safe, trustworthy, and wanted nothing more from their relationship than she did. But as time passed they’d become better friends and less lovers. Which was also fine with Suzanne. She was too busy to stress over the whole he loves me, he loves me not thing. She got over it a long time ago.
Joe didn’t blink. “You’re lying.”
“Any news from the M.E.?” Keep it business, Suz.
“Autopsy’s in the morning. One visible stab wound, narrow weapon—like an ice pick.”
“Like an ice pick or actually an ice pick?”
“Impatient, as always. We’ll know more in the morning. You can observe if you want.”
“Nope.” She had no time to hang around the morgue, and depending on who was running the case, it could take hours. “Security cams?”
“The only useful tape showed Weber in her car, alone, entering the parking lot.”
“Killer was on foot?”
“Possibly. We have the tape of everyone driving in, but it’ll take days to go through all the faces, and unless we get some info to narrow the parameters that’s not my focus. However, I have a couple rookies going through everyone who left the stadium thirty minutes prior to time of death. Because the game was close, not many people left early.”
“Good idea.” She paused. “I don’t think the killer was at the game.”
“Based on?”
“If you’re right and she was killed by someone she knew, someone she planned on meeting at the stadium, why would he buy a ticket?”
“Maybe it’s someone who was there with others and slipped out to kill her, goes back in, and sits with friends. Alibi.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I must be more devious than you.”
“Sometimes.” She sipped her beer. “Did you print the car?”
He stared at her.
“Of course you did. Sorry.”
“So far, nothing. Just Weber, her sister, and Weber’s research assistant. Crime techs are looking for trace in the vehicle. Talked to the sister—they lived in a town house on the Upper East Side, inherited from their deceased parents. Bridget Weber, forty-three, divorced. Ex-husband some schmuck who works for the governor in Albany. Sister is an interior designer. Seemed upset, but she does get half of her sister’s estate.”
“Sizable?”
“The town house has right of survivorship, so that’s free and clear. My techs are going through financials; she’s probably looking at a quarter mil when all’s said and done.”
“Life insurance?”
“Small policy—both sisters had a hundred thou, sister said to cover any expenses related to their demise.”
“Other half of the estate?”
“Donation to her alma mater, Columbia University. Which brings me to the assistant, a grad student at Columbia who’s worked for the deceased only a few months. Seems she gets a new grad student for every project, becomes part of their thesis or some such thing. I talked to the faculty advisor and he’s hooking me up with her new assistant tomorrow.” Joe grinned. “Want to join me?”
“I have another two dozen calls to make, and I hate the phone.”
“It’ll be fun. Old times.”
They’d met on a case five years ago when Suzanne was first assigned to the Violent Crimes and Major Offenders squad in New York City. They worked well together. Played well together, too.
She didn’t smile. “Not old times.”
The pizza arrived, authentic Italian according to Joe. Suzanne didn’t care—it was simply the best pizza in Brooklyn. They ordered two more beers.
“So was I the only one working today?” Joe said between bites.
“I spoke to half the people from the files you sent over—focusing on those she’s interviewing for the Cinderella Strangler case. So far she seems to be in research mode—I have the file with me so I can go through it tonight and try to figure out what her strategy was. She called our civilian consultant from the case, but Lucy said she told Weber she had no comment on the case.”
“Lucy who?”
“Kincaid. She’s a recruit going through the Academy. Her involvement wasn’t made public, but someone told Weber, someone who had enough information to make me think it’s one of mine, or one of yours.”
“Is she a suspect?”
“Kincaid?” Suzanne snorted. “No. And she wouldn’t talk without clearing it through proper channels, just like I would have had to do. But she doesn’t want the book written, wouldn’t talk to any reporter.”
“She doesn’t want the book written, but she’s not a suspect? What am I missing?”
“I told you, she’s at Quantico. And I know her. She didn’t do it, but to make you happy I’ll verify her alibi.”
“Appreciate it.” Joe finished off his first slice and grabbed a second.
“I dug deeper into Weber’s files and