Night at your club. Your driver picked you up at seven,” Tuva told him.
“Right, right. I couldn’t win a damn thing. Just tanked, but what the hell, all for a good cause.”
“What time did you leave the club?” Eve asked.
“I’m not sure. Since I got my butt kicked, I left early. Maybe nine-thirty or ten.”
“And you went home.”
“Well, no.” He glanced at Tuva, shrugged. “I went by Tuva’s place. I could tell you we worked late, but, hell, we’re all adults here. I’m not sure when I left.”
Color high, Tuva stood very straight. “At just before one in the morning.”
“She’d know.” He offered that quick, crooked grin, another wink. “No big deal. We’re both single. Hey, Ty, come meet the city’s own Lieutenant Dallas and Peabody.”
Another poster boy, dark to Young-Sachs’s light with the broody, sulky looks some women found as appealing as the crooked grin. He dropped down in a chair as if exhausted.
“Tuva, how about another cup here? I could use some coffee.” He gave Eve a subtle smirk. “So, hunting for clones?”
“For killers,” she countered. “Marta Dickenson’s killers.”
“Who?”
Once again, Tuva gave the information, and brought the fresh cup.
“I don’t see what that has to do with me—us. Sorry about the woman, but they’ll just put another number-cruncher on it.”
“I’d like your whereabouts from nine to midnight, night before last.”
He rolled his eyes, but pulled out his date book. “I took the corporate shuttle down to South Beach, to a party. You wanted to do that poker thing,” he said to Young-Sachs. “Said you were feeling lucky. He lost.” Biden jerked a thumb at his associate. “I got lucky. Came back about ten yesterday morning.”
“We’ll need to verify both of your alibies.”
“Over some accountant?” For the first time, Biden showed some interest and annoyance.
“Yes, over some accountant who was, at the time of her murder, conducting an audit on your company, and whose office was broken into last night. Her copies of your files were taken.”
“For crap’s sake. That can’t be good.” As if unsure, Young-Sachs looked at Tuva.
“You would be wise to immediately inform your financial advisers and your lawyers,” Tuva began. “To change all passcodes, to—”
“What the hell kind of dick-all security do they have over at . . . Where the hell is it?”
“Brewer, Kyle, and Martini,” Tuva supplied.
“We’re firing their asses, you can bank on it.”
“We aren’t clients,” Tuva told him. “They were assigned by the courts.”
“Then get the damn lawyers, and get somebody who’s not a fucking idiot assigned.”
“Are you aware,” Eve put in, “that Marta Dickenson’s body was found by Bradley Whitestone, outside of the building under remodeling for the WIN Group?”
“Goddamn it, get Rob on the ’link,” Biden ordered. “And give Roarke’s get-out-of-jail-free card here the names of our lawyers. We’re done.”
Eve rose slowly, and whatever he saw in her face had Biden shifting. “No offense.”
“Considerable taken. You want to be careful about offending cops, Mr. Biden, especially when you’re mired in a murder investigation.”
“Talk to the lawyers. I’m done.” He shot to his feet. “And get Rob now, send it to my office.” He stormed out.
“I apologize,” Young-Sachs began. “Ty tends to lash out when he’s upset.”
“Interesting. Someone certainly lashed out at Marta Dickenson. Thanks for the coffee. We’ll be in touch.”
“It was really good coffee,” Peabody murmured as they walked back to the elevator.
“Chocolate. Just a little chocolate in the coffee.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know chocolate.”
“Well, damn. I’m off sweets until after the premiere. It doesn’t count, right, because I didn’t know it was there.”
“Right.” Eve stepped on the elevator, muttered, “Asshole.”
“I know. Both of them, really, but Young-Sachs was kind of a benign asshole. Maybe due to being a little high.”
“Which makes him stupid as well as an asshole. The admin knows more than both of them put together. She’s hot for the boss. She’d lie for him, no question. But he hasn’t got the belly for murder. Not in person anyway. The other? He could order it up like lunch.”
“I’ll start runs on them.”
“You do that. Next up. Alexander and Pope.”
The offices of Alexander and Pope opted for fussy dignity. Heavy furniture, art in thick gold frames—lots of paintings of people riding horses with dogs running alongside.
Everybody spoke in hushed tones in reception, as they might in a surgical waiting room.
But as Eve and Peabody were escorted back, she heard the busy sound of ’links beeping, voices dealing, feet scurrying.
Sterling Alexander’s office reflected his reception area with its deep tones, deep cushions, gracefully faded carpets, ornately framed art.