Golden in Death (In Death 50)
She rose, paused. “Could he be on the young side? Say, somebody who was a student when Rufty took over? Maybe got booted out, or disciplined, or failed some classes after Rufty came on?”
“I nearly said doubtful, as the planning, the time gap shows maturity, patience. But think of the egg—and the name used for the return address. They’re a kind of ugly joke, aren’t they? I’d say the high intelligence and lack of genuine emotion or empathy are more solid factors than age.”
“I think of Rayleen Straffo. She was a crafty little killer, and hadn’t hit her teens. I’ll talk to Rufty about students, too. Thanks for the time.”
“When you find him, he’ll have a cover, perhaps even seem to cooperate. But he’ll be planning on how to strike back.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She took the glides back to give herself time to think, and found herself amused as some cops heading in the same direction discussed the Crazy Naked Guy.
“Son of a bitch made it twenty blocks, just sailing along, dick swinging. Patrinki says he’s barely winded when they finally caught him. Claimed he was exercising his constitutional right. Freedom of religion, ’cause he was just giving his thanks to the god of spring. And clothes were a whatsit—societal construct or some shit.”
“It takes all kinds,” his companion commented.
Eve got off the glide at Homicide, walked into the bullpen. She tried to avoid looking at Jenkinson’s tie, saw Carmichael and Santiago debating, hotly, some point of a case, Peabody deep in he
r research and guzzling a fizzy.
Yeah, it took all kinds, she thought, and went into her office to prep for the interview.
She booked a conference room. She didn’t want Rufty to sit in the box, wanted more private than the lounge.
She updated her board and book, sat contemplating both before calling Peabody in.
“Give me what you’ve got on Grange.”
“Mixed-race female, age seventy-two, two marriages, two divorces, no offspring. Currently headmaster at Lester Hensen Preparatory School, East Washington.”
Peabody sent a hopeful look toward the AutoChef, got a nod.
“Thanks. You?”
“Yeah, fine. Keep going.”
“Okay. Going by her data, she’s stuck with private schools since she started—forty-nine years ago—in Baltimore, Maryland, worked her way to assistant dean of faculty, transferred to a school in Columbus, got the divorce, moved up to assistant headmaster there, transferred here as assistant headmaster, got married again, moved up to headmaster, got divorced, transferred as headmaster to East Washington. She averages about ten years at a school.”
Peabody passed the coffee to Eve. “No particular interest or skill in science shows up. To me, it reads like she used teaching as a stepping-stone to administration and the hierarchy.”
“The second divorce. When and who filed for it?”
“Ah…” Peabody pulled out her PPC. “The spouse—Reginald P. Greenwald—this was also his second. He filed in … January of 2053.”
“The same year she transferred to East Washington. Reginald P. Greenwald. Sounds like a rich name.”
“And you’d be correct. Second son of Horace W. Greenwald and CEO of All Fresh, which was started last century by Philip A. Greenwald—grandfather. They make home and commercial cleaning supplies and tools.”
“Cleaning supplies.” Eve felt a little buzz. “You’d need chemists on staff.”
“Uh-huh. Sure you would. Labs for research and development, testing new products. You could buy a mad scientist with your take of a multibillion-dollar company. But why kill the spouses of a headmaster—who came in after your ex transferred—and a teacher who was about to transfer?”
“That’s a question we’ll ask Greenwald.”
“Should I see if I can get him to come in?”
“No. He’ll bring a bunch of shiny lawyers—that would be SOP. We’ll do a drop-in, after we talk to Rufty.” She glanced at the time. “Which is any minute. I booked a conference room.”
“Yeah, that’ll be easier for him than an interview room. Why don’t I go make sure the AC’s stocked. He drank tea, right?”