“Try this.” Nadine leaned back, crossed her legs. “I’ve got you one more of Larinda’s marks.”
“Name?”
“Phoebe Michaelson.”
Not on Feeney’s list, Eve thought as she ran through it in her mind. “She’s a celebrity?”
“Not hardly. She’s an assistant to Larinda’s assistant.”
“Family money?”
“No.”
“Access to information then.”
“Bingo. Let me explain. I huddled my team together, told them the work was on the down low, gave them bare bones. One of them came to me privately. She told me she’d seen Phoebe with Larinda a couple of times, at a local bar. Huddled together, Phoebe close to tears. And she walked in the ladies’ room once as Larinda streamed out. Phoebe’s still inside, crying in a stall. She couldn’t get anything out of Phoebe but was smart enough, curious enough to keep her eyes and ears open. Mostly she figured they were having an affair, but it didn’t play that way. She’d see Phoebe slipping into Larinda’s office after hours. And the kicker is: Phoebe was promoted out of IT. She’s an e-geek.”
“When you want to dig, an e-shovel’s an excellent tool.”
“I pulled Phoebe into my office, started asking her a few questions. She broke in two minutes. I’m good,” Nadine said, “but not that good. She was ready to break. She’s terrified, Dallas, has been terrified.”
“What did Mars have on her?”
“You can ask her yourself. She’ll be here in about five minutes. I think it’s better if you hear the rest from her, and I’m counting on you not pushing for an arrest. She’s going to resign from Seventy-Five, or I’ll have to tell Bebe and she’ll be fired. No way out of that. But she’s not a criminal. She’s another victim.”
Nadine’s house computer gave a quiet ping.
Your visitor Phoebe Michaelso
n has arrived in the main lobby.
“Clear her up. She’s a little early.”
15
Phoebe Michaelson trembled as Nadine led her into the room with an arm around her waist. Her brown eyes, swollen and reddened from weeping, dominated her ghost-pale face.
She looked at Eve as if Eve routinely kicked little puppies off a bridge into a roiling river.
If Eve could have generated the classic picture of a patsy, she would have Phoebe’s face.
“Phoebe, this is Lieutenant Dallas and Roarke. You just have to tell them what you told me. You just have to answer their questions, tell the truth.”
“I know.” Her voice gave a little mouse squeak.
“How about a glass of wine?”
“I … I … Can I?”
“Sure. I’ll just—”
But Phoebe clung to Nadine’s hand, as if being kicked off the bridge into that roiling river along with the puppies, and stared fearfully at Eve.
“Why don’t I get that?” Roarke rose. “Nobody’s here to hurt you, Phoebe,” he said, before leaving the room.
Tears plopped onto Phoebe’s cheeks. Nadine steered her toward a sofa, sat with her.
“I’m going to record this,” Eve began, “and read you your rights.” At Phoebe’s broken gasp, Eve let out a breath. “It’s procedure, and it’s to protect you. Nadine’s right about telling the truth. It’ll help us, and you. You have the right to remain silent,” she began.