“Right. Anyone else?”
“Ah, Frederick Betz. He and my father and Mr. Wymann—and Marshall Easterday—all went to Yale together. They had a group house together. And there’s Senator Fordham. They became good friends when my father was a senator. Is that helpful?”
“Yeah, it is. Mrs. Sykes, the media reports are going to start hitting soon. Jonas Wymann was murdered early this morning, in the same manner as your father.”
“What?” Her eyes went blank. “What? I don’t . . . Why? Why is this happening?”
“I’m working on that, too. Can you think of anyone who would want to cause your father and Wymann harm? Who might link them together?”
“I don’t understand any of this. I’m sorry, I don’t understand this. He—Mr. Wymann—he used to sneak Ned and me little chocolates when we were kids. He’s dead. Murdered. Like my father?”
“I’m sorry. If you or your brother think of anything that connects them, of anyone who might have a grudge against them, let me know.”
“I need to contact Ned. I don’t want him to hear about this on screen. The others, the others you asked about. You think someone might do this to them?”
“It’s something we need to consider. I’ll be speaking with them. If anyone else comes to mind, contact me. Anytime.”
“I will. I’ll ask Ned. Thank you for telling me. I need to . . . I have to go.”
Eve pulled up addresses, started to push away from her desk when her ’link signaled. She might have ignored it, but she saw Baxter on the display.
“Dallas. What’ve you got?”
“A lot of shock from the work contacts we’ve pulled out of bed so far, and a handful of names we pried out. Ladies he’s dated in the last year or so. For an older guy, he gets a lot of touch. We’ve talked to two of them so far. More shock. Shaky alibis all around for TOD as everyone we’ve talked to claimed to have been home in bed. Some spouses or cohabs to corroborate, but that stays shaky in my books.”
“Find out if any of the sidepieces went to Yale, or has a connection to Yale. Any of them do a stint at a place called Inner Peace.”
“Can do. None of the names we’ve got cross with the ones on the senator’s list. Looks like they didn’t poach each other’s forest.”
A man who’d poach on his cousin’s fiancée would poach on a friend’s skirt, Eve thought. “We’ll see about that. Any Yale connection, any Realtors, anybody looking for inner fricking peace, tag me.”
“Got it. One more thing. We rousted his admin out of bed, and once we’d calmed her down, we got she’d spoken to him via ’link at about three in the afternoon. He was pretty broken up about his pal, taking the day at home. And she confirmed he had plans to see his grandson’s performance last night. But here’s something. He had a four o’clock on the books. She asked him if he wanted her to cancel, and he decided to go ahead with it.”
“What appointment?”
“A writer. Somebody doing a biography on him—or planning to. Meet was at four, his home.”
“Tell me you’ve got a name.”
“I’m telling you I’ve got a name. Cecily Anson, age fifty-eight, married, one offspring, female. Lives in SoHo. Ah, let me look here . . . No Yale. Went to Brown. Her wife, that’s Anne C. Vine, age fifty-nine, MIT—software designer. And . . . daughter, Lillith, age twenty-six, Carnegie Mellon, architect with Bistrup and Grogan, a Midtown firm.”
“I’m heading out, so I’ll take them on the way to where I’m going. First vic’s admin didn’t have the name of his appointment. Feels too pat to have all this with number two.”
“Sometimes you get lucky.”
“Mostly you don’t. Keep at it until we do.” She cut him off, grabbed her coat. When she hit the bullpen, she said, “Peabody,” and kept going.
Peabody, puffing a bit, caught up with her at the elevator. “Did we get a break?”
“Maybe. Wymann’s admin spoke with him at three, so he was still at home and under no duress. But he had an appointment at four, at home, with a biographer. Cecily Anson.”
“We’ve got a name.”
“Name, address, basic data. She’s late fifties, so old for the vic’s taste, and since she’s got a wife probably not sexually oriented to be his sidepiece. Got a grown daughter who might be, and a place in SoHo. We’ll hit that before we go talk to Lydia Su.”
Peabody pulled on a hat—candy green with icy blue edging. “It doesn’t feel like they’d leave us such a direct line.”
“No, it doesn’t. But whoever kept that four o’clock is likely the one who abducted, tortured, and killed him. Check in with Morris. Let’s see if he can give us a ballpark on when Wymann incurred the injuries. And let’s get some uniforms back out, canvassing neighbors with that specific time frame. It might spark something.”