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"Is that a problem?"
"Not at all." He managed a small smile for Roarke. "We're competitors, but I wouldn't say we're adversaries."
"I enjoyed J. C.," Roarke said briefly. "He'll be missed."
"Yes, he will. You should meet the lawyers, so we can get on with this." A bit grim around the mouth now, he turned. "You've spoken with Suzanna Day."
Catching Branson's eye, Suzanna came over. Handshakes were brisk and impersonal before Suzanna ranged herself beside Branson. The final person in the room rose.
Eve had already recognized him. Lucas Mantz was one of the top and priciest criminal defense attorneys in the city. He was trim, slickly attractive, with waving hair of streaked white on black. His smile was cool and polite, his smoky eyes sharp and alert.
"Lieutenant. Roarke." He nodded to both of them, then took another sip from the straw-colored wine he carried. "I'm representing Ms. Cooke's interests."
"She didn't spare any expense," Eve said dryly. "Your client figuring on coming into some money, Mantz?"
His eyebrows lifted in an expression of amused irony. "If my client's finances are in question, Lieutenant, we'll be happy to provide you with records. Once you provide a warrant. The charges against Ms. Cooke have been filed and accepted."
"For now," Eve told him.
"Why don't we get on with the business at hand." Branson once more looked toward his wife who was directing the maid to position the coffee cart. "Please, let's sit down." He gestured toward the seating area.
Once they took their places and coffee was served, Clarissa sat beside her husband, her hand clinging to his. Lucas Mantz shot Eve one more cool smile, then settled on the far end. Suzanna sat in a facing chair.
"The deceased left personal bereavement discs to his brother and sister-in-law, to Ms. Lisbeth Cooke, and to his assistant, Chris Tipple. Those discs will be hand delivered to the appropriate parties within twenty-four hours of the reading of his will. Mr. Tipple was advised of tonight's reading but has declined to attend. He is…unwell."
She took a document out of her briefcase and began.
The opening was technical and flowery. Eve doubted the language for such things had changed in two centuries. The formal acknowledgment of one's own death had a long tradition, after all.
Humans, she thought, had a tendency to start planning for their end well in advance. And to be pretty specific about it. There was the betting pool with life insurance. I bet so much a month that I'll live till I die, she mused.
Then there were cemetery plots or cremation urns, depending on your preferences and income. Most people bought them in advance or gave them as gifts, picking out a sunny spot in the country or a snazzy box for the den.
Buy now, die later.
Those little details changed with the fashions and societal sensibilities. But one constant in the business end of life to death appeared to be the last will and testament. Who got what and when and how they got all the goodies the dead had managed to accumulate through the time fate offered.
A matter of control, she'd always thought. The nature of the beast demanded control be maintained even after death. The last grip on the controls, the last button pushed. For some, she imagined, it was the ultimate insult to those who had the nerve to survive. To others, a last gift to those loved and cherished during life.
Either way, a lawyer read the words of the dead. And life went on.
And she who dealt with death on a daily basis, who studied it, waded through it, often dreamed of it, found the whole business slightly offensive.
The minor bequests went on for some time, giving Eve a picture of the man who'd enjoyed foolish chairs and purple dressing gowns and carrot pasta with peas and cream sauce.
He'd remembered the people who'd had a part in his routine, from his doorman to the 'link operator at his office. He left his attorney, Suzanna Day, a Revisionist sculpture she had admired.
Her voice hitched over that, then Suzanna cleared her throat and continued.
"To my assistant, Chris Tipple, who has been both my right and left arms, and often most of my brain as well, I leave my gold wrist unit and the sum of one million dollars, knowing he will treasure the former and make good use of the latter.
"To my beautiful and beloved sister-in-law, Clarissa Stanley Branson, I leave the pearl necklace my mother left to me, the diamond heart brooch that was my grandmother's, and my love."
Clarissa began to weep silently into her hands, her slender shoulders shaking even when her husband draped his arm around them.
"Hush, Clarissa," Branson murmured in her ear, barely loud enough for Eve to hear. "Control yourself."
"I'm sorry." She kept her head lowered. "I'm sorry."
