Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

“This must be about The Unfortunate Mr. Banks—it sounds just like a title of a story. Please, sit, sit, sit.”

“You knew Jordan Banks.”

“Not a bit, but I know both of you. I’ll be positively glued to the screen Sunday night. I adore the Oscars, and throw a little gala of my own for friends on the night. I’m just devastated I can’t offer you coffee. I’m a tea drinker. I have fresh, organic papaya juice that’s amazing when mixed with some sparkling ginger.”

Before

Eve could refuse, Peabody piped up, “I’d love some juice, thanks.”

“Wonderful. You just make yourselves at home. I’ll be back in a snap.”

He sort of whirled out in his knee-length striped sweater and black skin pants.

“Sorry, I could really use the juice.”

Eve took the time to study the living space. Not as grand as Banks’s, but with that same view out the glass wall. Lots of art, she noted, lots of color. Pillows shaped like birds, curved sofas, fancy dust catchers arranged just so, fresh flowers.

Wirely came back with a pitcher of—as advertised—sparkling juice over ice, a trio of glasses and a plate of thin, frosted cookies, fancy napkins.

“In case you change your mind,” he said to Eve. “I wondered if the police would talk to residents. I’m so excited you are—I know that’s just terrible of me. The poor man’s dead, after all. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he was a bit of a scoundrel, wasn’t he?”

“You said you didn’t know him.”

“I didn’t, but I know of him. I’m an unapologetic gossip,” he added as he poured the juice. “I’m friendly with a number of people in the building. After all, we’re neighbors. And we do love to dish. I can’t say he came up very often while he was still among the living, but since?” He cast his gaze up to the ceiling. “My, my, and my.”

“Such as?” Eve prodded.

“Well.” Eyebrows wiggling, he offered the plate of cookies. “I’m sure you know, but in case. A womanizer. He had the most delightful lady friend—I did meet her once in the elevator. That poor woman who was hurt in that hideous explosion this week. Willimina Karson. She’s the head of Econo. I read she’s going to fully recover.”

He patted a hand on his chest. “So relieved. As I said, delightful. And just lovely. And I’m told while he had this delightful woman, he pursued others. Including our own Ankah—that’s Ankah Si? Gorgeous creature who happens to live just across the hall. He tried his charm on Ankah, sent her flowers, asked her to dinner—all while involved with the lovely Willimina. Our Ankah flicked him off.”

Smiling, he flicked his fingers with their short, neat, buffed nails to demonstrate. “She has good taste in men. Now this I did know while he was among the living as Ankah was quite insulted, and told the story at one of my little parties. Then after The Unfortunate Mr. Banks’s demise, I heard Ankah was far from the only one.”

Eve let him ramble some about what he’d heard: the women, the drug use—terrible for the body and soul!—the gambling.

“You seem to know quite a bit about a man you never met.”

“Oh, my lovely, I keep my ears open. I may not know everything about everyone in the building, but I’ll wager I know at least a little about most. It’s all grist for the mill. I write short stories. It’s my passion.”

“I thought you were a lawyer. A legal and financial consultant—estate-law specialist.”

“That’s duty, not passion. I’m the oldest son of two great legal minds, and I did what was expected of me. Quite well, too, if I say so myself. I do continue to serve clients, but I’ve cut back considerably, and take time to write.”

“Your brother’s in the military.”

“Goodness, you know quite a lot, too. Yes, second son, semper fi. A Marine like our grandfather, our uncle—also second sons. Lawyers and soldiers populate my family. We’re not allowed to be lazy and suck, you could say, on the family money teat. We earn our way, unlike Mr. Banks, from what I hear.”

Rather than answer, Eve glanced around. “You have a lot of art.”

“Another passion. What’s life without art, after all? Dull and gray and flat. You must agree,” he said to the currently colorful Peabody.

“I do, completely. I guess you know Banks owned the Banks Gallery—an art gallery.”

“Yes, but owning and working are different things, wouldn’t you say?” He added a sly smile. “I’m told he didn’t put much effort into the working end of the matter. I must stroll in there one day just to see what I see. I imagine he has a nice collection himself. Is it true someone broke into his apartment? That’s the rumor, but no one can confirm. Apparently the place is all sealed up. Like a crime scene.”

“We need to keep people out of a victim’s residence,” Peabody evaded. “Until we’re sure we’ve gathered any possible evidence.”

“Of course. That’s very sensible.”