Judge Gennifer Yung rushed in. Her stride hitched when she saw Eve, and for a moment—just a moment—her body seemed to sag. Then her shoulders straightened, her face went blank. She crossed to Eve in front of a slight-bodied man of Asian descent.
“Lieutenant.”
“Judge Yung. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. My brother?”
“He needed a minute.”
Judge Yung nodded. “Daniel, this is Lieutenant Dallas, and Detective Peabody. My husband, Doctor Yung.”
“The children,” Dr. Yung said. “Do they know?”
“They’re sleeping. I don’t believe they know anything’s wrong.”
The dog had already deserted Peabody, tail slapping like a whip as he wiggled around the judge and her husband.
“All right, Cody, good boy. Sit down. Sit.”
A striking woman with brown skin smooth, dark eyes prominent, a reputation for the fierce and fearless on the bench, Judge Yung laid a hand on Cody’s head, stroked. Stroked.
“I’m going to speak with Denzel. I know you have questions, and I know time is always at a premium, but I’m going to take a few moments with—” She broke off when Denzel came out, his face ravaged.
“Genny. Oh God, Genny. Marta.”
“I know. Honey, I know.” She went to him, wrapped her arms around him.
“Someone broke her neck.”
“What?” The judge pulled back, took her brother’s face in her hands. “What?”
“They said her neck . . . Why didn’t I make her take the car service? Why didn’t I call them and make her take it?”
“Ssh now. Ssh. Come with me. We’re going to go in the other room for a while. Just lean on me, baby. Daniel.”
“Yes, of course.” Yung turned to Eve. “Would you like some coffee?”
She thought she could kill for some, but didn’t want to take the time. “We’re fine. Were you home when your brother-in-law contacted your wife?”
“Yes. It was about midnight, and he was frantic by then. Marta wasn’t answering her ’link and was nearly two hours late. He’d already contacted night security, and they had her logged out about ten, I believe. He’d called the police, but as you know there’s little done when a person is, seemingly, late coming home. So he called his sister for help.”
“I take it, as far as you know, Mrs. Dickenson wasn’t in the habit of being late.”
“Absolutely not. That is, not without letting Denzel know. She wouldn’t worry him that way, any more than he would worry her. We knew something was wrong, but I never . . . Not this.”
“How well did you know Mrs. Dickenson?”
“Excuse me, can we sit? This is very hard. I feel . . .” He lowered into a chair. “I feel not altogether myself.”
“Can I get you some water, Doctor Yung?”
He gave Peabody a quiet smile. “No, but thank you. You asked how well I knew Marta,” he said, turning back to Eve. “Very well. We’re family, and for Genny and Denzel—and Marta—family is everything. My wife and her brother have always been close. The children.” He glanced toward a curve of stairs. “I’m worried about the children. They’re so young to face something like this, and so much of their innocence ends tonight.”
He closed his eyes a moment.
“You’ll want to know what their marriage—Marta and Denzel’s—was like. I’ve been married to a lawyer—and a judge—for thirty-six years,” he added, then with a long sigh, folded his hands. “I know it’s something you must pursue. I’ll tell you they loved each other, very much. They had a good life, a happy family. Did they sometimes disagree, even fight? Of course. But they worked together, suited each other, made each other whole, if you understand. Sometimes you’re very lucky with the choices you make, the people who come into your life. They were very lucky.”
“Do you know of anyone who’d want to harm her, or to harm Denzel by causing her harm?”
“I don’t.” He shook his head. “I honestly can’t imagine it. They’re both happy and successful in their work, have a good circle of friends.”
“Lawyers make enemies,” Eve pointed out.
“As do judges. I understand that very well. But Denzel deals with estate law, primarily, tax laws, finances. He doesn’t litigate, doesn’t handle criminal law or family law—the sort of thing that can incite passions. He’s a numbers man.”
“And Marta was an accountant.”
“They spoke the same language,” he said with the ghost of a smile.
“Shared clients?”
“Yes, from time to time.” He rose as Dickenson came back in.
“Genny’s making coffee. She . . . she asked if you’d go back and speak with her for a minute,