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Late thirties, Eve concluded. Poster boy handsome in the requisite excellent suit. He had a rich man’s tan, a gym-fit body, and a quick, crooked smile women probably found charming.
He also had the pinprick pupils of the high if not the mighty.
“Sorry for the wait. Carter Young-Sachs.” He took Eve’s hand, squeezed it rather than shook, did the same with Peabody. “Let’s have a seat. Tuva, how about some of your amazing coffee. She does something special.”
He winked.
“I’m sorry, they didn’t give me your names.”
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.”
“I thought I recognized you.” He wagged a finger, and the carved band on his middle finger glinted. “Roarke’s wife and the center of some Hollywood in New York excitement. Ty and I are going to the premiere. Tuva, we’re entertaining celebrities here.”
“Police,” Eve corrected. “We’re not here to be entertained or for the amazing coffee.”
“Might as well have some. I’m looking forward to the premiere, especially now that I’ve had this chance to meet both of you.” He settled back, spread his hands, every movement just slightly exaggerated with that chemically induced energy. “And what can I do for you?”
“Are you acquainted with Marta Dickenson?”
“Doesn’t strike a bell. Tuva?”
“She was the auditor from Brewer, Kyle, and Martini. She was killed.”
“Oh. Right.” He maneuvered his face into serious lines for a moment. “Old Man Brewer called me personally about that. Slipped my mind. She wasn’t the original auditor. That was...”
“Chaz Parzarri,” Tuva supplied as she brought out a tray of coffee.
“Right. Nice guy. He had some kind of accident. Bad luck for Brewer and the rest.”
“Can you tell me where you were night before last from nine to midnight?”
“Night before last?” He looked as if she’d asked where he’d been five years before, on a Tuesday, at two-fifteen sharp.
“You attended Poker Night at your club. Your driver picked you up at seven,” Tuva told him.
“Right, right. I couldn’t win a damn thing. Just tanked, but what the hell, all for a good cause.”
“What time did you leave the club?” Eve asked.
“I’m not sure. Since I got my butt kicked, I left early. Maybe nine-thirty or ten.”
“And you went home.”
“Well, no.” He glanced at Tuva, shrugged. “I went by Tuva’s place. I could tell you we worked late, but, hell, we’re all adults here. I’m not sure when I left.”
Color high, Tuva stood very straight. “At just before one in the morning.”
“She’d know.” He offered that quick, crooked grin, another wink. “No big deal. We’re both single. Hey, Ty, come meet the city’s own Lieutenant Dallas and Peabody.”
Another poster boy, dark to Young-Sachs’s light with the broody, sulky looks some women found as appealing as the crooked grin. He dropped down in a chair as if exhausted.
“Tuva, how about another cup here? I could use some coffee.” He gave Eve a subtle smirk. “So, hunting for clones?”
“For killers,” she countered. “Marta Dickenson’s killers.”
“Who?”
Once again, Tuva gave the information, and brought the fresh cup.
