“Time’s passing. The maître d’ called them a cab, a Rapid. They were picked up at a twenty-one forty-eight. It was starting to rain.”
In her mind, Eve pictured it. The handsome couple in the back of the cab, chatting, maybe brushing fingertips while the cab zipped uptown with raindrops pattering on the roof. She’d been wearing a red dress and matching jacket, according to their server. Power colors for court that she’d dressed up with good pearls and silver heels for the evening.
“The cab dropped her off first,” Eve continued. “She told Hammett not to get out, why get wet? She was laughing when she ran for the building, then turned and blew him a kiss.”
“Your report said they were tight.”
“He loved her.” More from habit than hunger, she dipped a hand into the bag Feeney held out. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her, but he loved her. According to him, they were both happy with their arrangement, but . . .” She lifted her shoulders. “If he wasn’t, and was looking to set up a good alibi, he set a nice romantic, cozy stage. It doesn’t work for me, but it’s early yet. So, she came up,” Eve continued, moving to the door. “Her dress is a little damp, so she goes to the bedroom to hang it up.”
As she spoke, Eve followed the projected route, walking over the lovely rugs into the spacious bedroom with its quiet colors and lovely antique bed.
She ordered lights to brighten the area. The police shields on the windows not only frustrated the fly-bys, but blocked most of the sunlight.
“To the closet,” she said and pressed the button that opened the long, mirrored sliding doors. “She hangs up the suit.” Eve pointed to the red dress and jacket, neatly arranged in a wardrobe ordered in sweeps of color. “Puts away her shoes, puts on a robe.”
Eve turned to the bed. A long flow of ivory was spread there. Not folded, not neatly arranged as was the rest of the room, but rumpled, as though it had been impatiently tossed.
“She puts her jewelry in the safe in the side wall of the closet, but she doesn’t go to bed. Maybe she goes out to catch the news, to have a nightcap.”
With Feeney following, Eve went back to the living area. A briefcase, neatly closed, sat on the table in front of the sofa with a single empty glass beside it.
“She’s relaxing, maybe thinking over the evening, rehearsing her court strategy for the next day or her planning her daughter’s wedding. Her ’link beeps. Whoever it was, whatever they tell her, gets her moving. She’s settled in for the night, but she goes back to the bedroom, after she’s zapped the record. She dresses again. Another power suit. She’s going to the West End. She doesn’t want to blend, she wants to exude authority, confidence. She doesn’t call a cab. That’s another record. She decides she’ll take the subway. It’s raining.”
Eve moved to a closet tucked into the wall near the front door and pressed it to open. Inside were jackets, wraps, a man’s overcoat she suspected was Hammett’s, and a fleet of umbrellas in varying colors.
“She takes out the umbrella she bought to match the suit. It’s automatic, her mind is on her meet. She doesn’t take a lot of money, so it’s not a payoff. She doesn’t call anyone, because she wants to handle it herself. But when she gets to the Five Moons, nobody meets her. She waits nearly an hour, impatient, checking her watch. She leaves a few minutes after one, back into the rain. She’s got her umbrella and starts to walk back to the subway. I figure she’s steamed.”
“Classy woman, kicking in a dive for an hour for a no show.” Feeney popped another nut. “Yeah, steamed would be my take.”
“So, she heads out. It’s raining pretty hard. Her umbrella’s up. She only gets a few feet. Someone’s there, probably been close by all along, waiting for her to come out.”
“Doesn’t want to see her inside,” Feeney put in. “Doesn’t want to be seen.”
“Right. They have to talk a couple of minutes according to the time frame. Maybe they argue—not much of an argument, there isn’t time. Nobody’s on the street—nobody who’d pay attention, anyway. A couple of minutes later, her throat’s slashed, she’s bleeding on the sidewalk. Did he plan to do her all along?”
“Lotsa people carry stickers in that area.” Thoughtful, Feeney rubbed his chin. “Couldn’t get premeditated on that by itself. But the timing, the setup. Yeah, that’s how it shakes down to me.”
“Me, too. One slice. No defensive wounds, so she didn’t have time to feel threatened. The killer doesn’t take her jewelry, the leather bag, her shoes, or her credits. He just takes her umbrella, and he walks away.”
“Why the umbrella?” Feeney wondered.
“Hell, it’s raining. I don’t know, an impulse, a souvenir. As far as I can see, it’s the only mistake he made. I’ve got grunts out checking a ten-block area to see if he ditched it.”
“If he ditched it in that area, some chemi-head’s walking around with a purple parasol.”
“Yeah.” A visual of that almost made her smile. “How could he be sure she’d zap the recording, Feeney? He had to be sure.”
“Threat?”
“A PA lives with threats. One like Towers would shake them off like lint.”
“If they were aimed at her,” he agreed. “She’s got kids.” He nodded toward the framed holograms. “She wasn’t just a lawyer. She was a mother.”
With a frown, Eve walked over to the holograms. Curious, she picked up one of the boy and girl together as young teenagers. A flick of her finger over the back had the audio bubbling out.
Hey, big shot. Happy Mother’s Day. This will last longer than the flowers. We love you.
Oddly disturbed, Eve set the frame down again. “They’re adults now. They’re not kids anymore.”