Echoes in Death(53)

Peabody shook her head as she studied her handheld. “And my top choice isn’t going to fit. Mags said this Max Bloombaum was the ace at monster makeup and prosthetics, which is why they contracted him to create the makeup for Planet Plague. He’s sixty-three, height six-two, married, three kids, two grandkids.”

“Too tall, too settled for the profile. Finish my run on Kyle Knightly.”

“Does he ring for you?”

“He’s connected to the first vics, has used the caterer and the rental company, has access to the necessary makeups and effects. His alibi is a house droid.”

Eve drummed her fingers on the wheel. “He comes off as sincere, concerned, emotionally attached to the Patricks. But he runs about five-eight, knows their house, would easily know their plans. Not married, lives alone.”

“I’m on it— Wait.” She switched to her ’link. “Detective Peabody. Yes, Mr. Brinkman, thanks for getting back to me. That would be fine. We’ll come to you now. Yes, sir, we will. Thank you.”

Leaning forward, Peabody programmed the Brinkmans’ address in the in-dash. “They’re home now, ready to talk to us.”

Eve took the next turn and headed uptown.

“Knightly, Kyle,” Peabody read. “Caucasian, age thirty-one, height five-eight and a quarter, weight one-fifty-two. Born Greenwich, Connecticut, to Lorinda Mercer and Quentin Knightly, no sibs. Good education,” she added. “Private schools, prep schools, majored in cinema art and science—at Juilliard, two years, with another two in London. No marriage, no cohabs on record. Got a few minor producing credits—England, France, New L.A. Formed On Screen Productions with Neville Patrick (cousin) in 2055. Some links here to various articles on that.”

“Later.”

“Their first production was a low-rated but critically acclaimed home-screen series, Urbanites, canceled after its first season. Several other productions, more successful, also listed. No criminal that shows. Net worth estimated at sixteen-point-five million—that’s personal. Company is estimated at just under five hundred million, largely due to the success of Planet Plague, At Sea, and the big-screen production of Camelot Down. Do you want me to dig deeper?”

“Not now. Run the others on your list. And we’ll see if the Brinkmans bring any of this into focus.”





10

The Brinkmans’ home had a dignified look of weathered brick and creamy trim. It wore its age gracefully, and that age and grace contrasted with an obviously new security system. She counted three cams, imagined there would be more on the sides, the back. Another trio—sharp, silver-toned police locks—bored into the thick front door. A palm plate, with scanner, had been installed in the rosy old brick beside it.

The minute she hit the buzzer, the security comp demanded her name and her purpose.

“NYPSD. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We’re expected.”

Please hold your identification up to be scanned and verified.

She did so, as did Peabody.

Thank you. Your identification has been verified. Please wait.

Moments later the door opened. The man who answered wore what she thought of as a Summerset suit. Unlike the bony butler, this one had shoulders like an arena ball tackle, and a subtle bulge at his side under his jacket where he wore a weapon.

“Lieutenant, Detective. You’re cleared to enter.”

Second line of defense, Eve thought as they stepped into the foyer. A tall mirror, a long table, a dreamy painting of a water lily gave the narrow entrance the illusion of space and depth.

“Maxine will take your coats.”

Eve eyed the woman in black. She might be a housekeeper, but she looked like she could kick some ass. Eve shrugged out of her coat, passed it over.

The man said, “Follow me,” and led them into the living area off the foyer.

A fire simmered in a room where everything sparkled, nothing seemed out of place. Eve would have termed the room stylishly elegant, a long way from cozy.

The Brinkmans sat together on a gel sofa where bold red birds flew over a deep blue background. They sat so close they might have been fused at hip and shoulder.

Though it had started out black, Ira Brinkman had allowed his hair, like the bricks, to age so wiry strands of silver sprang through it, reminding Eve of Feeney. His eyes, a clear blue, stayed steady on her face even as he took his wife’s hand in his.

Lori’s heritage had gifted her with pure mocha skin, with eyes caught between blue and green under sharp, dark brows. Eyes fringed with long, thick lashes, eyes that held nerves and fatigue.

Ira squeezed his wife’s hand, released it, got to his feet.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, my wife and I are very sorry to learn there’s been another, even more tragic incident.”