Imitation in Death (9 page)

The flags still waved, a colorful symbol, Eve supposed, of man's willingness to get together and talk about the problems of humanity. And occasionally do something about them.

Even with their names on the visitors' list, she and Peabody went through a series of checkpoints. At the first, they surrendered their weapons, a requirement that always made Eve twitchy.

Their badges were scanned, their fingerprints verified. Peabody's bag was scanned, then hand-searched. All electronics, including 'links, PPCs, and communicators, were taken through analysis.

They passed through a metal detector, an incendiary device detector, a weapon identifier, and a body scanner, all before being cleared through entry level.

"Okay," Eve declared. "Maybe they've got to be careful, but I'm drawing the line at a cavity search."

"Some of these security levels were added after the Cassandra incident." Peabody stepped with Eve and a uniformed guard into a bomb-proof elevator.

"Next time we need to talk to Renquist, he comes to us."

They were escorted off the elevator and directly to another checkpoint where they were scanned, analyzed, and verified again.

They were passed from the guard to a female aide who was equally military in bearing. The aide's retina scan and voice command unlocked a' bomb door. Through it, they moved from paranoid security to daily business.

It was a hive of offices, but a very big hive with very efficient chambers. Here, the high-level drones wore conservative suits and headsets, with heels that clicked briskly on tiled floors. The windows were triple-sealed and equipped with air-traffic detectors that would slam down impact shields at any threat. But they let in the light and a decent view of the river.

A tall, thin man in unrelieved gray nodded at the aide, smiled at Eve.

"Lieutenant Dallas, I'm Thomas Newkirk, personal assistant to Mr. Renquist. I'll escort you from here."

"Some security you've got here, Mr. Newkirk " She spotted cameras and motion sensors along the corridor. Eyes and ears everywhere, she thought. Who could work that way?

He followed the track of her gaze. "You stop noticing. Just a' price to be paid for safety and freedom."

"Uh-huh." He had a square face, a jaw so sharp and straight it might have been sliced off. with a sword. Very pale, very cool blue eyes and a ruddy complexion under short, bristly-sandy hair.

He walked very erect, with a purposeful stride, his arms straight at his sides.

"You former military?"

"Captain, RAF. Mr. Renquist has a number of former military on staff." He used a key card to access another door, and Renquist's suite of offices.

"Just one moment, please."

While she waited, Eve studied the area. Another warren of rooms , most separated by glass panels so that the staffers were exposed to each other, and the cameras. It didn't seem to bother them as they worked away at keyboards or headsets.

She glanced in the direction Newkirk had taken and saw that it ended in -a closed door with Renquist's name on it.

It opened, and Newkirk stepped out again. "Mr. Renquist will see you now, Lieutenant."

It was a l qt of buildup for an ordinary man, which was her first impression of Renquist. He stood behind a long, dark desk that might have been wood, might have been old, with an East River view at his back.

He was tall, with the kind of build that told her he used a health center regularly or paid good money to a body sculptor. She also figured his build was wasted in the dull gray suit, though the suit had probably cost him a great deal.

He was attractive enough, if you went for the polished and distinguished type. He was fair-skinned, fair-haired with a prominent nose and a wide forehead.

His eyes, a kind of sooty gray, were his best feature, and met hers directly.

His voice was clipped, and oh-so-British she expected crumpets-whatever the hell they were--to come popping out of his mouth along with the words.

"Lieutenant Dallas, I'm very pleased to meet you. I've read and heard quite a bit about you already." He held out a hand, and she was treated to a firm, dry, politician's shake. "I believe we met once, some time back, at a charity function''

"So I'm told."

"Please have a seat." He gestured, and sat behind his desk. "Tell me what I can do for you."

She sat in a sturdy cloth chair. Not a comfortable one, she noted. Busy man, can't have people sitting around in his office taking up too much of his time.

His desk was another hive of industry. The data and communication system with the screen blinking on hold, a short stack of discs, another stack of paper, the second 'link. Among the work was a duet of framed photographs. She could see a slice of a young girl's face and curly hair-both fair like her father's-and assumed the other shot would be of his wife.

She knew enough about politics and protocol to at least start out playing the game. "I'd like to thank you, for myself and on behalf of the NYPSD for your cooperation. I know you're extremely busy and appreciate you taking the time to speak with me."

"I believe strongly in assisting the local authorities, wherever I am. The U.N. - is, on an elemental level, the world's police force. In a way, we're in the same profession, you and I. How can I help you?"

"A woman named Jacie Wooton was murdered the night before last. I'm the primary investigator."

"Yes, I heard of the killing." He leaned back, but his eyebrows lowered. "A licensed companion, in the Chinatown district."

"Yes, sir. In the course of my investigation, I've had reason to research and trace a certain brand of stationery. You purchased this brand of writing paper six weeks ago in London."

"I was in London this summer for a few days, and did, indeed, buy stationery. Several different types, as I recall. Some for personal use, some for gifts. Am I to understand that this purchase makes me a suspect in this woman's death?"

He was cool, she thought. More intrigued than worried or annoyed. And, if she wasn't mistaking that faint curve of mouth, he was a little amused. "In order to expedite my investigation, I need to check all the names of purchasers, and verify their whereabouts on the night in question."

"I see. Lieutenant, can I assume this line of investigation is secure and discreet? Having my name linked, however loosely, with a licensed companion and a murder would generate considerable unwanted media attention on myself, on Delegate Evans."

"The name won't be made public." ,

"All right. Night before last?"

"Between midnight and three."

He didn't reach for his book, but instead steepled his fingers, watched Eve over the tips. "My wife and I attended the theater. A production of Six Weeks by William Gantry, a British playwright. At Lincoln Center. We were in the company of two other couples, left the theater at about eleven, then had a post-theater drink at Renoir's. I believe we left there, my wife and I, around midnight. We'd have been home by twelve-thirty. My wife went to bed, and I worked in my home office for perhaps an hour. It might've been a little longer. Following habit, I would have watched about thirty minutes of news, then retired for the night."

"Did you see or speak with anyone after your wife went to bed?"

"I'm afraid I didn't. I can only tell you that I was home, tending to my work when this murder took place. I'm confused how buying this paper connects me to this woman, or her death."

"Her killer wrote a note on that stationery."

"A note." Now Renquist's eyebrows lifted. "Well. That was rather arrogant of him, wasn't it?"

"He's not really covered for the time of the murder either," Peabody pointed out as they walked back to the car.

"That's the problem when somebody buys it at two in the morning. Most of the suspects are going to claim they were home, innocently tucked into their own beds. They got their own security, or a way around hotel or apartment security, it's tough to call them a stinking liar."

"Do you think he is a stinking liar?'

"It's early yet."

She tracked Elliot Hawthorne down on the eleventh hole of a private club on Long Island. He was a sturdy, tough man, with a shock' of white hair fluttering around under a tan cap, matched by the luxurious white mustache that set off his tanned face. There were lines scored around his mouth, fanned out from his eyes, but the eyes themselves were sharp and clear as he drove the ball off the tee.

He passed the driver back to his caddy, hopped in a small white cart, then signaled for Eve to join him. "Talk fast" was all he said as he sent the cart zipping forward.

She did, giving him the details as Peabody and the caddy followed on foot.

"Dead whore, fancy writing paper." He gave a little grunt as he stopped the cart. "Used whores from time to time, never.. kept track of their names." He jumped out, circled his ball, studied the lay. "Got a young wife, don't need whores now. Don't remember the paper. You got a young wife, you buy all sorts of useless shit. London?"

"Yes."

"August. London, Paris, Milan. I still got my fingers in some business, and she likes to shop. If you say I bought the paper, I bought the paper. So what?"

"It's tied to the murder. If you could tell me where you were between midnight and three, night before last-"

He let out a bark of laughter, stood from where he'd crouched by the ball and gave her his full attention. "Young lady, I'm more than seventy. I'm fit, but I need my sleep. I play eighteen holes every morning, and before I do, I have a good breakfast, read the paper, and check the stock reports. I'm up every morning at seven. I'm in bed every night by eleven unless my wife drags me out to some shindig. Night before last I was in bed by eleven, and after making love to my wife-a process that doesn't take as long as it once didI was asleep. Can't prove it, of course."

He brushed her back, turned to the caddy. "Gimme the seven iron, Tony."

She watched him set, sight, then smack the ball into a pretty arch. It bounced on the green and rolled to within about five feet of the cup.

From Hawthorne's wide grin, she assumed it was a good shot.

"I'd like to speak with your wife."

He shrugged, handed the club, back to the caddy. "Go ahead. She's over at the courts. Got a tennis lesson today."

Darla Hawthorne was dancing around on a. shaded court in a candy pink romper with a flippy skirt. She was doing more dancing than actual connecting with the ball, but she looked damn good doing so. She was built like a teenager's wet dream, lots of soft, jiggling breast barely contained, and long, long legs shown off by the little skirt and matching pink shoes.

She was so evenly tanned, she might have been painted.

Her hair, which must have hit her waist when unrestrained, was tied back in a ribbon pink, natch-and scooped through the hole in her little pink visor. It swung happily back and forth as she pranced over the court and missed the bright yellow ball.

When she bent over to retrieve it, Eve was treated to the sight of her heart-shaped butt in tight, high-cut panties under the skirt.

Her instructor, a hunky guy with lots of streaky hair and white teeth, called out direction and encouragement.

At one point, he came over to stand behind her, nuzzling her back against him as he adjusted her swing. She sent him a big, lash- fluttering smile over her shoulder.

"Mrs. Hawthorne?" Before the balls could start flying again, Eve stepped onto the court.

Tennis guy immediately rushed forward. "Boots! You can't walk on this surface without the proper foot attire."

"I'm not here to whack balls." She held up her badge. "I need a moment with Mrs. Hawthorne."

"Well, you have to take those off, or stand on the sidelines. We have rules."

"What's the problem, Hank?"

"There's a policewoman here, Mrs. H."

"Oh." Darla bit her lip, and patting her heart walked over to the end of the net. "If this is about that speeding ticket, I'm going to pay it. I just-"

"I'm not Traffic. Can I have a minute?"

"Oh, sure. Hank, I could use a break anyway. Getting all sweaty." " She walked, with a lot of swinging hip, to a bench, opened a pink bag and took out a bottle of designer water.

"Could you tell me where you were night before last? Between midnight and three."

"What?" Beneath the glow on her perfect oval face, Darla paled. "Why?"

"It's just a routine stop in a matter I'm investigating."

"Sweetie knows I was home." Her eyes, mermaid green, began to swim. "I don't know why he'd have you investigating Me."

"I'm not investigating you, Mrs. Hawthorne."

Hank walked over, handed her a small towel. "Any problem, Mrs. H?"

"No problem here, go flex your muscles someplace else." "

Dismissing him, Eve sat beside Darla. "Midnight and three, night before last."

"I was home in bed." She shot Eve a defiant look now. "With Sweetie. Where else would I be?"

Good question, Eve thought.

She asked about the writing paper, but Darla shrugged it off. Yes, they'd been in Europe in August, and she bought a lot of things. Why shouldn't she? How was she supposed to remember everything she'd bought or that Sweetie bought for her?

Dallas circled around for another few minutes, then stood so Darla could walk back, and be comforted by Hank. He shot Eve a nasty look before leading his student toward what Eve assumed was the clubhouse.

"Interesting," Eve stated aloud. "Looks like our Darla was out, practicing on Hank's balls during at least part of the time in question."

"Definitely getting more than instruction on her back swing," Peabody agreed. "Poor Sweetie."

"If Sweetie knows his wife's playing singles with her tennis pro, he could've used the time she was out pulling his racket to get downtown, do Wooton. You got a wife's running cross-court on you, it pisses you off. So you not only kill a whore-and what's your young, unfaithful wife but a whore-but you use the cheating bitch as your alibi. Game, set, match. Very neat."

"Yeah, and I liked your tennis metaphors, too."

"We do what we can. Anyway, it's a theory. Let's go see what else we can dig up on Hawthorne."