Chapter Four #2
“Again, not impossible. And not impossible the jacked-up part of it, if that’s part of it, played into the overkill.”
“So the key is, find out what he knew or did for thirteen years.”
“That’s affirmative.”
Eve didn’t bother to sigh when the elevator stopped, when the doors opened, when a pair of uniforms muscled in a woman, cuffed, who looked like she’d started her day with a rousing bar fight.
“That bitch deserved what I gave her, and you can’t say different.
Cut in line,” she snapped at Eve, improbably red hair tousled into sweaty spikes, brown eyes—one blackened—firing fury.
“Cut right in front of me. ‘In a hurry,’ she says to me.
‘You can wait,’ she says to me. ‘Bullshit,’ I say to her, but she plants herself, smirks like whatcha gonna do about it?
“I showed her what. Gave her a good shove. Sure, she popped me one, but I popped her harder, twice! And what does she do? Runs off, then these guys come and I don’t get to order my bagel and schmear.”
Since the improbable redhead carried at least an extra thirty pounds, Eve thought she could skip one bagel and schmear. But she sympathized with the dislike of line cutters and smirkers.
More shuffled on at the next stop, so the first trio shuffled back, putting Eve directly facing the woman in cuffs.
“You a cop or what?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then tell these dipshits to go after the one who started it, why doncha?”
“Did you get the other individual’s name?” she asked the uniforms.
“We got it, Lieutenant, and will follow up. Ms. Mortimer here made the first physical contact. Several witnesses.”
“She cut in line! She wouldn’t move, and she freaking smirked!”
“And proceeded to resist by jabbing elbows.”
“I was upset! She cut in line! She smirked. I didn’t get my bagel.”
Eve pulled some cash out of her pocket, handed it to one of the uniforms. “Send someone to get Ms. Mortimer a bagel. Although the incident may have been provoked, ma’am, shoving, then popping someone is still considered assault.
I believe, if you cooperate with these officers, the situation can and will be resolved. ”
“You gonna arrest that line-cutting bitch?”
“We’ve got her name,” one of the uniforms said, trying not to look amused. “We’ll follow up.”
“All right. You’re all right,” she said to Eve. “A bagel and schmear.”
“Absolutely,” Eve said, and made her escape the minute the doors opened again.
“Line cutters are the devil.” Peabody said it with a grin.
“Cut the line, smirk, then run off before the cops get there? Evil.”
They rode the glides to Homicide, and Eve figured she’d done her good deed for the day. She couldn’t understand why that good deed deserved the punishment of Jenkinson’s tie.
Plump pink pigs with glittery wings soared over a sky that appeared toxic with sunset. Oranges, reds, and purples of those hues surely never appeared in nature.
“I have no words,” she decided, “so won’t waste any.”
“Sometimes you tell people to do what needs doing, and they say when pigs fly. I got the answer right there.” When he fluttered the tie, she swore the wings flapped.
“Heard you caught one after the accidental. Word is the vic got pummeled into goo.”
“Word is not wrong. And his assailant managed that without a weapon, without leaving any of his own DNA.”
“Pros might fit the first two, but it takes a lot of time and energy to turn somebody into goo. Pros usually don’t waste time or energy.”
“No, they don’t. Personal, not pro. I’m in my office.”
She hit the AutoChef for coffee, then stood at her single, skinny window a moment. He might be out there now, strolling around in the sunshine, pleased with his evening’s work.
Her job was to make sure that pleasure didn’t last.
She began to build her board, studying the crime scene stills as she went. The blood trail and pools and spatters. The destruction of personal property. Except the family photo.
That meant something.
She studied Lawrence Chu’s face in his official ID, then what had been left of it in death.
That meant something, too. Don’t just hurt, don’t just kill.
Erase.
With those thoughts circling the back of her mind, she sat to build her book.
When up-to-date, she started a run on Calvin Banner to add to the data and opinions Roarke had given her.
No criminal, but a shitload of civil cases, sometimes as defendant, sometimes as plaintiff.
A quick scan showed her Banner rarely lost.
Married at thirty, divorced from Madeline Reece Banner at sixty-eight. One offspring, female, age forty. Remarried at sixty-nine—didn’t wait long—to Lucille Lovet, age twenty-seven.
No offspring.
Harvard educated, the second son of Boswell Banner II. Boswell Banner III had died of a heroin overdose at the age of twenty-four. And, Eve surmised, Calvin Banner became heir apparent.
He took over the reins of Banner Chemicals at the age of fifty, and merged his company with Wyst Scientific four years later.
Partnered with Jacob Wyst, they’d expanded their global interests, certainly beefed up their PR with Wyst taking the lead, and had significantly increased their profits.
They’d also developed vaccines, pushed medical advancements, those bigger tomatoes, and so on.
On the surface, nothing looked hinky. But, Eve thought, with that kind of money and power, why would it?
Scratching under that surface? Another part of her job.
Banner lived, primarily, in an expansive compound on Long Island that included the main house, two guesthouses, two pools—one indoor, one out—a tennis court, a helo pad, and so on.
He also owned, personally, outside the company, two apartments in Manhattan, flats in Paris and London, and a home in Sardinia.
She thought to let that simmer awhile, and do a run on Wyst.
Then heard Peabody’s cowgirl clomp.
“Allen McKay’s on his way up.”
“Let’s take him in the lounge.” Eve pushed up from her desk. “Calvin Banner divorced his wife of nearly forty years and the mother of his daughter for a woman younger than said daughter. That’s the sort of thing that often brings on considerable annoyance.”
“Oh, you betcha. You think, maybe, if she knows something off about the company, that annoyance might convince her to share?”
“It’s a possibility. Why don’t you run her, Madeline Reece Banner, after we talk to McKay? It’ll go into the pile.”
“You got it.”
McKay stepped in, tall and slender in black. His hair was a wave of rich, deep blond around a smooth, handsome face dominated by ice-blue eyes. Those eyes held grief now, and stress.
“Mr. McKay?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to speak with a Lieutenant Dallas.”
“I’m Dallas.” Eve offered a hand. “Thank you for coming in. Detective Peabody and I will talk with you in the lounge. You’ll be more comfortable.”
At Eve’s gesture, he walked with them.
“I don’t think comfort’s on the books today. I don’t really know what to do. I don’t want to intrude on the family, but I want to help.”
“You’re helping right now,” Peabody told him. “Can I get you something? I’d offer coffee, but then I’d tell you to pass. It’s horrible. The tea’s okay. Soft drinks and water are your best bet.”
It put him a little more at ease, Eve noted. Just as Peabody intended.
“Could I get a Coke? We—my husband and I—were trying to cut down on caffeine. It’s not working, especially with a six-month-old.”
He sat at the little table, looked around. “I’ve never been in Cop Central before. It’s a maze. A really big one. So many people.” He shut his eyes. “I’m babbling. I just can’t find my balance.”
“You worked for the Chus for several years?”
“Almost nine. I started soon after Devin and I—my husband—moved to New York. I don’t want to say Larry was like a father to me. I have a father. I love my father. But he was still family. My employers, he and Rae, but family all the same.”
“You left the house at your usual time yesterday?”
“Yes. They—Larry and Rae—had plans for the evening with friends. I will often stay until five or after, just to make sure they have everything they need or want, but they were having dinner out.”
“Any problems between Mr. Chu and his wife?”