Brotherhood in Death (In Death 42)

“I know it.” Petra laid a hand on his cheek. “I lived with a cheat,” she said to Eve. “I know the signs. Every one of them. I promised myself I’d never live with one again. I don’t break promises, Lieutenant. Marshall and I have built a strong, healthy marriage—and trust, fidelity, respect—those are cornerstones.”

“You’d know where to look,” Marshall said to Eve. “You can check my finances, my travel, you can speak to anyone at my firm. I haven’t had a relationship with another woman since I met Petra.”

“What about Betz?”

“Lieutenant, I appreciate your concern for my safety, and I respect your position, but I’m not going to gossip about my friends. Speak to him yourself.”

“I intend to. Are you friendly with Senator Fordham?”

“Not really. He’s Edward’s friend. We’ve socialized, of course, but I’d consider us acquaintances.”

“He’s not a brother then.”

“No,” Easterday said flatly, and the hand holding the teacup trembled. He set the cup down. “I’m finished with this. I don’t see how it’s in any way helpful, and you put me in the position of being disloyal to dead friends. I want to rest now.”

“Yes, you should. I’ll be right up,” Petra told him. “I’ll show the officers out, and be right up.”

To Eve, the weight on his shoulders seemed heavier as he left the room.

“We have good security,” Petra said briskly, “and I’ll make certain it’s in full use. He won’t go anywhere without me. I can hire private security to stay with him until this is resolved if you think I should.”

“I think it wouldn’t hurt. He shouldn’t keep any appointments alone,” Eve said as she rose. “That’s how both victims were lured.”

“He’s not like them—not the way you mean. He loved them, deeply, but he’s not like them. I’m not Mandy Mira, Lieutenant. Believe me.”

“I do.” Eve held her gaze. “I believe you. Thanks for your time, and your cooperation.”

Eve stepped outside, took a long breath. “Impressions, Peabody?”

“He knows things, things he hasn’t told his wife. Things he doesn’t want her to know. And he’s scared shitless. But she’d know if he cheated on her, and it came off sincere when he said he’d been faithful.”

“He didn’t use that word,” Eve pointed out. “He said he hadn’t had affairs, hadn’t had other relationships. That’s a distinction to my ear.”

“I don’t hear it.”

“He doesn’t cat around like his friends—and, yeah, she’d know if he did. She’d toss him out for it. But rolling in the sheets at a hotel, having drinks, maybe dinner, conversations? That’s different from targeting a woman, raping her, then moving on.”

“Well, Jesus.”

“Yeah. Add he knows things. Add he’s scared. Scared and angry, and defensive. He’s part of the brotherhood, Peabody, and loyalty to them, trying to hide what he’s part of from his wife, could get him or one of the others killed. Let’s see if we can shake more out of Betz.”

—

The Upper East Side home of Frederick Betz had once been a small, exclusive boutique hotel for the ridiculously rich. The ridiculously rich made it a prime target during the Urbans. It hadn’t been razed, but it had been gutted with all the original marble, stone, wood, gilt, crystal, and silver leaf chipped, hacked, pried, and hauled off.

It sat, a sad, graffiti-laced shell, for nearly two decades before Betz—an enterprising soul—bought it for a song and dance right on the edge of the revitalization trend.

He spent fully ten times the cost of the shell to turn it into his personal palace. In spending his millions, Betz proved, beyond a shadow, money couldn’t buy taste.

On the arching front door of glossy red lacquer, fat cherubs in what looked like G-strings cavorted with sly-eyed centaurs and winged horses. Three-headed dogs snarled; fierce-eyed dragons spat fire.

Some of the cherubs were armed with bow and arrow, and looked ready to use them.

Eve couldn’t decide if it was meant to be whimsical or obscene.

“It’s just creepy,” Peabody stated.

“Yeah, that’s the best word. Creepy.”