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The minute Lydia Su opened the door, she thought: You’re in this.
It was only a flicker, there then gone, an angry awareness that lit the long, searing brown eyes before Lydia offered a polite if puzzled smile.
“Good morning. Is this about Senator Mira’s murder? I spoke with a detective yesterday.”
“This is a follow-up. You spoke with Detective Peabody,” Eve added, gesturing to her partner.
“Oh, yes. Well, please come in. I’m a little befuddled. I was sleeping. I had to work quite late.”
“Sorry to disturb you. We won’t take up much of your time.”
“Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”
“We’re fine.”
“Please, sit.” She led the way into an airy living area with two curved chairs, a long, low sofa with a central pillow fashioned as a peacock, tail feathers spread. Some sort of exotic flowers speared out of a clear, square vase with shiny black pebbles layered in the base. Filmy shades flowed down the windows.
Lydia hit about five-two and crossed to the sofa on small feet clad in house skids. She wore a lounge set in creamy white with a long black cardigan.
She might have been sleeping after a long night, Eve thought, but she’d taken the time to groom her hair—straight as rain—back into a sleek tail.
She sat, graceful as a dancer. “How can I help?”
“You spent your day off with Charity Downing. Day before yesterday.”
“That’s right. We had lunch, did some shopping, had our nails done. We were enjoying ourselves, so we stopped for a drink, then decided to go back to Charity’s, have some dinner, watch some screen. I left around nine, I think. It was a nice day with a friend.”
“Sounds like it. How did you come to be friends?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t seem to have much in common.”
Eve shrugged as she looked casually around the room. And at the fancy bronze riot bar on the door.
Fancy or not, a riot bar was overkill in a place like this.
“The struggling artist,” she continued, “and the Yale alum, the scientist with the doctorate. How long have you been friends—the intimate sort of friends you must be, as Charity said you were the only one she’d told about her relationship with Edward Mira?”
“We found we have a great deal in common. An appreciation of art, we enjoy—for the most part—the same music, enjoy watching vids at home, in the quiet. We like each other’s company. I like to think I was supportive and nonjudgmental when it came to the choices she made with Edward Mira. As a friend should be.”
“Right. How’d you meet again?”
“I went into the gallery where she worked one day, and we simply hit it off, as some do.”
“Lucky chance. I figured you had that whole insomnia thing going together.”
“Excuse me?”
“The studies you both volunteered for.”
“I . . . Yes. But . . . We weren’t in the same study, and didn’t know each other until after.”
“What a coincidence. So you were looking for some art?”
It came again, that flicker. But only anger this time. “I was,” Lydia said coolly. “Browsing, really, and Charity was knowledgeable and personable. We ended up going for coffee on her break, and simply became friends. Is that so unusual?”
“Like I said, lucky chance—just like the insomnia. So, did you buy anything?”
