Loyalty in Death (In Death #9)(11)

“I’m sorry,” he managed. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Branson, let me get this over with as quickly as I can. Ms. Cooke claims she discovered your brother was involved with another woman.”

“What? That’s absurd.” Branson dismissed the idea with one angry wave of his hand. “J. C. was devoted to Lisbeth. He never looked at another woman.”

“If that’s true, why would she have killed him? Did they quarrel often, violently?”

“J. C. couldn’t maintain an argument for five minutes,” Branson said wearily. “It just wasn’t in him. He had no violence, and he certainly was no womanizer.”

“You don’t believe he could have been interested in someone else?”

“If he was — which is difficult to believe — he would have told Lisbeth. He would have been honest with her and dissolved their relationship before starting another. J. C. had almost childishly honest standards.”

“If I accept that, then I’m looking for motive. You and your bother were co-presidents. Who inherits his share?”

“I do.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Our grandfather founded this company. J. C. and I have been at the helm together over thirty years. In our business agreement it’s stipulated that the survivor or the survivor’s heirs inherit the partnership.”

“Could he have designated any portion of it to Lisbeth Cooke?”

“Not of the company, no. We have a contract.”

“Of his personal funds and holdings, then.”

“Certainly, he’d be free to designate any or all of his personal estate to whomever he pleased.”

“Would we be talking substantial?”

“Yes, I believe we would say substantial.” Then he shook his head. “You think she killed him for money? I can’t believe that. He was always very generous with her, and Lisbeth is — was — a well-paid member of this company. Money shouldn’t have been an issue.”

“It’s an angle,” was all Eve said. “I’d like the name of his lawyer, and I’d appreciate it if you’d clear it so I can have the terms of the will.”

“Yes, of course.” He tapped a finger on the top of his desk and the center drawer slid open. “I have one of Suzanna’s business cards right here. I’ll contact her right away,” he added, rising as Eve did to hand her the card. “Tell her to give you whatever information you need.”

“I appreciate your cooperation.”

Eve checked her wrist unit as she left. She could probably hook up with the lawyer by mid-afternoon, she decided. And since she had some time, why not juggle in a trip to Fixer’s shop?

CHAPTER THREE

Peabody shifted two of the three bags of groceries and foodstuffs she’d stopped off for on the trip home and dug out her key. She’d loaded up on fresh fruits and vegetables, soy mix, tofu, dried beans, and the brown rice she’d disliked since childhood.

“Dee.” Zeke set down the single duffel bag he’d packed for New York and added his sister’s two sacks to the one he already carried. “You shouldn’t have bought all this stuff.”

“I remember how you eat.” She grinned over her shoulder at him and didn’t add that most of her larder consisted of things no respectable Free-Ager would consider consuming. Fat- and chemical-laden snacks, red meat substitutes, alcohol.

“It’s robbery what they charge for fresh fruit here, and I don’t think those apples you bought came off a tree in the last ten days.” Plus he sincerely doubted they’d been organically grown.

“Well, we’re kind of short on orchards in Manhattan.”

“Still. You should’ve let me pay for it.”

“This is my city, and you’re the first of the family to visit me.” She pushed open the door, turned to take the sacks.

“There’s got to be some Free-Ager co-ops around.”

“I don’t really do any co-opping or bartering these days. Don’t have the time. I pull in a decent salary, Zeke. Don’t fuss. Anyway.” She blew her hair out of her eyes. “Come on in. It’s not much, but it’s home now.”

He stepped in behind her, scanned the living area with its sagging sofa, cluttered tables, bright poster prints. The windowshade was down, something she hurried over to remedy.

She didn’t have much of a view, but she enjoyed the rush and rumble of the street below. When the light shot in, she noted that the apartment was every bit as untidy as the street below.

And remembered, abruptly, she’d left a disc text on the mind of the serial torture killer in her computer. She’d have to get it out and bury it somewhere.

“If I’d known you were coming, I’d’ve picked up a little.”

“Why? You never picked up your room at home.”

He grinned at her and headed to the tiny kitchen to set down the food sack. Actually, it relieved him to see her living space was so much like her. Steady, unpretentious, basic.

He noted a slow drip from the faucet, a blister burn in the countertop. He could fix those for her, he thought. Though it surprised him she hadn’t done so herself.

“I’ll do this.” She stripped off her coat, her cap, and hurried in behind him. “Go put your things in the bedroom. I’ll bunk on the couch while you’re here.”