Echoes in Death(46)

“The Patricks.” Peabody pulled out her memo book. “What I dug up is they met through a mutual friend at a party on Long Island about three years ago. At that time she was involved with someone else. A few weeks later, that ended, but he was seeing someone else. Basically they knew each other for around ten months before they started seriously dating. They got engaged about a year later—big splash—bought a house and moved in with each other last spring. Got married—even bigger splash—last June. They honeymooned in Europe—a three-week deal—and had been back for just over a week before the assault.”

“I’ll bet there was a lot of splash, too, in the gossip and society blathering about their honeymoon.”

“Yeah, I skimmed through some of it. They did Paris, Provence, Rome, Venice, London—”

“Not asking for their itinerary. They were specific targets. The assailant knew they were out of the country. If he’d just wanted to rob them, he’d have done that when they were gone. It just solidifies that the assaults, specifically the rapes, were the main objective.”

The building that housed On Screen Productions had its own underground parking. She pulled in, veered toward the visitor’s section, and wound through until she found a slot.

Without a swipe card for other floors, the elevator took them as far as the main lobby. Security and Information held the center in a space ringed with coffee shops, sundry shops, snack shops.

The coffee shops had the bulk of clientele.

Eve headed for the central counter, took out her badge. “NYPSD. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, to see Neville Patrick. On Screen Productions.”

“One moment.” The woman in an all-business black suit scanned the badge, swiped at a screen. “You’re cleared for that. Twenty-second floor would be their reception level. Take any elevator in Bank B.”

“Got it. Does Neville Patrick have a brother?” Eve asked Peabody.

“Two sisters.” Peabody consulted her memo book. “Half sisters. One lives in New L.A., one in London. There’s also a big family estate in the Lake District.”

“Parents?”

“Father is a director—primarily episodic home screen. First wife died in a vehicular accident, leaving him a widower with two girls. He remarried nearly a decade later. They produced Neville, and have been married for about thirty-five years. She was an actor, pretty much retired from that when she had their son.”

“What about Rosa Patrick?”

“Half sister from father’s previous relationship. Parents have been married for about twenty-five years. He’s fourth-generation money—that’s Hernandez money, which is substantial. He’s an engineer, specializing in rebuilding areas after natural disasters. The mother’s on the board of Give Back, which is an arm of the Hernandez Family Foundation.”

“Lori Brinkman’s a human rights attorney. Rosa Patrick’s family is heavy into good works. Daphne Strazza’s parents were killed in a natural disaster—nearly fifteen years ago, but possible cross there. Thin, but possible.”

The elevator opened into a colorfully lush reception area just as a woman strode through a set of glass doors etched with the On Screen logo.

Her suit wasn’t all business. A flowing jacket in bold red had a snatch of black lace beneath where impressive breasts swelled. The tiny skirt showed off long legs and skyscraper heels that matched the jacket. Her hair, shorter than Eve’s, formed a golden halo around a face dominated by huge eyes so blue they read purple.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” She had a smoky-room voice and a firm handshake. “Detective. I’m Zella Haug, Mr. Patrick’s admin. I’ll take you to his office. We’d like to keep this as quiet as possible.”

“No problem.”

They walked by a few offices, and a large area with a conference table around which about a dozen people all talked at once. A lot of people walked briskly while they talked on ’links or headphones or tapped on tablets.

Eve saw a man in an NYU sweatshirt with his feet on a big desk, watching a car chase on his wall screen. And another pacing his office while juggling three blue balls and apparently talking to himself.

“Writers,” Zella said absently. “Show runners, project acquisitions.”

She led the way to a corner office, knocked on the door, then opened it. “Neville, the police are here.”

He turned from the trio of wide windows and a view grander than his office.

He seemed younger than his ID shot, Eve thought, and certainly less polished. He wore a dark gray suit, no tie. He had a curling mass of hair around a thin face. His frame was also thin, as if he’d lost muscle as well as weight.