Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

The doors opened, as did Peabody’s mouth until Eve shot a finger at her.

Peabody followed Eve into the elevator, mouthing VIP and doing the quick shoulder bump behind her partner’s back.

“Eighteen,” Eve ordered, and the elevator immediately began its smooth, rapid rise.

Law offices of Wythe, Wythe, and Hudd, the elevator announced, and seconds later, the doors opened.

A single female, with hair piled high and white like the snow outside, manned a long counter of all-business black. There were two empty stools flanking her, along with slick data and communication centers.

A standard, upscale waiting area spread on one side of the room. The other side held the surprising choice of potted dwarf trees, fruiting with little oranges and lemons, around a pair of black stone benches.

“Good afternoon.” The woman offered a quick, professional smile. “The traffic must be horrendous.”

“It isn’t good.” Eve laid her badge on the counter. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, to see Randall Wythe.”

“Yes, Detective Peabody arranged for an appointment. Just let me check with Mr. Wythe’s office.”

She tapped her earpiece. “Yes, Carson, the police officers are here for Mr. Wythe. Of course.” She tapped it again. “Mr. Wythe should be available shortly. His administrative assistant will come out to escort you back if you’d like to take a seat.”

“Okay. Where’s everybody else?” Eve gestured to the empty stools.

“We sent some of the staff home. This storm’s supposed to be a bruiser.”

“But you’re sticking it out.”

“I grew up in Wisconsin,” the woman said with an easy smile.

“I guess you see pretty much everyone who comes in. Have you met Daphne Strazza?”

The woman’s smile faded. “I haven’t, no. It’s terrible what happened. I hope she’s going to be all right.”

“She’s improving. You’ve met Dr. Strazza?”

“Yes, I have. He’s been a client for a very long time. Was, I should say.”

“Can you remember the last time he was in?”

“Not offhand, no. Some time ago. He and Mr. Wythe often meet at the club rather than here. Here’s Carson.”

Cars

on—skinny, long-necked, with short brown hair meticulously side parted—stepped through a wide doorway.

“Lieutenant, Detective, I’ll take you back to Mr. Wythe’s office. Ms. Midderman, Mr. Wythe said to tell you to switch to auto on the desk anytime you want to leave today.”

“Thank you, Carson, I’m fine for now.”

They followed Carson’s long, somewhat gawky strides down a wide corridor of offices, hushed as a church, past a meeting room or law library where a couple of young staffers huddled over laptops and talked in reverent whispers.

They turned beyond a break room, complete with kitchen and Vending, and continued down to glossy wood doors.

Carson knocked, waited for a quick buzz before pushing the pocket doors open.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, Mr. Wythe.”

“Yes, yes. Carson, get us some lattes, then cancel anything I have for the rest of the day. I’m damn well going home.”

“Yes, sir.”