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Eve sat back. She was willing to bet Zeke had yet to meet B. Donald Branson in the flesh. "That's all I need for now. Zeke, you're going to have to stay here, in Central."
"In a cell?"
"No. But you have to stay here."
"Can I see Clarissa?"
"We'll talk about that later." Eve rose. "The uniform will take you up to the recreation area. There's a sleeping bin off the side. I think you should tranq up and use it."
"I don't use tranqs."
"Me, either." She softened enough to smile at him. "Use the bin anyway. Get some rest."
"Zeke." There was so much Peabody wanted to say, wanted to do, but she held it in and looked at him soberly. "You can trust Dallas."
"I'll be up in a minute." Mira patted his arm. "We'll use meditation." She waited until the uniform came to take him out. "My testing is complete enough for me to give you an evaluation."
"I don't need it." Eve cut her off. "It's for the record, not for me. He's not going to be charged."
Mira relaxed fractionally. In the last two hours, Zeke had slipped past her professional veneer. "He's suffering. The idea that he took a life, however accidentally—"
"It wasn't an accident," Eve corrected. "It was a setup. If I'm on target, B. Donald Branson's very much alive, and most likely with his wife. I can't get into the details, I don't have time," she continued. "You looked at Clarissa's statement, you viewed the recording."
"Yes. It's a classic case of abuse and shattered self-esteem."
"Classic," Eve agreed with a nod. "Like textbook. Like line for line out of a case study. She didn't miss a trick, did she?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"No friends, no family support. Delicate, helpless woman dominated by an older, stronger man. He drinks, he beats her. He rapes her. She sticks. 'Where will I go, what will I do?'"
Mira folded her hands. "I realize you would find her inability to change her situation a sign of weakness, but it isn't at all atypical."
"No, it's dead typical. And I'm saying that's just how she played it. Played Zeke, played me, and would have played you. I think you'd have caught on, and she probably figured the same. That's why she's gone. And when we check Branson's financials, I guarantee the money's gone, too."
"What possible reason would the Bransons have to fake his death?"
"The same reason they arranged his brother's. Money. The same reason they timed it to pull part of the team away from the central theme. More money, with a little payback thrown in. We'll tie them to Apollo. Sooner or later, something'll click. Take care of Zeke. If I'm right, we'll be able to tell him he didn't kill anyone. Let's move, Peabody."
"I can't keep up," Peabody told her. "I can't get it straight in my head."
"You will, when we get the rest of the pieces. Check those financials."
Peabody scrambled to keep pace as they worked their way down to the garage. "Jesus, Branson transferred fifty million—that's most of the fluid cash in the business—to an off-planet, coded account. He did it last night, two hours before Zeke…"
"Check their personal accounts."
Working one-handed, Peabody slid into the car. "Six personals, between twenty and forty apiece. He cleaned them out yesterday."
"A nice little nest egg for Cassandra." As she drove, Eve contacted Feeney on her communicator.
"Voiceprints match," he told her. "Now how are we going to arrest a dead guy?"
"I'm working on it. Take a run by Branson T and T; take a look at the droids in development. Did we get the order for tapping Monica Rowan's lines?"
"They're tapped. Not a peep so far."
"Keep me up." She ended transmission. "Peabody, contact the locals up in Maine, get a black and white to do a runby. I want Monica under wraps."
