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“Really?” Amused, Roarke sat back. “And you know this because?”
“Because, of the two of them, she’s the one with the balls. He pushes paper, attends events, takes meetings, and does what he’s told.”
“And did someone tell him to kill Copperfield and Byson?”
“Maybe, and wouldn’t that be tidy?” She frowned over it. “But I’m leaning away from that. The killer was too level-headed, too confident. Cavendish broke a sweat just talking to me. But he knows something, and one of the things he knows is who did it.”
“So you’ll sweat him a bit more.”
“I can do that. I can talk to him again, poke at him a little. But I don’t have enough to charge him with anything and make him flip. I need more. A direct line. I have to find more because I’m betting he was just where he said he was on the night of the murders. Home in bed, and with the covers over his head because he knew what was going on.”
“If the New York branch of the law firm was part of it, used to funnel money or wash funds, I’ll find it.”
He would, Eve thought, not only because he was good, but because his pride was on the line this time out. “Counting on it,” she said. “Maybe we should go get started.”
She knew Peabody and McNab were already there because she could hear the music and the voices coming from what she’d designated as the party room. If it made her a coward, she’d live with it, but Eve made a bee-line for her office.
There she updated her board, then sat down to take a closer look at Ellyn Bruberry.
Forty, she mused as the data scrolled onto her wall screen. No marriages, no offspring. The West Side address listed would give Bruberry a grand view of the park and the price tag to match. Not bad for a paralegal and administrative assistant.
American born, though she’d moved from Pittsburgh to London in her early twenties. To join the firm of Stuben, Robbins, and Cavendish—Mull came later—as a legal secretary. Relocated to New York, and the branch there, as Walter Cavendish’s admin six years before.
After the second marriage, Eve mused.
No criminal record.
Eve took a dip into the financials. Hefty salary, she decided, but it wasn’t illegal to pay employees well. Major influxes in income jibed with Christmas, Bruberry’s birthday, and the time she’d come into the law firm—and would be easily explained as bonuses.
But wasn’t it interesting that her personal accounts were handled by Sloan, Myers, and Kraus?
Not Byson’s client though, she confirmed after a check of his list. She made a note to find out who at the firm handled Bruberry’s financials.
Direct lines, she thought again. What was the most direct line from Copperfield/Byson to Cavendish/Bruberry?
The firm again, but if she spiked out from there it was the Bullock Foundation. Clients of both the law firm and the accounting firm. And Cavendish had been flustered when she’d asked if he’d seen the foundation people during their time in New York.
It was the youngest partner, Robert Kraus, who’d been entertaining Bullock and Chase—and who was alibied by them.
“Hey, Dallas.”
She grunted as she called up Kraus’s data.
“You’re not still working. Come on.” Peabody stood beside the desk, hands on her hips. “You need to look at the decorations we’ve got going. I need to run some stuff by you.”
“You just do what you’re doing. It’s fine.”
“Dallas. It’s after ten.”
“Golly, Mom, did I miss curfew? Am I grounded?”
“See, you’re cranky.” Peabody pointed an accusing finger. “Take a break, take a look. It’s for Mavis.”
“Okay, okay. Jesus.” But if she was going to be dragged into decorations, she wasn’t being dragged alone. Eve marched to Roarke’s office. “We’re going to look at decorations and see what else needs to be done. I think.”
“Have fun.”
“Un-uh. We is you, too.”
