Golden in Death (In Death 50)

Eve paid at the gate, drove on. “Whitt didn’t even bother to ask why we’d question him about the spouses being killed. Because that’s his whole point. That’s the reason.”

“And he’d hold on to blaming Rufty, Duran because he got pulled from a school—by his parents.”

“There’s more to it. First loves are potent, right? Not love, not really. He’s a sociopath and he doesn’t genuinely feel. But he lost the girl, his hierarchy, and more—there’s more. The girl got engaged—and that got media play, a lot of talk in his social circle, too, believe it. It pisses him off. And Grange, she comes into it. Somehow. Whitt’s parents are divorced, right? Check when.”

“Just a second. Huh.” Peabody pursed her lips at her PPC screen. “Finalized the same summer Whitt graduated from Lester Hensen.”

“The wife filed, right?”

“Yeah. Right after the first of the year.”

“What do you want to bet Whitt’s daddy’s the one in that blurred photo?”

Peabody considered. “I think I’ll save my money.”

18

The hostess at the uppity upscale French restaurant obviously approved of Eve’s topper, as she greeted her and Peabody with a warm and welcoming smile.

“Good afternoon! Under what name will I find your reservation?”

“Under no name, but you’ll find this badge under Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

Warm welcome turned to quick alarm. “Oh! Please, will you be discreet? Is there a problem?”

“Depends. I want you to check back for a reservation under Stephen Whitt for April twenty-seventh. Dinner. Eight o’clock.”

“Mr. Whitt, of course. Party of three. Mr. Whitt often dines and lunches here.”

“You were working?”

“Yes.”

“How about you step away from your station a minute?”

“Oh, but … Henry? Would you take over for me for just a moment? Could we step outside?” she asked Eve in a whisper—discreetly.

“Sure.”

Once they did, the woman let out a long breath. “I’m sorry, but we wouldn’t want any of our guests disturbed or upset.”

“Right. What time did Mr. Whitt arrive?”

“He brought his guests in just a minute or two before eight. He’s always timely. Jordan, the evening maître d’, escorted them to their table himself.”

“Okay.” Eve played a hunch. “What time did Mr. Whitt step out, maybe to use his ’link?”

“Oh. I think it was—I’m not sure exactly—but about ten? He’

s very considerate that way, and will step outside if he needs to make or take a call. We discourage ’link usage while dining.”

“Sure you do. How long was he out?”

“A few minutes. Five, six. No more than ten. Less, certainly, than ten. He wouldn’t have left his guests for more than a few minutes.”

“You saw him go out and come back?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”