She got out, headed for the crosswalk.
“But you don’t think it’s somebody else.”
“I think it’s a real neat fit. But. Data says she’s thirty—which she could have adjusted. But if that’s correct, she’d be even younger than the twenty the fourth wife estimated. Not impossible, either, when you figure she’d glammed herself up for this party she crashed.”
“She’s got a really nice place in the Historic District. Two vehicles, and her income’s one-point-six a year. That’s pretty smooth for a security consultant who only works by appointment. I can’t find, yet, a client list.”
“She can explain that by claiming client privacy. She probably does some security work. Gotta cover the bases. Roarke can dig deeper into the finances.”
They moved with the flood of pedestrians at the intersection, kept going. Eve checked the time.
“Yancy’s probably working with the Barristers now. I’d tag him, but why interrupt? They’ve shut down the ’links either for that or just to avoid the media.”
“I could maybe reach the sister, if she’s still at work.”
“We’ll let it ride.”
They turned into the building with its big glass doors and important lobby. All dignity, Eve thought.
“The law firm has five fricking floors. Beyer’s on fifty.”
They waited at the silver doors for the bank of elevators that served twenty-five to fifty.
“Top floor’s always the most important.”
Eve just rolled her shoulders. “Why is that? Then you’ve got to ride up, ride down. Important should be easier. Like main level.”
“It’s all about the view.”
They stepped in with half a dozen others who called out half a dozen stops.
Eve decided that made her case.
Business suits rather than uniforms, but it worked just as frustratingly as at Central. People on, people off. Stop and go.
At fifty, they stepped out into the plush and dignified lobby area of Beyer, Lance, and Goldberg, crossed the black tiles to the reception desk and the woman who manned it.
She wore her ruby-red hair in a razor-sharp wedge around an angular face.
“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody to see Garrett Beyer.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll inform Mr. Beyer’s office. Please have a seat.”
She didn’t want a seat, but to get this done. Cross it off, move on.
A couple sat in a pair of cream-colored chairs, holding hands, making moon eyes at each other. She pegged them as easily seventy-five. Apparently moon eyes had no age limit.
A single male, mid-twenties, dressed like a street rat until you noticed his designer boots and wrist unit, sat in another area, looking bored as he scrolled on his ’link.
She pegged him as a trust fund baby here to push for an advance.
A woman came out of a set of doors—fiftyish, shining brown hair swept in a complicated twist, black suit, black heels, polite smile.
“Lieutenant, Detective. I’m Opal Richmond, Mr. Beyer’s admin. I’ll take you back to his office.”
They went through, past office doors—closed—a break room that looked like an upscale lounge, what she assumed was a law library, and to the double doors of the corner office.
Opal knocked, then opened the right door. “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”
