“I apologize,” Young-Sachs began. “Ty tends to lash out when he’s upset.”
“Interesting. Someone certainly lashed out at Marta Dickenson. Thanks for the coffee. We’ll be in touch.”
“It was really good coffee,” Peabody murmured as they walked back to the elevator.
“Chocolate. Just a little chocolate in the coffee.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know chocolate.”
“Well, damn. I’m off sweets until after the premiere. It doesn’t count, right, because I didn’t know it was there.”
“Right.” Eve stepped on the elevator, muttered, “Asshole.”
“I know. Both of them, really, but Young-Sachs was kind of a benign asshole. Maybe due to being a little high.”
“Which makes him stupid as well as an asshole. The admin knows more than both of them put together. She’s hot for the boss. She’d lie for him, no question. But he hasn’t got the belly for murder. Not in person anyway. The other? He could order it up like lunch.”
“I’ll start runs on them.”
“You do that. Next up. Alexander and Pope.”
The offices of Alexander and Pope opted for fussy dignity. Heavy furniture, art in thick gold frames—lots of paintings of people riding horses with dogs running alongside.
Everybody spoke in hushed tones in reception, as they might in a surgical waiting room.
But as Eve and Peabody were escorted back, she heard the busy sound of ’links beeping, voices dealing, feet scurrying.
Sterling Alexander’s office reflected his reception area with its deep tones, deep cushions, gracefully faded carpets, ornately framed art.
He sat at his desk, a prosperous-looking man with dark hair. The perfect touches of elegant white at the temples added distinguished to his sharply chiseled features.
He gestured Eve and Peabody to chairs with a flick of his hand, and dismissed his silent assistant the same way.
“Pope will be here momentarily. I’ve already spoken to Stuart Brewer, and to Jake Ingersol—you know who they are. I’ve also spoken with our legal counsel. I understand you have a job to do, procedure to follow, but my partner and I must act quickly to protect our company, our investors.”
“Understood. Were you acquainted with Marta Dickenson?”
“No. We worked with Chaz Parzarri. His supervisor informed us he’d been seriously injured while out of town, and our audit—which is required by our bylaws—would be taken over by this Dickenson woman. Then we’re told she’s been killed. And now the office is compromised and our confidential financial data stolen. It’s obvious what’s happened.”