Calculated in Death

hers is better.”
    Peabody slid into the car, stared at Eve. “Have you met my granny, because that’s exactly what she’d do. That’s brilliant.”
    “That’s why I’m the LT, and you’re not.”
    “Too true. Are you going to eat all your bread?”
    “Yes.”
    “I was afraid of that.” Peabody pulled out her PPC again, and went to work trying to locate Candida Mobsley.
    “She’s in town,” Peabody reported, “according to her personal assistant. Her appointment calendar is full, I didn’t say cop. I didn’t say I wasn’t a cop, but saying cop would’ve maybe had her blowing before we get to her.”
    “At last, some guile.”
    “It must’ve been the soup.”
    •   •   •
    E ve parked in Midtown. The sleet had eased off, but the cold held tight. She blessed the soup for keeping her bones warm as they moved into a towering office building.
    She badged security, gave her destination, and squeezed her way onto an elevator.
    “Dallas, there are over two thousand Maxima Cargos—’59 and ’60 with New York registrations. More than double that if we include New Jersey.”
    “Dark color. Black, dark blue, dark gray.”
    “That
is
just dark colors.”
    “Try using the Blue Steel interior to eliminate.” She considered Harpo’s report on the factory sealant. “And stick with 2060 models for now.”
    Eighteen crowded floors later, she pushed off, strode to the menu of choices. “WIN Group.” She pointed, took a left jog, found the nameplate on a set of double doors.
    “Over eight hundred registered,” Peabody reported. “New York alone.”
    “We’ll do a standard search and match with the names we have. If nothing pops, we widen it out.”
    She pushed through the doors. Inside the small reception area they’d gone for energy—lots of reds, bright whites, chrome. The smoldering brunette behind the counter offered a slow, liquid smile.
    “May I help you?”
    “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.” She set her badge on the counter.
    “Oh, this is about that poor woman Brad found last night. Did you find out who mugged her?”
    “We need to see Mr. Whitestone,” Eve said.
    “Of course. Sorry. He’s really shaken up about it.” She tapped her earpiece. “Brad? The police are here. Yes, Lieutenant Dallas. I will.” She tapped again. “I’ll take you back to his office. Would you like anything?”
    She might never want anything again after the soup. “We’re fine. Are Mr. Whitestone’s partners available?”
    “Jake’s at a business lunch and should be back by two. He has a two-thirty. Rob’s in with a client. I can let his assistant know you’re here if you need to speak with him.”
    “Do that.”
    Before she could open the door, Whitestone stepped out. Like Lorraine’s his shirt was crisp and white. His suit perfectly tailored. But shadows dogged his eyes.
    “Thanks, Marie. Lieutenant, Detective, I hope you’re here to tell me you found the mugger.” He stepped back to let them into a small, slick office. A good window, she noted, a counter for an AC and a minifriggie. Contemporary art, a glossy black workstation, and a couple of visitors’ chairs in that energetic red.
    “We’ve confirmed that Marta Dickenson was killed inside your apartment—”
    “What?
Inside?
”
    “It wasn’t a mugging. When’s the last time you were in the apartment?”
    “I—” He sat down. “Day before yesterday. I went by to talk to the crew supervisor about a couple of details.”
    “Name.”
    “Jasper Milk. Milk and Sons Contractors. They’re third generation. They’re artists. And they’re reputable. They
always
secure the building. We have an alarm system.”
    “Yes. I saw it. Who has the codes?”
    “I do, Jasper. My partners. And, ah, the designer. Sasha Kirby. City Style. If this person broke in—”
    “There’s no sign of a break-in.”
    Eve watched his expression change, shift from puzzlement to understanding, then to stubborn denial.
    “Listen, I trust, absolutely, everyone who has the code, who has access. I don’t see how anyone could have gotten inside my apartment.”
    “Evidence doesn’t lie, Mr. Whitestone.”
    “Maybe not, but it sure as hell doesn’t make any sense. That’s a brand-new system.”
    “Brewer, Kyle, and Martini. Accounting firm, auditors. The victim worked for them, and there’s some cross between the clients of your firm and theirs.”
    He no longer looked puzzled or stubborn, but slightly ill. “I don’t know