“No, I did not. I’m puzzled why you believe or suspect that what happened to them has anything to do with Sloan, Myers, and Kraus.”
“I haven’t told you what I believe or suspect,” Eve said evenly. “Investigating all areas of their lives, their movements, their communications, is standard and routine.”
“Of course.”
The car stopped, and once again he gestured Eve ahead of him.
Here was the power center, she realized. As was so often the case, power—like heat—rose to the top.
A wall of glass with a pale gold sheen let in the city with a gilded light that made statements of industry and wealth. Plush carpeting of deep red was bordered with dark, thick wood. There was no reception area here, no waiting alcove. Eve imagined any client worthy of this floor would never be expected to check in or cool heels.
Instead there was a seating area of lush sofas, thick tables, obviously arranged for informal or personal chats. It boasted a small, stylish bar where she assumed the tony clients could request their drink of choice.
Space and silence were the watchwords here. Office doors were few and distant, and all were dominated by an inner wall of that golden glass. Kraus escorted her over to the wall, subtly waving a hand in front of a small security eye. Glass whisked open to reveal the large conference room behind it.
With the city rising behind them, the other two partners sat at a mile-long table.
The younger, Carl Myers, rose. His black suit was softened by a thin silver chalk stripe. There was a black mourning band around the left sleeve. His hair was a wavy, medium brown brushed high off his forehead. His eyes, a soft hazel, met Eve’s directly as he came around the table and extended his hand.
“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m Carl Myers. We’re sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances.”
“I meet most people under tragic circumstances.”
“Of course.” He never missed a beat. Handsome, fit, he gestured toward the head of the table where Jacob Sloan sat. “Please, have a seat. Is there anything we can get for you?”
“No, thanks.”
“Jacob Sloan, Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Roarke’s cop.”
&nbs
p; It was a term she was used to now, even when it was said with a hint of derision. Still, she tapped the badge she’d hooked on her belt. “This makes me the NYPSD’s cop.”
He acknowledged that with a faint lift of silver eyebrows. He struck her as honed, face and body, as though he whittled himself down to sheer power. His eyes were stone gray, his suit stark black. Like his face, his body, his hands were thin but with a look of steely strength.
He didn’t offer one to Eve.
“You, as a representative of the police department, are infringing on the rights of our clients.”
“Somebody really infringed the hell out of the rights of Natalie Copperfield and Bick Byson.”
His mouth tightened, but his eyes never wavered. “This firm takes both of those difficult circumstances very seriously. The death of two of our employees—”
“Murder,” Eve corrected.
“As you say,” he agreed with a nod. “The murder of two of our employees is shocking and tragic, and we will cooperate with your investigation to the letter of the law.”
“Not much choice there, Mr. Sloan. How about the spirit of it?”
“Please, let me get you some coffee,” Myers began.
“I don’t want any coffee.”
“The spirit of the law is subjective, isn’t it?” Sloan continued. “Your concept of it may very well veer from mine, and certainly is bound to veer from our clients’—who expect, who demand, that we protect their privacy. The circumstances of this terrible thing will reverberate throughout this firm. The concern that sensitive financial data will be viewed by eyes not cleared by this firm to do so will distress our clients. I’m sure as the wife of a powerful, influential, and wealthy man, you understand that.”
“First, I’m not here as anyone’s wife but as the primary investigator of a double murder. Second, the distress of your clients, whoever they may be, isn’t a priority for me.”