Loyalty In Death Part 4

He stroked a hand over her hair in a way that made Eve think of relationships again. Some weren't about s.e.x or power or control. Some were just about love.

"I got a commission to custom-build cabinets from these people who saw my work back in Arizona." "That's great. How long will it take?" "Don't know till they're done."

"Okay, well, you'll stay at my place. I'll get you the key and tell you how to get there. You'll take the subway." She gnawed her lip. "Don't go wandering around, Zeke. It's not like home. Are you carrying your money and ID in your back pocket, because -- "

"Peabody." Eve held up a finger for attention. "Take the rest of the day on personal time, get your brother settled in." "I don't want to be any trouble,"

Zeke began.

"You'll be more trouble if she's worried about you getting mugged six times before you get to her apartment." Eve added a smile to soften it, though she'd already decided the guy had M for mark all over his face. "Things are slow here, anyway."

"The Cooke case."

"I think I can handle it solo," Eve said mildly. "Anything pops, I'll tag you. Go show Zeke the wonders of New York."

"Thanks, Dallas." Peabody took her brother's hand, vowing that she'd make sure he didn't see the seamier side of those wonders. "Nice to've met you, Lieutenant."

"You, too." She watched them go off, Zeke bending his body slightly toward Peabody as she bubbled with sisterly affection. Families, Eve mused. They continued to baffle her. But it was nice to see that, occasionally, they worked. "Everyone loved J.C." Chris Tipple, Branson's executive a.s.sistant, was a man of about thirty with hair approximately the same shade as the swollen red rims of his eyes. Even now he wept unashamedly, tears trickling down his chubby, pleasant face. "Everyone."

Which might have been the problem, Eve mused, and waited once again while Chris scrubbed his cheeks with his crumpled handkerchief. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"It's just impossible to believe he won't come through that door." His breath hitched as he stared at the closed door of the big, bright office suite. "Ever again. Everyone's in shock. When B. D. made the announcement this morning, no one could speak."

He pressed the handkerchief to his mouth as if his voice had failed him again.

B. Donald Branson, the victim's brother and partner, Eve knew, and waited for Chris to finish. "You want some water, Chris? A soother?"

"I've taken a soother. It doesn't seem to help. We were very close." Mopping his streaming eyes, Chris didn't notice Eve's look of consideration. "You had a personal relationship?"

"Oh yes. I'd been with J. C. for nearly eight years. He was much more than my employer. He was... he was like a father to me. Pardon me." Obviously overcome, he buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. J. C. wouldn't want me to fall apart this way. It doesn't help. But I can't -- I don't think any of us can take it in. We're closing down for a week. The whole operation. Offices, factories, everything. The memorial..." He trailed off, struggling. "The memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow."

"Quick."

"J. C. wouldn't have wanted it to be drawn out. How could she have done it?"

He fisted the damp cloth in his hand, staring blindly at Eve. "How could she have done it, Lieutenant? J. C. adored her."

"You know Lisbeth Cooke?" "Of course."

He rose to pace, and Eve could only be grateful. It was difficult to watch a grown man grieve while he was sitting in a chair shaped like a pink elephant. Then again, she was sitting in a purple kangaroo.

It was obvious, with one look at the late J. Clarence Branson's office, that he'd enjoyed indulging in his own toys. The shelves lining one wall were loaded with them, from the simple remote-control s.p.a.ce station to the series of mult.i.task minidroids.

Eve did her best not to look at their lifeless eyes and small-scale bodies. It was too easy to imagine them popping to life and... well, G.o.d knew what.

"Tell me about her, Chris."

"Lisbeth." He sighed heavily, then in an absent gesture adjusted the sunshade tint on the wide window behind the desk. "She's a beautiful woman. You'd have seen that for yourself. Smart, capable, ambitious. Demanding, but J. C.

didn't mind that. He told me once if he didn't have a demanding woman, he'd end up puttering and playing his life away." "They spent a lot of time together?"

"Two evenings a week, sometimes three. Wednesdays and Sat.u.r.days were standard -- dinner with theater or a concert. Any social event that required his presence or hers, and Monday lunch -- twelve-thirty to two. A three-week vacation every August wherever Lisbeth wanted to go, and five weekend getaways through the year."

"Sounds pretty regimented."

"Lisbeth insisted on that. She wanted conditions spelled out and obligations on both sides clear-cut and in order. I think she understood J. C's mind tended to wander, and she wanted his full attention when they were together."

"Any other part of him tend to wander?" "Excuse me?"

"Was J. C. involved with anyone else?" "Involved -- romantically? Absolutely not." "How about just s.e.xually?"

Chris's round face stiffened, the puffy eyes went cool. "If you're insinuating that J. Clarence Branson was unfaithful to the woman he'd made a commitment to, nothing could be more false. He was devoted to her. And he was loyal."

"You can be sure of that? Without question?"

"I made all of his arrangements, all professional and personal appointments."

"Couldn't he have made some of his own, on the side?"

"It's insulting." Chris's voice rang out. "The man is dead, and you're sitting there accusing him of being a liar and a cheat."

"I'm not accusing him of anything," Eve corrected calmly. "I'm asking. It's my responsibility to ask, Chris. And to get him whatever justice I can."

"I don't like how you go about it." He turned away again. "J. C. was a good man, an honest man. I knew him, his habits, his moods. He wouldn't have entered into some illicit affair, and certainly couldn't have done so without my knowledge."

"Okay, so tell me about Lisbeth Cooke. What would she have to gain by killing him?"

"I don't know. He treated her like a princess, gave her everything she could possibly want. She killed the golden goose." "The what?"

"Like in the story." He nearly smiled now. "The goose that laid the golden eggs. He was happy to give her whatever she wanted, and more. Now he's dead. No more golden eggs."

Unless, Eve thought as she left the office, she'd wanted all the eggs at one time.

She knew as she already consulted the animated map in the lobby that B.

Donald Branson's office was at the opposite end of this level from his brother's. Hoping to find him in, she headed down. Many of the stations were unmanned, most of the gla.s.s doors locked with the offices behind them dark and empty.

The building itself seemed to be grieving.

At regular intervals, holograph screens were set up to show off Branson Tools and Toys' new or favored products. She stopped at one, watching with equal parts amus.e.m.e.nt and dismay as a uniformed beat cop action-droid returned a lost child to his tearfully grateful mother.

The cop faced the screen, its face sober and trustworthy, his uniform as severely pressed as Peabody's. "It's our job to serve and protect."

Then the image pulled back, spun slowly to give the viewer a three-sixty view of the product and accessories while the computer's voice stated product and pricing details. A street thief action-droid with airskates was offered as a companion piece.

Shaking her head, Eve turned away. She wondered if the company produced LC droid figures, or illegals dealers. Maybe a couple of psychopaths just to keep the game interesting. Then, of course, you'd need victim-droids.

Jesus.

The clear gla.s.s doors opened as Eve approached. A pale and weary-eyed woman manned a sleek U-shaped console and fielded calls on a privacy headset.

"Thank you very much. Your call is being recorded and your condolences will be pa.s.sed on to the family. Mr. Branson's memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow, at two o'clock at Quiet Pa.s.sages, Central Park South. Yes, it's a great shock. A great loss. Thank you for calling."

She swiveled the mouthpiece aside and offered Eve a sober smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Branson isn't available. These offices will be closed until Tuesday of next week."

Eve took out her badge. "I'm primary on his brother's homicide. Is he in?"

"Oh, Lieutenant." The woman touched her fingers briefly to her eyes, then rose. "One moment, please."

She slipped gracefully from behind the console, then after a quick knock on a tall white door, disappeared inside. Eve heard the soft beep of incoming calls from the multiline 'link, then the door opened again.

"Please come in, Lieutenant. Mr. Branson will see you. Is there anything I can get you?" "No, I'm fine."

She entered the office. The first thing she noticed was that it was dramatically opposed to J. C.'s. This was cool colors, sleek lines, rich sophistication. No silly animal chairs or grinning droid dolls. Here the muted grays and blues were designed to soothe. And the wide surface of the desk, uncluttered with gadgets, clear for business.

B. Donald Branson stood behind that desk. He didn't have the bulk of his brother but was slim in a sleekly tailored suit. His hair was a dull gold, slicked back from a high forehead. Eyebrows, thick and peaked, were shades darker over tired eyes of pale green.

"Lieutenant Dallas, it's kind of you to come in person." His voice was as quiet and soothing as the room. "I meant to contact you, to thank you for your kindness when you called last night to inform me of my brother's death."

"I'm sorry to intrude at this time, Mr. Branson."