In Death 23 - Born in Death

buzz your boss and tell him we need to speak with him.”
    “Golly. I mean, I’m sorry, but Mr. Cavendish is in a meeting. I’d be happy to check his schedule with his assistant and set up an appointment.”
    “No, no, you’re getting it wrong. Let me repeat. Badge. Cops.” Eve glanced around, saw the straight angle of polished wood stairs. “Offices up that way?”
    “Oh, but—but—but—”
    Eve left the redhead sputtering and moved with Peabody to the stairs.
    The second level changed Eve’s opinion from church to museum. The carpets were old, worn, and expensive. The wainscotting the real deal, and very likely original. Paintings of country landscapes adorned the walls.
    A door swung open on the left. The woman who stepped out was older than the girl at the downstairs desk, and twice as sharp.
    She wore her jet hair in a no-nonsense twist that complimented a striking, angular face. The pinstriped suit might have been no-nonsense as well, but it had been tailored to mold a very fine body.
    “I believe you were told Mr. Cavendish is in a meeting and unavailable at this time. What can I do for you?”
    “You can get him out of his meeting and see that he’s available,” Eve returned. “That would be helpful.”
    She felt an entertaining little buzz up the back of her spine at the woman’s silent, burning stare. “Got a name, sister?”
    “Ms. Ellyn Bruberry. I’m Mr. Cavendish’s administrative assistant. And a paralegal.”
    “Good for you. We need to talk to Mr. Cavendish in connection with an investigation.”
    “Mr. Cavendish is, as you’ve now been told twice, unavailable. And as you must know, is under no obligation to speak with you without notice.”
    “Got me there,” Eve said cheerfully. “We’ll be happy to give Mr. Cavendish, and you, and every one in these offices notice of your obligation to come into Cop Central for formal interviews, which—being a paralegal—you must know could take a few hours to, oh, next Christmas. Or gee, we could just talk to him now, in the comfort of his own office. And probably be out of your hair in under twenty minutes.”
    She paused. “Pick a door.”
    Eve actually heard the woman suck air through her nose.
    “You’ll have to tell me what this is about.”
    “No, I really don’t. You may want to ask your boss if he’d rather speak to me now, or come into Central in the immediate future and spend considerable time being interviewed formally. Or you can make that decision for him. Up to you.”
    “But…” Peabody tapped her wrist unit. “Time’s a-wasting.”
    “Wait here.”
    Eve waited until Bruberry had clicked off on her sharply heeled boots. “Time’s a-wasting?”
    “It just worked for me. Kind of pissy, wasn’t she? And she knows why we’re here.”
    “Oh, yeah, she does. Interesting.” Idly, Eve turned to study one of the countryscapes. “How come people live and work in urban areas, then put up pictures of rural areas on the wall? Can’t they make up their minds where they want to be?”
    “A lot of people find rural landscapes relaxing.”
    “Sure, until you start wondering what’s creeping behind those trees, or slithering along in the grass.”
    Peabody shifted uncomfortably. “Some people think bounding instead of creeping, as in pretty little fawns, and frolicking as opposed to slithering, like cute little bunnies.”
    “Some people are fools. Let’s entertain ourselves, Peabody, and start a run on Bruberry. And one on Cavendish.”
    “It could be fawns and bunnies,” Peabody muttered, and took out her PPC to do the runs.
    Moments later, Bruberry stepped out of another door. Her back was poker straight, her tone cool and aloof. “Mr. Cavendish will see you now. Ten minutes.”

10
    FROM CHURCH TO MUSEUM, EVE THOUGHT, THEN through the door into the men’s club.
    Walter Cavendish presided over an office with wide-armed, port-colored leather chairs and sofas, and dark, heavy woods. The carpets were thickly padded Orientals, likely the real deal, in rich tones and complex patterns. Amber liquid swam in thick crystal decanters that would have doubled as very effective murder weapons.
    A trim black data and communication center stood alongside leather and brass accessories that were arranged just so on the antique desk where Cavendish sat looking prosperous, tailored—and to Eve’s gauge—nervy.
    He was in his early fifties, with a good head of the hair people called sandy in men, mousey in women. His