He poured another glass, plopped down on the nasty-looking bed in front of the arguing screen. “We done?”
“For now.”
“Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out. Fucking cops,” he muttered, and drank.
“Gee,” Peabody said when they walked outside. “He seemed so nice!”
Eve had to laugh. “A pillar of his community. Contact BSC.”
“Really?”
“Really. He could kill,” Eve said flatly. “His five-year-old daughter had a concussion, three broken fingers, and a dislocated shoulder because he thinks he can do what he wants to his own flesh and blood.”
It burned in her, burned because she’d seen hints of Richard Troy—who’d thought he could do what he wanted to his own flesh and blood—in Feingold.
“In a drunk,” Eve continued, “he could pound somebody to death, pick up a sticker, slice them. But he’s far too stupid to think of something as elaborate as shipping nerve agents. That doesn’t mean he deserves to squat in that filthy hole of his getting free rent from some slumlord who doesn’t give a shit how people live.”
“This makes me feel better,” Peabody decided as she pulled out her ’link.
* * *
The building in SoHo might have been a universe away from the one on Avenue C. Well maintained, it boasted a street-level restaurant where customers sat at sidewalk tables and waitstaff in fitted vests over white shirts hustled out with drinks and plates. The entrance door, painted a quiet beige, boasted solid security. Rather than mastering in, Eve pressed the buzzer for Victoria Abner-Rufty and Gregory Brickman’s loft.
A male voice—not computerized—answered.
“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”
“Yes, come right up.”
The door released.
Though she found the entranceway well maintained, Eve still took the stairs.
A man stood at the open door of the second-level unit. He looked exhausted. A well-built, mixed-race man in his late thirties worked up a polite smile that didn’t reach his quiet brown eyes.
“Greg Brickman.” He offered his hand to both of them. “I’m Tori’s husband—Kent’s son-in-law. Please come in. Thanks for calling ahead,” he added. “It’s given Marty a little time to compose himself. He’s back in the kitchen with Tori. Ah, Marcus and Landa—that’s Tori’s brother and his wife—they’re upstairs. They’re working on the … the arrangements. We, ah, sent all the kids out to the park with the nanny. I hope that’s all right. We just felt it would be better if … if they were out while you talk to Marty.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Brickman.”
“Greg. It’s a horrible time. We’re, none of us, doing very well. If you’d wait, I’ll go get Marty.”
The living area, comfortable, cheerful, had its wide window overlooking the street and the artistic hustle of the area. Like her fathers’ home, the daughter’s displayed a lot of family pictures, some good art, a sense of color and style without being too fussy about it.
Greg brought his father-in-law out along with a woman who had her dead father’s athletic build, a messy tail of brown hair, a grief-stricken face devoid of enhancements.
“This is my daughter, Victoria.” Rufty clung to her hand. “I don’t … Marcus?”
“He and Landa are upstairs. Do you want me to get them?” Greg asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t seem to think more than a minute ahead.”
“I’ll get them.”
“Come on, Daddy, let’s sit.” Tori led him to the sofa, sat close by his side. “Do you have any news for us? I’m sorry,” she interrupted herself. “Please sit down. I should offer you something. Daddy, why don’t I make you some tea.”
“We’re fine. We’re sorry to intrude at this difficult time,” Eve began.
“You were kind yesterday. I remember you were kind. Everyone’s been kind. Seldine said you told her she could call, she could come. She’s family. We’re grateful.”
“Dr. Rufty,” Peabody said, “I’m sure you know, but I’d like to say that everyone we talked to in Dr. Abner’s office spoke so highly of him, and with such warmth.”
“Thank you for that.”
Greg came back with another man and a woman. The son took his build from his other father. Tall, gangly, with Rufty’s eyes blurry with fatigue, he moved to Rufty’s other side as his wife took a chair.
“This is my son, Marcus, and his wife, Landa.”
“Have you found who did this to my father?” Marcus demanded.
“We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry, and the investigation is active and ongoing.”
“That’s just cop talk.”
“It is cop talk,” Eve agreed. “It’s also true.”
“They aren’t the ones to be angry with, Marcus,” his wife murmured.
He opened his mouth, shut it again. Then took a moment to breathe. “You’re right. I apologize.”
“Not necessary. We have some follow-up questions, Dr. Rufty. Did your husband talk to you about a Ben Ringwold?”
“I … I’m not sure.”
“Fifteen years ago, Dr. Abner reported Ben Ringwold for child abuse.”
“Wait, yes, of course—”
“Is that who killed my father?” Tori asked.
“No, no, no.” Rufty spoke quickly, rubbing her hand in his. “I remember Ben very well now. He came to see Kent—several years ago now. He was doing the Twelve Steps. He came to apologize, and in fact, thanked Kent for helping to stop him.”
Nodding slowly, Rufty brought it all back. “He’d made peace with his ex-wife, had reached out to his son. Step Nine—he was doing what he could to make amends, and came to Kent. The three of us talked for some time, I remember.”
He smiled a little. “Ben said he’d started a business. A food truck. We went there once. Kent was so pleased. He said how it renewed his faith in people to see someone turn his life around. You don’t suspect him of hurting Kent?”
“No, not at this time. He has a solid alibi, and appears to have done just what your husband said. He’s turned his life around. He may contact you, Dr. Rufty, to offer his condolences. Did your husband speak of a Thomas Thane?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I know that name.” Marcus spoke up. “I know that name. Dad reported him. He beat his wife and child. We had a discussion about it after he got off—community service or some bullshit like that.”
“Did your father indicate Mr. Thane had made any threats?”
“No.”
“How about Curtis Feingold?”
“Yes, yes, I know that one.” Rufty nodded. “I remember because his wife was a teacher, and I helped her get a position at a school in Yonkers. I have some colleagues there. He—Feingold—was an abusive drunk. I know he went to prison.”
“Dr. Milo Ponti?”
“Yes, yes. We all know that name. We had a family dinner, and Kent was late because he’d checked on a patient in the ER at Unger. He gave this Ponti a talking-to because he’d berated a woman who’d brought her young boy in. Kent couldn’t abide seeing someone in pain or distress not being treated with compassion. But you don’t kill a man for giving you a talking-to.”