“Gee,” Peabody said when they walked outside. “He seemed so nice!”
Eve had to laugh. “A pillar of his community. Contact BSC.”
“Really?”
“Really. He could kill,” Eve said flatly. “His five-year-old daughter had a concussion, three broken fingers, and a dislocated shoulder because he thinks he can do what he wants to his own flesh and blood.”
It burned in her, burned because she’d seen hints of Richard Troy—who’d thought he could do what he wanted to his own flesh and blood—in Feingold.
“In a drunk,” Eve continued, “he could pound somebody to death, pick up a sticker, slice them. But he’s far too stupid to think of something as elaborate as shipping nerve agents. That doesn’t mean he deserves to squat in that filthy hole of his getting free rent from some slumlord who doesn’t give a shit how people live.”
“This makes me feel better,” Peabody decided as she pulled out her ’link.
* * *
The building in SoHo might have been a universe away from the one on Avenue C. Well maintained, it boasted a street-level restaurant where customers sat at sidewalk tables and waitstaff in fitted vests over white shirts hustled out with drinks and plates. The entrance door, painted a quiet beige, boasted solid security. Rather than mastering in, Eve pressed the buzzer for Victoria Abner-Rufty and Gregory Brickman’s loft.
A male voice—not computerized—answered.
“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”
“Yes, come right up.”
The door released.
Though she found the entranceway well maintained, Eve still took the stairs.
A man stood at the open door of the second-level unit. He looked exhausted. A well-built, mixed-race man in his late thirties worked up a polite smile that didn’t reach his quiet brown eyes.
“Greg Brickman.” He offered his hand to both of them. “I’m Tori’s husband—Kent’s son-in-law. Please come in. Thanks for calling ahead,” he added. “It’s given Marty a little time to compose himself. He’s back in the kitchen with Tori. Ah, Marcus and Landa—that’s Tori’s brother and his wife—they’re upstairs. They’re working on the … the arrangements. We, ah, sent all the kids out to the park with the nanny. I hope that’s all right. We just felt it would be better if … if they were out while you talk to Marty.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Brickman.”
“Greg. It’s a horrible time. We’re, none of us, doing very well. If you’d wait, I’ll go get Marty.”
The living area, comfortable, cheerful, had its wide window overlooking the street and the artistic hustle of the area. Like her fathers’ home, the daughter’s displayed a lot of family pictures, some good art, a sense of color and style without being too fussy about it.
Greg brought his father-in-law out along with a woman who had her dead father’s athletic build, a messy tail of brown hair, a grief-stricken face devoid of enhancements.
“This is my daughter, Victoria.” Rufty clung to her hand. “I don’t … Marcus?”
“He and Landa are upstairs. Do you want me to get them?” Greg asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t seem to think more than a minute ahead.”
“I’ll get them.”
“Come on, Daddy, let’s sit.” Tori led him to the sofa, sat close by his side. “Do you have any news for us? I’m sorry,” she interrupted herself. “Please sit down. I should offer you something. Daddy, why don’t I make you some tea.”
“We’re fine. We’re sorry to intrude at this difficult time,” Eve began.
“You were kind yesterday. I remember you were kind. Everyone’s been kind. Seldine said you told her she could call, she could come. She’s family. We’re grateful.”
“Dr. Rufty,” Peabody said, “I’m sure you know, but I’d like to say that everyone we talked to in Dr. Abner’s office spoke so highly of him, and with such warmth.”
“Thank you for that.”
Greg came back with another man and a woman. The son took his build from his other father. Tall, gangly, with Rufty’s eyes blurry with fatigue, he moved to Rufty’s other side as his wife took a chair.