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“Didn’t have a type, did you, Edward? It was more looks and availability. And age. Average age of this group is—shit, math. I don’t know . . . early thirties. And that’s just this group. Bound to be more. What if—”
“Sorry, Dallas.” Peabody rapped knuckles on the doorjamb. “Edward Mira—that’s junior—and Gwendolyn Mira Sykes are here. They want to talk to you—us.”
“Saves us the trip. Set them up in an Interview room. We’ll keep it strictly official.”
“I think B’s open. I’ll take them down.”
Eve nodded, looked back at her board. But her focus had shifted, so she pushed up from her desk. She’d see what the vic’s children, and likely top beneficiaries, had to say.
She walked out, saw Baxter had pulled his chair over to Trueheart’s desk. She didn’t know if they were discussing new angles on the cold case or the cut of a suit, the weight of fabric.
Didn’t, at that point, want to know.
She headed toward the Interview area, saw Peabody coming out of B.
“I’m getting her a sparkling water, him a Coke.”
Eve dug in her pockets for enough to cover it. “Get me a tube of Pepsi, and whatever you want. Official, but pleasant.”
“They’re a little bit wrecked, Dallas. Pushing through it, but you can see it. And they’re a solid unit—really tight.”
“Okay.”
She stepped in, and though she’d already viewed their ID shots, it still struck her that Edward Junior had Dennis Mira’s dreamy green eyes.
He wore his dark hair long enough to pull back in a stub of a tail—as Roarke habitually did when in serious work mode. He had a strong, handsome face—she could see the resemblance to his father—and wore scarred work boots, jeans, and a red-and-black plaid shirt.
His sister had taken her looks from the mother—statuesque and striking despite the reddened eyes. She wore a dark suit, dark tights, and flashy red ankle boots with skyscraper heels.
They sat at the battered Interview table holding hands.
The brother gave the sister’s hand a squeeze, and stood as Eve closed the door.
“Mr. Mira, Mrs. Sykes, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s Ned. Ned and Gwen.” His voice was rough and strained. “Thanks for talking to us, for making the time so quickly. Dennis told us you were working hard to find—to find our father’s killer. We don’t want to get in the way.”
“You’re not in the way. I intended to come to you before the end of the day.”
“We’ve been with our mother.” Gwen cleared her throat. “Their security guard contacted Ned, and he came to get me. We want to apologize first for the way she spoke to you.”
“It’s not on you, and it’s nothing.”
“It’s something,” Ned corrected with a grim smile. “We’ve been on the receiving end. But despite how she behaved, she’s shattered. We know your reputation, Lieutenant, and your work with Charlotte. So.”
He rubbed a hand on his sister’s arm. “You know by now that our parents didn’t have what most think of as a traditional marriage.”
“What did they have?”
Before the question could be answered, Peabody came in with the drinks. “Hope tubes are okay.”
“That’s fine, thanks.” Ned looked back at Eve. “They cared for each other, but the marriage was more a partnership. Political, social.”
“You don’t have to be delicate, Ned. They both had relationships outside the marriage,” Gwen continued. “They produced us—two offspring, male, female—then they were free to pursue other interests. We knew it, growing up, knew it wasn’t to be discussed. As long as we presented the accepted image, everything stayed balanced.”
“You screwed that up,” Ned said, making her laugh a little.
