Brotherhood in Death (In Death 42)

“Not at all. We’re up. I thought I’d come in early today in any case.”

“I need some time.”

“As much as you need, whenever you need it. I can come to you.”

“That would save me some steps. I need to tell you Jonas B. Wymann’s been murdered.”

“I . . . we know him. He was a close friend of Edward’s.”

“He died the same way.”

“Oh, dear God. Are you at Central?”

“Heading there now.”

“I’ll be on my way in ten minutes.”

“Can you put Mr. Mira on?”

“Oh, yes, just a moment.”

Eve heard murmuring, shuffling. Then Dennis Mira’s gentle face came on her screen. “This is very distressing,” he said. “Jonas Wymann. He was a brilliant economist.”

“Yes, I heard that. Mr. Mira, do you know when your cousin got his tattoo?”

“Edward?” Those dreamy green eyes went blank. “Edward had a tattoo? That doesn’t seem in character at all, does it?”

“You weren’t aware he had one?”

“No. I can assure you he didn’t have one when he went off to college. We spent the last weekend before he did at the beach, and there was some midnight skinny-dipping involved. I would have noticed no matter where it might have been. I do tend to forget things here and there, but I’m sure I’d remember that.”

“Okay, that’s helpful. One more thing: your last name? No Celtic connections?”

“Celtic? No. There’s a bit on my mother’s side, if that helps.”

“That’s all I needed.” She imagined Mira had been at the bruising scrape on his temple with a healing wand regularly, as it barely showed now. “You’re feeling okay?”

“Absolutely fine. And how are you?”

“Good. I’m good. If you’d tell Dr. Mira I’ll be waiting for her. Thanks.”

“You be careful now. Someone very, very angry doesn’t want you to find them.”

“You got that right. I’ll be in touch.”

“He’s about the sweetest man on the planet,” Peabody commented.

“And insightful. ‘Angry,’ he said. Not sick, twisted, dangerous, violent. Angry,” she repeated with a slow nod. “And he’s right because it’s anger leading the charge. What have you got?”

“Rope’s as common as they come, like you’d figure. And no hair other than the vic’s on the body. No fiber.”

“They had to get him back in the house. Wrapped or rolled him in plastic.” She nodded again, visualizing it. “At least two of them, so they could carry him inside. After what they did to him he’d be too weak to fight even if he’d been conscious. Wait until the middle of the night, haul him in there, unroll him, and string him up.”

She pulled into Central’s garage, beelined for her space. Then sat a moment, thinking.

“It’s a hell of a lot of trouble. A body dump’s easier, but it’s not enough here. Taking an injured, probably unconscious man back into an upscale neighborhood, even middle of the night, says the murder site’s as important as the murder. Home. A safe place. A safe, upscale place. It has to mean something.”

“Maybe the killer or killers are familiar with the safe, upscale place. If we go back to sex, maybe that’s somewhere it happened. If it deals with rape—”