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“A little, but more it was hurtful. He could have told me in person. I’m not stupid; I knew it wasn’t going to last. But he should have told me face-to-face. I thought about contacting him, but I didn’t. And he never contacted me again.”
She let out a breath. “It was like it never happened.”
“Were you in love with him?” Peabody’s tone was gauged to sympathy.
“Oh, no.” MacKensie’s blue eyes rounded—guileless. “No, but it was exciting, those few weeks. Maybe, at least partly, because I knew it was wrong. I felt a little . . .” She trailed off with a quick little gasp. “Am I a suspect? You think I killed Edward?”
“Did you?” Eve asked coolly.
“Oh my God, my God.” She trembled all over, hunched her shoulders, gripped her hands together under her chin. “No. No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill anyone. You said last night?”
“That’s right,” Eve said, and left it there.
“I-I-I was here, working.” She gestured to her workstation with a hand that shook. “I didn’t go anywhere.”
“Did you see or speak to anyone?”
“No. No. I was working on a piece, and I stuck with it. I had leftover Chinese and went to bed early. I think it was around ten because my brain was tired. Do I need a lawyer?”
“That’s up to you. Have you ever been to his property on Spring Street?”
“Spring? I didn’t know he had any. We always met at the hotel. Officer—”
“Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant, I lead a quiet life, by choice, by inclination. This was a few weeks of excitement, and, and”—she flushed again—“sex.”
“Which he ended with flowers and a card.”
“You don’t kill somebody for ending an affair.”
Eve lifted her eyebrows. “You’d be surprised.”
They left MacKensie wrapped in jittery nerves, rode back down to the lobby.
“Impressions?”
“Not used to being noticed or singled out, I’d say,” Peabody res
ponded. “A little OCD. The bathroom was as clean as an operating room, and more organized. Everything matches. Same with the bedroom. I glanced in. Bed’s perfectly made, no clothes or shoes tossed around. She’s the type who figures she’s going to get dumped, so isn’t surprised when it happens. She didn’t buzz for me.”
“She doesn’t have an alibi.”
“If I planned to kill a former U.S. senator, I’d have one wrapped tight.”
“Having absolutely none’s not a bad strategy,” Eve countered. “She asked how he was killed when we first got there. I never gave her an answer, she never asked again. How do you write articles on anything without asking questions, pushing the follow-up?”
“She seemed really flustered and embarrassed.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Right now, she stays on the list. Let’s talk to the next.”
7
The Brighton Group proved both efficient and unimposing. It held offices over a bustling deli in a squat building tossed up post-Urbans. The casually dressed staff worked together in a cacophony of noise that struck as cheerful. Some glass partitions separated the higher-ups.
Personal photos, plants, files, paperwork jumbled together on desks. The air smelled candy sweet—which Eve understood as they were offered birthday cake minutes after arriving.
“Asha’s through there.” The cake-bearer gestured to one of the glass-walled offices. “We’re all just getting back to it after celebrating Sandy’s birthday at lunch.”
