Calculated in Death

the risk of prison or a very stiff fine, the loss of a hard-earned license, termination from the firm.”
    “Bribe’s sweet enough, it could be worth it to some.”
    “Maybe so, but it’s foolish and shortsighted. Numbers don’t lie, Lieutenant. Sooner or later, they’ll add up correctly, and that quick, easy money will have proven a very poor choice. Marta would never make that choice.”
    “There’s no question in your mind on that?”
    “None whatsoever. She enjoyed her work, and was well compensated for it. Her husband enjoys his, and is well compensated. They have children, and she would never, never risk embarrassing her family, exposing her children to scandal. And at the core of it, of her? Integrity.”
    For the first time Lorraine’s voice wavered, and those dry, steady eyes went damp. “I’m sorry. I’m trying not to be emotional, but it’s very, very difficult.”
    “I understand. You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything, please contact me. Any detail at all.”
    “I will.” Lorraine rose. “I walk that way in good weather. In fact, Marta and I often walked together. I live only two blocks from where they said she was found. I like to walk in the city. I’ve never worried about walking in that neighborhood. My own neighborhood. Now I . . . It will be some time before I walk easily there again.”
    “One more thing,” Eve said as Lorraine started out. “Do you have any business with or knowledge of the WIN Group?”
    “Win? As in win or lose?” She pursed her lips at Eve’s nod. “It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. I don’t recall ever doing any work for or on them.”
    “Okay. Thank you.”
    She made the rounds with the rest of the staff, with Peabody when her partner returned with the log copy. While the statements filled in the picture of a woman well-liked by her coworkers, there were no real revelations. She couldn’t claim surprise when the warrant bogged in legal mires, but she left the offices with every confidence Yung would find a way.
    And she had one lead out of it.
    “We’ll track down this Candida Mobsley, but I want to go by the crime scene first, and I want to follow up with the two wits and a talk with Whitestone’s partners. Start that search for the snatch vehicle.”
    She pulled away from the curb. By the time she’d maneuvered the handful of blocks, Peabody was asleep with her PPC in her hand.
    Eve jabbed her with an elbow.
    “Yes, sir! What?”
    “There’s a deli up the block there. Go, fuel up. Get me whatever.”
    “Yeah, okay. Sorry. We hung with Mavis and her gang until about midnight. It’s catching up with me.”
    “Take a booster if you need it.”
    Peabody scrubbed her hands over her face, and yawning, crawled out of the car. Eve skirted around the hood, walked in the opposite direction through the insistent sleet to stand in front of the building where Marta Dickenson died.
    It looked good, she decided, even in the crappy weather. Dignified, old-school, and very, very fresh. She imagined the owners would have little problem filling those spaces.
    If they ignored the small detail of murder.
    Standing in the sleet, she closed her eyes.
    Park the van or the four-wheel, because a mini struck her as absurd for abduction, near the front of the office building. She has to come out sooner or later. Waiting’s just part of the job. Security cams don’t scope all the way to the sidewalk. Let her come out.
    Get out of the vehicle, she imagined. Let her walk by, step in behind her, stun her, muffle her, muscle her in the back in seconds. One in the driver’s seat, one in the back with her. Hold a hand over her mouth, hold her down when she struggles or makes noise. Short drive. One gets out, unlocks the door—one way or the other—comes back.
    Muscle her inside. It wouldn’t take more than seconds.
    How wasn’t hard, Eve decided. How seemed pretty straightforward. The why was trickier.
    “Lieutenant.”
    She turned, watched Officer Carmichael approach, his heavy uniform coat wet, his face pink from the cold.
    “I saw Detective Peabody in the deli. We were about to go in for a meal break.”
    “Whatcha got?”
    “Not a lot. Nobody we’ve talked to heard anything. We dug up one possible wit, other side of the street, fourth-floor apartment, facing this way. She thinks, maybe, she saw a van parked over here last night.”
    “What kind of van?”
    “Dark,” he said with a wry twist of his lips. “Maybe