Calculated in Death

snow? At least snow’s pretty.”
    “Until it’s in grimy black mounds against the curb.” Shoving her hands in her pockets for warmth, Eve quick-stepped the last half block. She shoved through the lobby doors, shook her head like a dog, and shot out little drops of cold.
    She badged the man at the security podium. “Brewer, Kyle, and Martini.”
    “Fifth floor. Is this about Ms. Dickenson? I heard the media report before I came on.”
    “Yeah, it’s about Ms. Dickenson.”
    “It’s true then.” His lips tightened as he shook his head. “You gotta hope it’s a mistake, you know? She’s a nice woman, always says hi when she comes in.”
    “You weren’t on last night?”
    “Off at four-thirty. She logged out at ten-oh-eight. I checked the log when I came in, because of the report.”
    “Did she work late routinely?”
    “I wouldn’t say routinely, but sure, sometimes. All of them do. Tax season?” He waved a hand in a
forget about it
gesture. “They might as well live here.”
    “Has anybody come in, asking about her?”
    “Not to me. I mean she gets people, clients, and whatever who come in asking for her and the firm. They have to sign in.”
    “Any problem showing us the log for the last week or so?”
    “I don’t see why it’d be a problem.”
    “How about making a copy for our files.”
    Now he shifted, foot-to-foot. “I’d like to clear that one with my boss. If you’re going up, you could stop back on the way out. I think he’ll be okay with it, considering.”
    “Good enough. Thanks.”
    “She was a nice lady,” he said again. “Met her husband and kids, too. They came in to pick her up now and then. Nice family. It’s a damn shame, is what. A damn shame. First bank of elevators on the right. I’ll talk to my boss.”
    “Thanks again. Check in with Uniform Carmichael,” she told Peabody. “See if he’s got anything.”
    “If the security guy knows, the office knows,” Peabody pointed out.
    “Yeah, kills the element of surprise.”
    “And makes it just a little less awful.”
    Not so much, Eve thought when the elevator doors opened. She heard someone weeping, the sound muffled behind a closed door. The two people—one man, one woman—behind the reception desk stood, holding each other.
    No one sat in the dignified—and boring—cream and brown waiting area.
    The woman eased away, made an obvious effort to compose herself. “I’m very sorry, all appointments are canceled for today. We’ve had a death in the family.”
    “I’m aware.” Eve took out her badge.
    “You’re here about Marta.”
    “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody. We’re investigating her death. We need to speak with Sylvester Gibbons.”
    “Of course. Yes.” She pulled some tissues out of a holder. “Marcus?”
    “I’ll get him, right away.” The man dashed off.
    “Would you like to sit down? Or coffee? I mean would you like some coffee?”
    “We’re good. How well did you know Ms. Dickenson?”
    “Very well. I think very well.” She dabbed at her eyes. “We—we took an exercise class together, twice a week. And we talked every day, I mean every workday. I can’t believe this happened! She’s careful, and it’s a good area. She wouldn’t have fought or argued with a mugger.” Tears welled and overflowed again. “They didn’t have to hurt her.”
    “Has anyone been in asking about her?”
    “No.”
    “Have there been any problems between her and someone in the office, someone in the firm?”
    “No. I’d know, you hear everything on the desk. This is a good company. We get along.”
    Nobody got along all the time, but Eve let it slide. “How about a client, any trouble, complaints?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”
    “People don’t like being audited. Has anyone caused any trouble about that, about the work she did?”
    “Legal handles that sort of thing. I don’t understand. She was mugged, so—”
    “It’s routine,” Eve said. “We need to be thorough.”
    “Of course. Of course. I’m sorry. I’m so upset.” She choked on the words as she dug out fresh tissues. “We got to be pretty good friends with the class we took.”
    “Did she talk about her work with you, about the audits?”
    “Marta wouldn’t gossip about an audit. It’s unprofessional. And if she’d gossiped, it probably would’ve been with me. You get, well, loose, when you’re sweating together. And sometimes we’d go have a drink after—a reward. We talked