Within two minutes the elevator was jammed with cops, sad-eyed civilians, and a couple of shady characters Eve made as cops undercover.
But she stuck it out, telling herself the stupid elevator would be quicker than the glides.
“I got more names from Gwen Sykes—tight friends. We’re going to talk to them—in person or by ’link.”
“You think they’ll try for three?”
“We’re not going to risk it. Two go back to Yale where they and the two vics had a group house together. That may prove interesting. The other made pals with the senator when they were both in East Washington. Senator Fordham.”
She muscled off the elevator at her garage level, sucked in air. In the car she plugged in the Anson-Vine address, considered her options, then contacted Whitney as she drove out.
“Sir,” she began. “I had additions to the report I sent on Jonas Wymann. Peabody and I are en route to interview a person of interest. Earlier I spoke with Senator Mira’s daughter and she gave me three names, close friends of her father. While we will contact them, one is Senator Fordham. I believe his security detail and staff should be informed of a possible threat.”
“Agreed. I’ll see to it.”
“Commander, I may need to interview Fordham, and under the circumstances, I can’t be overly delicate about it.”
“Understood. But some delicacy will be called for. Either I or Chief Tibble will set up the interview if and when it’s necessary. I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jeez.” Peabody goggled. “You really think a sitting senator is involved in some sort of sex club? If that’s what’s going on. I mean . . . What am I saying?” Peabody shook her head. “Sex and politics, right?”
“I don’t think the sex has anything to do with politics. It’s brotherhood. It’s power. Do a run on the names I’ve got. Frederick Betz and Marshall Easterday. Both Yale alumni, same time frame as our two vics. All four sharing a house during college. Find out if Fordham went to Yale.”
She navigated traffic while Peabody worked, spied a street spot and bagged it.
“Betz,” Peabody told her. “As in Betz Chemicals—everything from household cleaners to rocket fuel. He’s third generation. Stands as current president. Currently on wife number three, who’s younger than his youngest daughter at twenty-nine. They’ve been married three years. He has four kids, including a three-year-old courtesy of the current wife.
“Why would a guy cruising seventy want to procreate?”
“Must I repeat?” Eve asked. “The penis.”
“Okay, the penis has no shame. Easterday, Marshall. Lawyer, and that’s third generation. Senior partner of Easterday, Easterday, and Louis. On wife number two, but that’s stuck for . . . fifteen years, and she’s actually fifty-two. Two kids, both from the first marriage. Daughter is the second Easterday in the firm. Son is a neurosurgeon in Philadelphia.”
“Okay, we’ll roll on them this morning.”
“And Fordham went to Ole Miss—no Yale connection.”
Eve got out of the car, studied the five-story building. The old post-Urban squat and square had been refaced, whitewashed. The double-wide entrance doors looked old in a rich, important way, but she noted on closer inspection they were reinforced steel, done up with some illusionary fancy paint.
The security was first-rate.
“Anson has the first floor.” Eve considered, pressed the buzzer for the main floor unit.
It took a minute, then a sleepy female voice came through the speaker. “It’s way too early for anything you’re selling.”
Eve held up her badge. “NYPSD,” she began.
“Mike? Is it Mike? Oh God.”
Before Eve could answer, the buzzer for the locks sounded. As she pushed open the door, a woman came flying out of a door at the end of a smart-looking foyer.
Heavily pregnant, barefoot, and clad in penguin-covered paj
amas, she moved with astonishing speed.
“Something happened to Mike.” She grabbed Eve’s shoulders in a vise-grip, her big brown eyes glassy with fear. “Tell me fast.”