ted out. “Buzzed the killer in?”
“The security feed should tell us. However he got inside the building, she answers the door.”
She imagined it, Bastwick in her swanky at-home wear, going to the door. Look through the security peep first, check the monitor?
Why have good security if you didn’t use it? Used it, Eve concluded, felt no threat. Opened the door.
“He takes her down,” she continued. “Drags or carries her.”
“Or she took him back?” Peabody suggested. “A lover maybe?”
“She’s got a meeting. She doesn’t have time for sex. Not wearing sex clothes, no face enhancements. Could’ve forced her back, but it doesn’t feel like it. Nothing disturbed. Nothing out of place.”
Eve paused there, went back in, studied Bastwick’s feet, still cased in silvery slippers. “No scuffs on the heels. She wasn’t dragged.”
“Carried her, then.” Peabody, lips pursed in her square face, gauged the distance from living area to bedroom. “If he did take her down in here, it’s a good distance to cart her. Why?”
“Yeah, why? No overt signs of sexual assault. Maybe he re-dressed her after, but . . . Morris will tell us. Killer gets her onto the bed. No sign she was gagged, but the ME will check that, too. He kills her while she’s still out or stunned. Quick, cuts out her tongue to prove a point, writes the message so I’ll know what a favor he did for me, then gets out.
“Let’s talk to the admin, then review the discs. I want to go over this place before we call in the sweepers.”
• • •
Cecil Haversham looked like his name. Formal with a side of dapper. He wore his hair white, short, and Caesarean, which suited the natty, perfectly trimmed goatee. The center leg pleats on his stone-gray three-piece suit looked sharp enough to draw blood.
Distress emanated from him in apologetic waves as he sat on a curved-back chair at the side of the lipstick-red dining table with his hands neatly folded.
Eve nodded to the uniform to dismiss her, then rounded to the head of the table with Peabody taking the chair opposite their witness.
“Mr. Haversham, I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody. I understand this is a difficult time for you.”
“It’s very disturbing.” His voice carried the faintest whiff of British upper class, though Eve’s quick run on him gave his birthplace as Toledo, Ohio.
“How long have you worked for Ms. Bastwick?”
“Nearly two years as her administrative assistant. Prior I served as Mr. Vance Collier’s—of Swan, Colbreck, Collier and Ives—admin.”
“And how did you come into her employ?”
“She offered me the position, at a considerable increase in salary and benefits. And I felt moving into criminal law from corporate and tax law would be . . . more stimulating.”
“As her admin, you’d be privy to her case files, her clients, and her social engagements.”
“Yes, of course. Ms. Bastwick is . . . was a very busy woman, professionally and personally. Part of my duties is to arrange her schedule, keep her calendar, make certain her time was well managed.”
“Do you know of anyone who’d wish Ms. Bastwick harm?”
“As a criminal defense attorney, she made enemies, of course. Prosecuting attorneys, clients who felt she hadn’t performed adequately—which would be nonsense, of course—and those individuals represented by the prosecution. Even some police.”
He gave Eve a steady if slightly distressed look. “It would be the nature of her work, you see.”
“Yeah. Does anyone stand out?”
“I’ve been asking myself that as I sat here, digesting it all. There have been threats, of course. We keep a file, which I’d be happy to have copied for you if the firm clears it. But nothing stands out in this way. In this tragic way. Ms. Bastwick always said that if nobody threatened her or called her . . . unattractive names, she wasn’t doing her job. I must say, Lieutenant, Detective, you must often find yourself in that same position. The work you do creates enemies, particularly, one would think, if you do it well.”
“Can’t argue there.” Eve sat back. “Take me through it. When did you become concerned about Ms. Bastwick, and what did you do?”
“I became concerned, very concerned, this morning. I arrive at the offices at eight-fifteen, routinely. This provides me time to check any messages, the daily schedule, prepare any necessary notes or documents for the morning appointments. Unless Ms. Bastwick is in court or has an early outside appointment, she arrives between eight-thirty and eight-forty. When I arrived this morning, there was a message from Misters Chance Warren and Zane Quirk. Ms. Bastwick had a dinner meeting with them last night, eight o’clock at Monique’s on Park. The message came in at nine-oh-three last evening. The clients were somewhat irritated that Ms. Bastwick hadn’t arrived.”