“Swallow your underwear,” Eve ordered, and pressed the buzzer on the next apartment.
“Trying,” Peabody muttered as Eve studied the apartment security.
Not top grade, she noted, but close. And the comp response came smooth and female.
Good afternoon. Please state your name and the purpose of your visit.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD.” Eve held her badge up for the scan. “Police inquiry.”
Thank you. Your identification has been verified. Mr. Iler will be with you in a moment. Please wait.
Lucius Iler, Eve thought. Age forty-four, third-generation money—antique trade. No marriage, no offspring. Registered day trader. Brother (deceased), uncle, grandmother, two cousins, and a stepsister in the military.
A lot of boxes checked, she mused as she heard the locks disengage.
Vid-star polished, she thought when Iler opened the door. Chestnut waves spilling artfully around an angular face sporting the perfect (and deliberate) amount of scruff. Turquoise eyes heavily lashed, transmitted interest and curiosity as a little dimple winked on the right side of his mouth with his polite smile.
“How can I help you, officers?”
“We’d like to come in and speak with you, Mr. Iler.”
“What about?”
“Jordan Banks.”
“Who? Oh, oh, of course. I don’t know how I can help with that.”
“Can we come in?”
“Sorry, sure.” He backed up. “I’m a little distracted. I wasn’t expecting cops at the door. I guess no one does.”
“Criminals sometimes do,” Peabody said, earning the little dimple.
“I hadn’t thought of that. So . . . I guess we should sit down.”
Eve supposed it was only natural for someone with a family antique business to fill his home with them. The generous space offered plenty of room for large tables, freestanding cabinets, fussy chairs, and sofas. A lot of gleaming wood and rich fabrics with an enormous, softly faded rug centering the space.
Like Banks’s, this unit boasted a fireplace. Silver candlestands and a tall painted vase graced the mantel over it.
Behind them a long, oval mirror, framed in more gleaming wood, reflected the room.
Most of the art showed landscapes that struck Eve as European. Sunbaked houses jogged up and down hillsides, charming cottages sprang out of woods and gardens.
He didn’t offer refreshments, but after gesturing to chairs, sat—a slender man in a white cashmere sweater and tailored black pants.
He tapped his fingers together. “What can I tell you?”
“Did you know Jordan Banks?”
“I did—slightly. We met some time ago. I’m not sure when, exactly. Maybe a year or so? At a party. We had mutual friends, it turned out. Thad and Delvinia. And somehow or other it came out we lived in the same building. New York’s really a small world. We chatted awhile. He owned an art gallery, and my business is arts and antiques, so—”
“I thought you were a day trader.”
“Oh.” His fingers tapped together again. “That’s more a hobby I enjoy. My family business is arts and antiques, so as Jordan and I had that mutual interest, we talked shop for a while, exchanged business cards.”
“Did you follow up on that?”
“‘Follow up’?”
“Connect again?”
“I did visit the Banks Gallery—his art shop—and we had a drink. His gallery focuses on current art and artists, and my interests are in older works. But we had a drink once or twice, or I might see him at a party and chat.”
“Ever been to his apartment here?”
“Yes, actually, to see his art collection, and naturally, I reciprocated. We might have been art lovers, but our tastes didn’t strike the same chord.”
“Were you at the party on Monday night hosted by your mutual friends, Thad and Delvinia?”
“No. I was sorry to miss that. I was on a road trip—only returned that evening, and much too tired to pull it together and head out to a party.”
“A road trip?”
“North. Through New York State, into New England. Antiquing—really I suppose more of a busman’s holiday.”
“How long were you gone?”
“I took a long weekend. Frankly, I wanted a little break, so I drove north.” He spread his hands, tapped his fingers back together. “No real plan other than to stop here and there, look at antique and collectible shops. I don’t, in general, do any of our buying, but I do scout now and then. Primarily our antiques come from Europe, but we do buy and sell Americana as well. You never know what treasure you might stumble on in some little shop.”
“And did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Stumble on any treasures.”
“Not this time. But, as I said, it was really a busman’s holiday. An excuse to get out of the city.”
“And you got back Monday evening.”
“That’s right. I’m not sure what time. I unpacked, had a drink to unwind.”
“And then?”
He shifted, looked mildly annoyed. “I can’t tell you exactly. Took a shower, puttered about, read a little, as I recall. I went to bed early. It’s lovely to get away, but there’s nothing quite like your own bed.”
“Did you speak to anyone, let them know you were back? Answer messages that might have come in while you were away?”
“No. As I said before I was tired. I really don’t understand why you need to know all of this.”
“Jordan Banks was murdered in the early hours of Tuesday morning.”
“Yes, so I heard. What does it have to do with me?”
“You knew him. He was murdered after leaving a party of your mutual friends. These are routine questions in a murder investigation.”
“I wouldn’t know as I’ve never been questioned by the police.” His tone cooled, considerably. “Frankly, it feels intrusive.”
“I’m sure it does. Do you know Hugo Markin?”
“Hugo? Yes, I know him and Delores—his wife.”
“Willimina Karson?”
“I met her when she was involved with Jordan. I wouldn’t say I know her, but I’ve met her.”
“Paul Rogan.”
He stared into Eve’s eyes, tapped his fingertips. “No, that’s not a familiar name.”
“Wayne Denby.”
“I don’t think so. I meet a lot of people.”
“Angelo Richie.”
“No, I don’t think . . . wait. The artist. I know of him and his work. He was just killed, wasn’t he? It’s tragic.”
“For him,” Eve agreed. “For an art collector who bought his work before he started to rise—that would mean increased value. Wouldn’t it? Speaking as someone in the arts and antique business.”
He shifted again. “That’s a cold and calculating perspective.”
“But accurate?”
“Yes, very likely.” His fingers tapped, his gaze strayed, fixed over her shoulder. “I don’t see what that has to do with Jordan’s murder.”
“Banks had a Richie figure study in his apartment.”
“Did he? I doubt I’d have recognized the work. But surely you’re not suggesting Jordan was killed over a charcoal figure study by an emerging artist.”
Eve smiled. “People kill for all kinds of reasons. Do you gamble, Mr. Iler?”
“Gamble? Occasionally. Who doesn’t?”
“Did you ever gamble with Banks?”
“Not that I recall. Lieutenant, I met the man a handful of times over the last year or two. We weren’t close friends. If that’s all, I—”
“Just a couple more. You have a number of family members in the military.”
His lips quivered a little so the dimple flickered like a nerve twisted. “You looked into my family?”
“Standard procedure, Mr. Iler. I want to say I’m grateful for their service, and very sorry for the loss of your brother.”
Even as his shoulders relaxed, Eve saw genuine emotion come into his eyes. “Thank you. We’ve very proud of our long family history of serving. My brother, Terry . . . Captain Terrance James Iler gave his life serving.”
“A terrorist attack on his base while he was stationed in Seoul. Four years ago, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and still as fresh as yesterday.” Iler looked away. “He was due to come home the following week. He told me—I spoke with him only hours before he was killed—he planned to ask Felicia to marry him. He never got the chance.”
“Felicia?”
“Felicia Mortimer. They’d been involved for quite a while, and Terry told me he planned to buy a ring, ask her to marry him when he came home. He never came home.”
His throat worked as he looked away again. “He saved lives that day. He gave his life to save others. He was a hero.”
He held up a hand. “I’m sorry, it’s still raw. I suppose it always will be. I hope you’ll excuse me now.”
When he rose, Eve got to her feet. “Again, we’re sorry for your loss. Thank you for your time.” She turned for the door, stopped. “I nearly forgot. If you could give us the names of the places you stayed over your long weekend, it would tie that off.”
“What possible difference does it make?”
“For our report.” She studied him, smiled blandly. “Checks all the boxes.”
“I have no idea. I told you before I didn’t have a set plan. I just stopped when the mood struck. New England’s ripe with odd little B and Bs. I can’t remember the names.”
“That’s okay. You’ll have the paper trail—credit card data.”
His jaw tightened like a drum. “I didn’t use credit or debit. I used cash.”
“Really? No record for expenses, taxes?”
“I explained—clearly, I think—it was really a holiday for me.”