Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

“No. Ms. Lester may have information that could assist us in an investigation.”

They didn’t go far, though Eve noted Lester had moved up beyond cube status to the next level. Her office door was shut with the red DND light blinking. Ignoring it, Forret issued one sharp knock, opened it.

The woman at the desk jabbed a finger in the air out of range of the ’link even as she continued a conversation in the calmest of tones. “Absolutely, Mr. Henry, that is fully understood. I’d be more than happy to discuss all of this with you tomorrow, as planned.”

Eve let the conversation roll as she looked around the office. Smaller than hers at Central, but it did have a bigger window. No frills, no fuss—she respected that.

“I look forward to meeting you, sir, and very much appreciate the chance to show you what we can offer you as a member of the Universal Financial family.”

The minute she signed off, her polite, professional expression went to snarl. “Damn it! Did you see the DND? I’ve been working on getting this face-to-face with Abner Henry for weeks.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.” And with that Forret stepped out, shut the door.

To add to it, Eve held up her badge. “NYPSD, Ms. Lester. We need a few minutes of your time.”

“Cops?” The irritation shifted to puzzlement, then jumped straight to panic as she surged up. “My parents? My brother? What—”

“It has nothing to do with your family.”

“Frankie.” Now she pressed a hand to her heart, sank into the chair again. “Oh God.”

“Or Frankie,” Eve added. “We’re here about Nigel McEnroy.”

Color flew back in her face—a good face, Eve noted, more than pretty, with refined features, lips carefully dyed a quiet coral. Her eyes changed, too, the clear, pale blue of them going glacier cold.

“I’ve got nothing to do with McEnroy or his company, and nothing to say, either. I left his company’s employ more than a year ago. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Nigel McEnroy is dead.”

Something flickered in those eyes, then she sat back, blew out a breath, lifted a hand to skim it through her carefully styled mane of gold-streaked red hair. “Dead? As in …God. How do I feel?” she murmured. “I don’t know how I feel. Not sorry,” she decided. “It’s not a crime to not be sorry.”

Hit the core straight off, Eve decided. “Can you give us your whereabouts from nine P.M. last night until four this morning?”

“Why …Jesus, was he murdered? He was murdered, and you’re looking at me.” She shut her eyes a moment, then picked up a little red ball from her desk, started squeezing it. “Things follow you no matter what you do. Someone killed him, that’s what followed him. And that follows me.”

“Your whereabouts?”

“I …I was with Frankie from about eight until about midnight. We just started dating. We met for dinner at Roscoe’s, then we caught some music at the Blue Note. He walked me home—that’s his thing, he always takes me home—and I got in about midnight. I went to bed—alone. That’s my thing, but I’m about to try to change that. I left for work this morning about eight.”

She put the ball down, rose, turned to her window. “He’s dead, and I’m not sorry. He was a terrible excuse for a human being. You must know that, or know why I think that, or you wouldn’t be here. I should be scared, I guess. Should I be scared that you’re here?” She turned back. “I’m not. I’m just pissed off that this brings it all back when I’ve managed to push it out.”

She sat again. “I guess you’ve talked to Sylvia. To Ms. Brant.”

“We’re aware of Mr. McEnroy’s alleged behavior with you and other female employees.”

“Alleged.” For an instant her eyes went dead. Then they fired with icy rage. “Of course alleged. We took the money and walked away, Jasmine and I. So it’ll always be alleged. And even if we hadn’t? How can you prove what you don’t clearly remember?”

Eve understood that all too well, and the helplessness that came with it. But pushed it aside to do the job. “You told Ms. Brant that Mr. McEnroy sexually assaulted and harassed you.”

“Raped me. I know it. I know it, but I can’t prove it. Sylvia believed me—us—me and Jasmine, and she made it stop. We took the money. You can call it a payoff, or compensation, or a bribe, I don’t give a shit. What it was? Something to help us get through until we could find our feet again, sleep at night again, get another decent job. It was making him pay.”

Eve didn’t mind the angry venting. The anger told her a great deal.

“Are you in touch with Ms. Quirk?”

“She moved to Chicago. She couldn’t stay here, and she has family there. We keep in touch, not as much as we did. We went to the same support group for a while. She convinced me to go. Maybe it helped. Misery loves company.

“I walked away,” she said again, and sat. “Even knowing the money it cost him meant nothing to him.”