“Sure, until you start wondering what’s creeping behind those trees, or slithering along in the grass.”
Peabody shifted uncomfortably. “Some people think bounding instead of creeping, as in pretty little fawns, and frolicking as opposed to slithering, like cute little bunnies.”
“Some people are fools. Let’s entertain ourselves, Peabody, and start a run on Bruberry. And one on Cavendish.”
“It could be fawns and bunnies,” Peabody muttered, and took out her PPC to do the runs.
Moments later, Bruberry stepped out of another door. Her back was poker straight, her tone cool and aloof. “Mr. Cavendish will see you now. Ten minutes.”
10
FROM CHURCH TO MUSEUM, EVE THOUGHT, THEN through the door into the men’s club.
Walter Cavendish presided over an office with wide-armed, port-colored leather chairs and sofas, and dark, heavy woods. The carpets were thickly padded Orientals, likely the real deal, in rich tones and complex patterns. Amber liquid swam in thick crystal decanters that would have doubled as very effective murder weapons.
A trim black data and communication center stood alongside leather and brass accessories that were arranged just so on the antique desk where Cavendish sat looking prosperous, tailored—and to Eve’s gauge—nervy.
He was in his early fifties, with a good head of the hair people called sandy in men, mousey in women. His face was ruddy, his eyes a light blue that skipped over Eve’s face, then over her shoulder. His suit was a muted brown with just a hint of a gold stripe to show he liked a little pizzazz.
He rose, and his not-quite-handsome face set in solemn lines. “I’d like to see some identification.” He spoke, to Eve’s mind, in the rounded, fruity tones of a hammy Shakespearean actor.
Both she and Peabody took out badges. “Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve said, “and Detective Peabody. Looks like your meeting broke up. Funny, we didn’t see anyone leave.”
He looked momentarily confused, and those nervous eyes slid to Bruberry even as the admin spoke.
“It was a ’link conference.”
“Ye
s, a ’link conference. With London.”
“That’s handy.” She kept her eyes on Cavendish in a way that told him she knew he was already lying. “Since you’ve got a few minutes now, we have some questions in connection with an investigation.”
“So I’m told.” He gestured, started to sit. When he didn’t offer a hand, Eve shot hers out deliberately. She wanted the feel of his.
He hesitated, and she saw his gaze dart toward his admin yet again before he took Eve’s hand in his.
A little soft, she noted, a little damp.
“What’s the nature of your investigation?”
“Homicide. Natalie Copperfield and Bick Byson. Are those names familiar to you?”
“No.”
“You don’t watch the media reports, I take it. Don’t scan the newspapers.” She flicked a glance of her own toward a wall screen framed in the dark wood that dominated the room. “These individuals were murdered three nights ago in their respective residences. Both were employed by the accounting firm of Sloan, Myers, and Kraus. And funnily enough, Natalie Copperfield handled the accounts for your home operation. But that name doesn’t ring for you?”
“I don’t retain the names of everyone I might hear of or read of. I’m a very busy man. As far as accounting, Ellyn—my assistant—deals with that area.”
“I’m aware of Ms. Copperfield,” Bruberry stated. “What does her death have to do with this firm?”
“At this point, I’ll be asking the questions,” Eve said coolly. “Where were you, Mr. Cavendish, three nights ago between the hours of midnight and four A.M.?”
“At home, in bed. With my wife.”
Eve lifted her eyebrows. “You can’t remember the names of two people who’ve been all over the media reports, but you know—without a second’s hesitation or without checking your book—where you were three nights ago?”
“At home,” he said again. “In bed.”