“Are you acquainted with Marta Dickenson?”
“Doesn’t strike a bell. Tuva?”
“She was the auditor from Brewer, Kyle, and Martini. She was killed.”
“Oh. Right.” He maneuvered his face into serious lines for a moment. “Old Man Brewer called me personally about that. Slipped my mind. She wasn’t the original auditor. That was . . .”
“Chaz Parzarri,” Tuva supplied as she brought out a tray of coffee.
“Right. Nice guy. He had some kind of accident. Bad luck for Brewer and the rest.”
“Can you tell me where you were night before last from nine to midnight?”
“Night before last?” He looked as if she’d asked where he’d been five years before, on a Tuesday, at two-fifteen sharp.
“You attended Poker Night at your club. Your driver picked you up at seven,” Tuva told him.
“Right, right. I couldn’t win a damn thing. Just tanked, but what the hell, all for a good cause.”
“What time did you leave the club?” Eve asked.
“I’m not sure. Since I got my butt kicked, I left early. Maybe nine-thirty or ten.”
“And you went home.”
“Well, no.” He glanced at Tuva, shrugged. “I went by Tuva’s place. I could tell you we worked late, but, hell, we’re all adults here. I’m not sure when I left.”
Color high, Tuva stood very straight. “At just before one in the morning.”
“She’d know.” He offered that quick, crooked grin, another wink. “No big deal. We’re both single. Hey, Ty, come meet the city’s own Lieutenant Dallas and Peabody.”
Another poster boy, dark to Young-Sachs’s light with the broody, sulky looks some women found as appealing as the crooked grin. He dropped down in a chair as if exhausted.
“Tuva, how about another cup here? I could use some coffee.” He gave Eve a subtle smirk. “So, hunting for clones?”
“For killers,” she countered. “Marta Dickenson’s killers.”
“Who?”
Once again, Tuva gave the information, and brought the fresh cup.
“I don’t see what that has to do with me—us. Sorry about the woman, but they’ll just put another number-cruncher on it.”
“I’d like your whereabouts from nine to midnight, night before last.”
He rolled his eyes, but pulled out his date book. “I took the corporate shuttle down to South Beach, to a party. You wanted to do that poker thing,” he said to Young-Sachs. “Said you were feeling lucky. He lost.” Biden jerked a thumb at his associate. “I got lucky. Came back about ten yesterday morning.”
“We’ll need to verify both of your alibies.”
“Over some accountant?” For the first time, Biden showed some interest and annoyance.
“Yes, over some accountant who was, at the time of her murder, conducting an audit on your company, and whose office was broken into last night. Her copies of your files were taken.”
“For crap’s sake. That can’t be good.” As if unsure, Young-Sachs looked at Tuva.
“You would be wise to immediately inform your financial advisers and your lawyers,” Tuva began. “To change all passcodes, to—”
“What the hell kind of dick-all security do they have over at . . . Where the hell is it?”