Vendetta in Death (In Death #49) - J. D. Robb Page 0,10

hair in short, curly dreads tipped in gold.

His eyes, nearly as gold as the tips, popped wide.

“Holy shit! Holy shit, Wes! It’s fucking Eve Dallas.”

“Get real, Lance.” The second man, with a muscular, shaved head, black skin covered in faded jeans and a long-sleeved red T-shirt, stepped out. He blinked, laid a hand on Po’s shoulder, said, “Well, son of a bitch.”

Then he blinked again, and his dark eyes filled with worry. “Jesus, somebody’s dead.”

“Oh God. God. Is somebody dead?”

“Can we come in?”

“My mom. My mom—”

“It’s not about your mother, Mr. Po, or any family member. We’re here about your boss.”

“Sylvia?” He reached up, grabbed his partner’s hand.

“No, Nigel McEnroy.”

“Mr. McEnroy’s dead?”

“We’d like to come inside.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He stepped back. “Yes, please. I was—we were—just thrown off. We’re big fans, of both of you. Not just the book and vid, though totally mag there. But we’ve been following you since you and Roarke—big fans there, too—and it’s your work, and the fashion, and the no-prisoners interviews when they get you on camera. We’re just—”

“You’re babbling, honey.” Schupp nudged Po aside, reached for Eve’s hand, then Peabody’s. “Please, sit down. We don’t have your coffee, but—”

“We’re fine.”

The living space, though small, struck Eve as a lot more friendly and comfortable than the McEnroys’. A high-backed navy sofa ranged along one wall, topped with a long, interesting pencil sketch of the city. It faced a couple of easy chairs in bold, multicolored stripes. A bench padded with fake leather added more seating, and a jog to the left opened into a smart-looking little kitchen and eating area.

“I’m going to tag in, get a sub. I teach art and coach football,” Schupp explained. “High school. How about I make you some tea, Lance?”

“That’d be great. I’m just … It wasn’t an accident. Like I said, we’re fans, so I know you’re with Homicide. Was it a mugging?”

He gestured to a chair as he spoke, so Eve took one, Peabody the other, while Po lowered to the sofa.

“No. You were Mr. McEnroy’s admin?”

“Yeah. Yes. He travels a lot, and when he’s not in New York, which is about half the year, really, Sylvia Brant runs things. I mean, Mr. McEnroy and his partners run everything, but Sylvia’s like captain of the ship when he’s not here. Should I tell her?”

“We’ll take care of that. Do you know Mr. McEnroy’s schedule?”

“Sure. Absolutely. A ten o’clock this morning with the leading candidate for the VP of marketing position at Grange United, New York office. Eleven with—”

“How about yesterday’s?”

“Right, sorry.”

Po rattled off names, times, purposes like a computer while Schupp brought him a pretty cup of tea. The cup, the floral smell, made Eve think of Mira.

She imagined she’d be talking this case through with the department’s top profiler and shrink before too long.

“So, no dinner meetings, no evening appointments?”

“No, he finished at the office just before six. His wife and kids are on spring break, in Tahiti. Oh Jesus, Wes, those sweet little girls.”

Schupp took Po’s free hand, gave it a squeeze. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“Mr. McEnroy was killed early this morning. The evidence so far indicates he left his residence just after nine P.M. He was killed at another location before his body was dumped outside his residence.”

She gauged her witness. “There are also indications the murderer was female, or purports to represent females Mr. McEnroy may have … misused.”

Po exchanged a look with his partner.

“You don’t seem surprised by that,” Eve commented. “Tell us why.”

3

“You always said,” Po murmured.

“Call ’em like I see ’em. He had a vibe—a player, a hard type of player,” Schupp told Eve. “I only met him a few times, but he had a vibe. Tell them, Lance.”

“Well, it’s just feelings or observations mostly. Except I know damn well he hit on a couple of the lower-level staff. One of them complained to HR, and boom, she was gone. Word was he paid her off. And Sylvia—he was always respectful of her, but … see, she’s older and she’d kick his ass if he tried anything. Anyway, she reamed him over it, threatened to file a complaint. They really went at it—about a year ago. He was pretty steamed—I could see it—but he stopped fishing in the company pool, if you get me.”

“I get you. Why didn’t Sylvia file a complaint?”

“I think, mostly, because of his wife and kids. She would have if he didn’t straighten up. But…”

“You’re not being disloyal, Mr. Po,” Peabody put in.