“If the security guy knows, the office knows,” Peabody pointed out.
“Yeah, kills the element of surprise.”
“And makes it just a little less awful.”
Not so much, Eve thought when the elevator doors opened. She heard someone weeping, the sound muffled behind a closed door. The two people—one man, one woman—behind the reception desk stood, holding each other.
No one sat in the dignified—and boring—cream and brown waiting area.
The woman eased away, made an obvious effort to compose herself. “I’m very sorry, all appointments are canceled for today. We’ve had a death in the family.”
“I’m aware.” Eve took out her badge.
“You’re here about Marta.”
“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody. We’re investigating her death. We need to speak with Sylvester Gibbons.”
“Of course. Yes.” She pulled some tissues out of a holder. “Marcus?”
“I’ll get him, right away.” The man dashed off.
“Would you like to sit down? Or coffee? I mean would you like some coffee?”
“We’re good. How well did you know Ms. Dickenson?”
“Very well. I think very well.” She dabbed at her eyes. “We—we took an exercise class together, twice a week. And we talked every day, I mean every workday. I can’t believe this happened! She’s careful, and it’s a good area. She wouldn’t have fought or argued with a mugger.” Tears welled and overflowed again. “They didn’t have to hurt her.”
“Has anyone been in asking about her?”
“No.”
“Have there been any problems between her and someone in the office, someone in the firm
?”
“No. I’d know, you hear everything on the desk. This is a good company. We get along.”
Nobody got along all the time, but Eve let it slide. “How about a client, any trouble, complaints?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“People don’t like being audited. Has anyone caused any trouble about that, about the work she did?”
“Legal handles that sort of thing. I don’t understand. She was mugged, so—”
“It’s routine,” Eve said. “We need to be thorough.”
“Of course. Of course. I’m sorry. I’m so upset.” She choked on the words as she dug out fresh tissues. “We got to be pretty good friends with the class we took.”
“Did she talk about her work with you, about the audits?”
“Marta wouldn’t gossip about an audit. It’s unprofessional. And if she’d gossiped, it probably would’ve been with me. You get, well, loose, when you’re sweating together. And sometimes we’d go have a drink after—a reward. We talked about our kids, and clothes, and that sort of thing. Men—husbands.” She smiled weakly. “Neither of us wanted to talk about work when we were out of the office.”
“Okay.”
“I—oh, Sly!” She said the syllable on a smothered wail, then dropped down in her chair, covered her face with her hands.
“Nat.” A stringy man with flyway blond hair and watery blue eyes stepped around the reception desk, patted the woman on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go home?”