She blew out a breath. “I can give it another hour, two, tops, before talking to Morris. I have to meet Whitney and Kyung in Whitney’s office by noon.”
“Media’s whacked on this, Dallas,” McNab told her. “Scrolling through social media was wild. Photos and vids from last night already making the rounds.”
“Can’t change that, so we’ll deal with it. No fucking respect,” she muttered. “Let’s get started. Peabody, take the kitchens, both of them on this level.”
They spread out. She’d barely begun her sections when her ’link signaled. “Lane,” she called to Peabody, and answered.
“Dallas.”
“Lieutenant. Please, do you have anything more on Brant’s death?”
The woman looked like death herself, pale, hollow-eyed, lines of strains around those hollow eyes.
“I’m in your apartment now with four detectives. I can’t promise we’ll complete the search and be able to clear the scene today, but—”
“Search? You’re searching our home, our things?”
“It’s a crime scene, Ms. Lane. It’s procedure. Whoever did this to your husband may have left something behind.”
“Of course, of course. It just gets worse and worse.”
“Ms. Lane, it would be helpful if you gave us the combination to the safes in your bedroom.”
“My jewelry safe? Why—”
“We can clear those areas. The search will be fully recorded and documented. Also any other combinations would save time, allow us to complete the work and allow you back in your home more quickly.”
“It doesn’t feel like home without Brant. I—all right. My jewelry safe’s combination is Brant’s birthday, and his bedroom safe is our anniversary.”
She rattled off the numbers. “There’s a safe—for important papers and so on—in Lin’s office. I’m not sure I remember the combination.”
“We’ll get that.”
“The media—we’ve blocked reporters and anyone we don’t know personally, but … And Sylvie ordered me not to turn on the screen. I know much of it’s a tribute to Brant, and genuine grieving, but…”
“Listen to your friend on this. Please don’t speak to reporters at this time, as it could impede the investigation. You should have your people prepare a statement, a brief one, asking for privacy. I’d like you to run that statement by me before you issue it.”
“Yes, yes, that’s best.” She looked vaguely around as if searching for something. “I’m not thinking sensibly, I know that. I’m trying. I need to see Brant. If I could—”
“I’m going to consult with the medical examiner when I leave here. Either he or I will contact you later this morning and arrange for you to go in.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Thank you. I—I need to make arrangements. Could I have Dolby, at least Dolby?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t know where to begin. I think when I do, when I begin, I’ll know what to do next. The statement. I’ll do that right away. I’ll begin with that. Thank you. Please, please contact me as soon as you can.”
“I will. If you think of anything else, any small detail, let me know.”
“I will.”
Eve continued her part of the search, and formed a clearer picture of the victim and his wife. They both enjoyed fine things, polished spaces. And each had what reflected their personal spaces, but they very much lived together.
Luxury in every inch, but a lack of fuss with it. Clean and organized so the remains of the party, the confusion murder brought with it, stood out.
She gave it an hour before deciding to call it.
“It’s a serious kitchen,” Peabody told her when Eve stepped in. “As up-to-date as it gets, and really well supplied and organized. I’m going to say the guy they have doing the cooking knew what he was doing. A lot of recipes on the kitchen tablet, dietary needs—Lane’s allergic to shellfish—marketing lists regularly updated, an inventory of supplies.”
Peabody stood back, looked around the vastness of stainless steel, clean white lines, sparkling glass.
“You can keep at it. I’m going to hit the morgue. When you finish the kitchens, leave the rest to Baxter and Trueheart. I think we keep this whole space secured for at least another day. You can go down, check on the widow before you leave. Get a sense of what she’s planning, how she’s coping. The longer we can keep her from talking to the media, the better.”
“Got it. You don’t really expect to find anything linking the murder here.”
“Not really. But people have secrets. Everybody does. So we see if we can uncover any the victim, the widow, the staff had tucked away.”
She circled the room. “It was slick, the way this went down. Quick and done—immediate confusion and chaos, especially since you had a crowd, including media. Somebody’s pretty damn smart, even if we can’t be sure they hit the intended target.
“If you can make it to Whitney’s office by noon, be there.”
Before she left, she jogged up to the third floor to find McNab deep into tech.
“Anything?”
“Lin Jacoby likes to play the horses.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Really?”
“Yeah, but kind of the way I’d play them if I made bigger bucks and wanted the fun. Not big-time, right? And wins more than he loses. Got some losses that would sting some, but not too many. No sign so far he dipped into the boss’s pockets. And he had a pretty serious relationship that ended, like, eight months ago.”
McNab pushed back, shrugged his skinny shoulders. “He’s got all the vic’s data on here—calendar, expenses, income—but it comes off clean. Personal correspondence is separate from the work stuff, with some overlap. And that comes off clean, too, Dallas. His financials are on here, and he copped a nice salary, benefits. He’s got investments, and he lives within his really solid means. Bought his parents a house four years ago.”
“Keep at it. There’s another safe in here.” She walked to a storage closet and found it. “Lane isn’t sure of the combo. Contact Jacoby, get it. See how he reacts. I’ve got the combos for the bedroom safes.”
“Saves time.”
She gave them to him, left him to his work. Then stopped briefly on the second floor.
“Not just swank digs, but massive.” Baxter paused in his search of yet another closet.
“What are we looking for, Dallas?”
“A bottle with a skull on it and poison in big red letters would be dandy. Otherwise anything that doesn’t fit.” She looked around the guest room he searched. “Everything really fits. Is that normal?”
“I like to think everything fits in my place. Big party, right? So they’d want everything just right. Especially since they had media.”
“Yeah. That fits, too.”
She chewed on that on the drive downtown.
The ad blimps were out in full force, hyping summer sales. People swarmed the sidewalks—the tourists obvious in their colorful shorts, their I ♥ NEW YORK caps, their loaded shopping bags as they, most likely, hunted for some of those sales.