In Death 23 - Born in Death

face was ruddy, his eyes a light blue that skipped over Eve’s face, then over her shoulder. His suit was a muted brown with just a hint of a gold stripe to show he liked a little pizzazz.
    He rose, and his not-quite-handsome face set in solemn lines. “I’d like to see some identification.” He spoke, to Eve’s mind, in the rounded, fruity tones of a hammy Shakespearean actor.
    Both she and Peabody took out badges. “Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve said, “and Detective Peabody. Looks like your meeting broke up. Funny, we didn’t see anyone leave.”
    He looked momentarily confused, and those nervous eyes slid to Bruberry even as the admin spoke.
    “It was a ’link conference.”
    “Yes, a ’link conference. With London.”
    “That’s handy.” She kept her eyes on Cavendish in a way that told him she knew he was already lying. “Since you’ve got a few minutes now, we have some questions in connection with an investigation.”
    “So I’m told.” He gestured, started to sit. When he didn’t offer a hand, Eve shot hers out deliberately. She wanted the feel of his.
    He hesitated, and she saw his gaze dart toward his admin yet again before he took Eve’s hand in his.
    A little soft, she noted, a little damp.
    “What’s the nature of your investigation?”
    “Homicide. Natalie Copperfield and Bick Byson. Are those names familiar to you?”
    “No.”
    “You don’t watch the media reports, I take it. Don’t scan the newspapers.” She flicked a glance of her own toward a wall screen framed in the dark wood that dominated the room. “These individuals were murdered three nights ago in their respective residences. Both were employed by the accounting firm of Sloan, Myers, and Kraus. And funnily enough, Natalie Copperfield handled the accounts for your home operation. But that name doesn’t ring for you?”
    “I don’t retain the names of everyone I might hear of or read of. I’m a very busy man. As far as accounting, Ellyn—my assistant—deals with that area.”
    “I’m aware of Ms. Copperfield,” Bruberry stated. “What does her death have to do with this firm?”
    “At this point, I’ll be asking the questions,” Eve said coolly. “Where were you, Mr. Cavendish, three nights ago between the hours of midnight and four A . M .?”
    “At home, in bed. With my wife.”
    Eve lifted her eyebrows. “You can’t remember the names of two people who’ve been all over the media reports, but you know—without a second’s hesitation or without checking your book—where you were three nights ago?”
    “At home,” he said again. “In bed.”
    “Have you had any contact with Ms. Copperfield or Mr. Byson?”
    “No.”
    “That’s odd. Don’t you find that odd, Detective, that Mr. Cavendish would have no contact whatsoever with the person who handles his firm’s accounts?”
    “I have to say I do. Me, I’m on a first-name basis with the guy in Payroll back at Central.”
    “I may have, at some point, met—”
    “I corresponded and met with Ms. Copperfield,” Bruberry interrupted. “When necessary. Such matters are, primarily, dealt with through our home office in London.”
    “And just what do you do here?” Eve asked, speaking directly to Cavendish.
    “I represent our firm’s New York interests.”
    “Which means?”
    “Exactly that.”
    “That clarifies it. And you also represent the legal interests of Lordes C. McDermott, who was a client of Bick Byson.”
    “Ms. McDermott is a family relation, and naturally is represented by our firm. As to her financial manager, I couldn’t say.”
    “Really? Gee, seems like one hand doesn’t keep a grip on the other around here. And, second gee, I don’t think I said Byson was her financial manager, just that she was a client.”
    Cavendish fiddled with the knot of his tie. Nervous tell, Eve thought.
    “I assumed.”
    “While we’re at it, your whereabouts on the night of the murders, Ms. Bruberry?”
    “At home. I was in bed before midnight.”
    “Alone?”
    “I live alone, yes. I’m afraid that’s all the time Mr. Cavendish can spare.”
    Eve got lazily to her feet. “Thanks for your cooperation. Oh,” she continued. “Your firm also represents…” She took out her memo book as if to check on a name. “The Bullock Foundation.”
    And there, she noted, just that little ripple over the face. The tightening of the jaw, the flicker in the eyes. Another brush of the fingers over the knot of his tie. “That’s