Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

“He’s covered. He’s too smart to lie about something that easy to verify or tear down. And he’s no killer.”

“I liked him.”

“He’s sly, gossipy, and a self-proclaimed ‘old queen.’ I kind of liked him, too.”

They wrapped up three more, none of whom were as interesting or chatty as Wirely. As they headed for the next, Peabody pulled an energy bar out of her bag.

“I need a little . . . lift. Don’t want to say boost. Want?”

“What is it?”

“Ah, Fruity Nut Carbo Burst—with chia seeds and flax.”

“I thought they made sheets and underwear and stuff out of flax.”

“It’s a food and fiber plant.”

“You’re telling me you’re eating something that’s used to make underwear? Why not just gnaw on your own underwear?”

Peabody took a determined bite of the bar. “On days—which is most—we don’t stop for so much as a limp soy fry, it’s tempting.”

Eve stepped off the elevator, said, “Loose pants.”

“That’s an upside. It’s really chewy,” Peabody managed around the next bite of bar. “About three out of ten on the taste scale, but really chewy.”

“Swallow your underwear,” Eve ordered, and pressed the buzzer on the next apartment.

“Trying,” Peabody muttered as Eve studied the apartment security.

Not top grade, she noted, but close. And the comp response came smooth and female.

Good afternoon. Please state your name and the purpose of your visit.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD.” Eve held her badge up for the scan. “Police inquiry.”

Thank you. Your identification has been verified. Mr. Iler will be with you in a moment. Please wait.

Lucius Iler, Eve thought. Age forty-four, third-generation money—antique trade. No marriage, no offspring. Registered day trader. Brother (deceased), uncle, grandmother, two cousins, and a stepsister in the military.

A lot of boxes checked, she mused as she heard the locks disengage.

Vid-star polished, she thought when Iler opened the door. Chestnut waves spilling artfully around an angular face sporting the perfect (and deliberate) amount of scruff. Turquoise eyes heavily lashed, transmitted interest and curiosity as a little dimple winked on the right side of his mouth with his polite smile.

“How can I help you, officers?”

“We’d like to come in and speak with you, Mr. Iler.”

“What about?”

“Jordan Banks.”

“Who? Oh, oh, of course. I don’t know how I can help with that.”

“Can we come in?”

“Sorry, sure.” He backed up. “I’m a little distracted. I wasn’t expecting cops at the door. I guess no one does.”

“Criminals sometimes do,” Peabody said, earning the little dimple.