Brotherhood in Death (In Death 42)

“What about him?”

“Do you want to discuss your relationship with him out here, Ms. MacKensie?”

Eve saw the lips compress, the eyes dart left then right. “We don’t have a relationship,” she said, but opened the door.

She wore baggy sweatpants and a hoodie with thick socks. Her skin was so white it nearly glowed beneath its scatter shot of ginger-colored freckles.

“You did have,” Eve said and stepped in.

“I haven’t seen or talked to Edward in weeks, since the end of November.”

“Excuse me. I’m sorry,” Peabody interrupted. “Could I use your bathroom?”

Now Carlee bit her bottom lip, but nodded. “Ah, okay. I guess. It’s . . .” She gestured, but Peabody was already on the move.

“Thanks!”

“I guess you want to sit down.”

“I can stand if you’d rather,” Eve told her.

“I guess we’ll sit down.”

She had a couch and a couple of chairs, facing an entertainment screen—and facing away from a workstation under the window.

Carlee chose a chair, sat with her knees together, her fingers linked in her lap. “I don’t understand why you want to talk to me about Edward.”

“He’s dead, Ms. MacKensie.”

Carlee’s tightly pressed lips fell apart. “What? How? When?”

“He was murdered last night.”

“Mur-murdered?”

“You say you haven’t seen him since November.”

“That’s right. Are you talking about Senator Mira?”

“Yes. How did you meet him?”

“It was— It was a political fund-raiser. I had a media pass because I was researching an article, and . . .” She paused as Peabody came back.

“Thanks,” Peabody said again, and sat beside Eve.

“That’s okay. I, um, usually tend to observe rather than ask a lot of questions. I guess I was about the only one there with a media pass who wasn’t asking questions, so he came over to me when I was sitting, taking notes, brought me a glass of wine. He said how if I didn’t have any questions for him, he had some for me. I was a little flustered, but he was so charming.”

“How soon did you begin a sexual relationship?”

Carlee flushed brightly, hotly pink, and her eyes darted away. “I know it was wrong. He was married—I knew he was married. He said he and his wife had an arrangement, but that doesn’t make it right.”

“We’re not here to judge you, Ms. MacKensie,” Peabody told her. “We need to gather information.”

“I knew it was wrong,” she repeated. “He said we’d go have a drink, and I thought how I could get a bigger article, or maybe a couple of stories, so we left there and went to have a drink. Then two. He had his driver take me home. Nobody’s ever done that for me. And he paid such attention. I don’t know how to explain it, but he made me feel pretty and sexy.”

She looked down at her hands. “So when he contacted me the next day and said he was taking me out to dinner, I went. I knew where it was heading. He was married and, okay, a lot older, but I knew where it was heading. I went anyway. And I went with him to the hotel. The Palace. He has a suite there, just beautiful, like something in a vid. And dinner was waiting, and a bottle of champagne. I slept with him. We only saw each other like that for about five weeks, then he sent me flowers—white roses—with a card. It said how all good things had to end, and it had been lovely.”

“That must’ve pissed you off.”