In Death 23 - Born in Death

city rising behind them, the other two partners sat at a mile-long table.
    The younger, Carl Myers, rose. His black suit was softened by a thin silver chalk stripe. There was a black mourning band around the left sleeve. His hair was a wavy, medium brown brushed high off his forehead. His eyes, a soft hazel, met Eve’s directly as he came around the table and extended his hand.
    “Lieutenant Dallas, I’m Carl Myers. We’re sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances.”
    “I meet most people under tragic circumstances.”
    “Of course.” He never missed a beat. Handsome, fit, he gestured toward the head of the table where Jacob Sloan sat. “Please, have a seat. Is there anything we can get for you?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Jacob Sloan, Lieutenant Dallas.”
    “Roarke’s cop.”
    It was a term she was used to now, even when it was said with a hint of derision. Still, she tapped the badge she’d hooked on her belt. “This makes me the NYPSD’s cop.”
    He acknowledged that with a faint lift of silver eyebrows. He struck her as honed, face and body, as though he whittled himself down to sheer power. His eyes were stone gray, his suit stark black. Like his face, his body, his hands were thin but with a look of steely strength.
    He didn’t offer one to Eve.
    “You, as a representative of the police department, are infringing on the rights of our clients.”
    “Somebody really infringed the hell out of the rights of Natalie Copperfield and Bick Byson.”
    His mouth tightened, but his eyes never wavered. “This firm takes both of those difficult circumstances very seriously. The death of two of our employees—”
    “Murder,” Eve corrected.
    “As you say,” he agreed with a nod. “The murder of two of our employees is shocking and tragic, and we will cooperate with your investigation to the letter of the law.”
    “Not much choice there, Mr. Sloan. How about the spirit of it?”
    “Please, let me get you some coffee,” Myers began.
    “I don’t want any coffee.”
    “The spirit of the law is subjective, isn’t it?” Sloan continued. “Your concept of it may very well veer from mine, and certainly is bound to veer from our clients’—who expect, who demand, that we protect their privacy. The circumstances of this terrible thing will reverberate throughout this firm. The concern that sensitive financial data will be viewed by eyes not cleared by this firm to do so will distress our clients. I’m sure as the wife of a powerful, influential, and wealthy man, you understand that.”
    “First, I’m not here as anyone’s wife but as the primary investigator of a double murder. Second, the distress of your clients, whoever they may be, isn’t a priority for me.”
    “You’re a sarcastic, difficult woman.”
    “Having a couple of dead bodies on my hands that were beaten, tortured, and strangled just doesn’t bring out my sunny side.”
    “Lieutenant.” Myers spread his hands. “We understand completely that you have a responsibility to fulfill. As we do. And believe me, everyone here wants those responsible for what happened to Natalie and Bick caught and punished. Our concerns on a secondary front are for our clients who trust and depend on us. There are people—competitors, if you will—business adversaries, ex-spouses, the media, who would go to considerable lengths to learn the contents of the files you’re confiscating today.”
    “Are you insinuating I’d be open to a bribe by one of these parties to pass on that information?”
    “No, no, not at all. But others who lack your integrity may be tempted.”
    “Any and all who’ll have access to the information in those files will be hand-picked by me or my commander. You want reassurance that the data will remain secure, you have it. On my word. Unless such information is determined to be the motive behind or connected to the murders of Copperfield and Byson. That’s the best you get.”
    She waited a beat. “Since we’re all here, let’s clear up some business. I’ll need your whereabouts for the night of the murders. Midnight to four A . M .”
    Sloan laid his hands on the table in front of him. “You consider us suspects?”
    “I’m a cynical so-and-so. Your whereabouts, Mr. Sloan.”
    He drew breath through his nose, expelled it. “Until approximately twelve-thirty, my wife and I were entertaining our grandson and his friend. At that time, they left our home and my wife and I retired. I remained home with my