Free Brotherhood in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

If you’d tell me the nature of your visit, I should be able to direct you to the appropriate party.”
    â€œThe second in command.”
    The faintest flicker of annoyance ran through the polite mask. “Perhaps Ms. MacDonald or Mr. Book could assist you. If you’d care to take a seat, I’ll see if either are available.”
    â€œThey’ll want to be.” Rather than moving to the waiting area, Eve simply stood where she was.
    â€œOne moment.”
    The woman tapped a control on the arm of her chair. It glided along the S, stopped at the far curve. She tapped her earpiece, turned one of her lethally clad shoulders.
    â€œIt feels like nobody here knows the founder’s missing.”
    Eve glanced toward the portrait. “The detective on the missing angle’s started the ball rolling. I’d say it hasn’t rolled this far yet.”
    â€œBut wouldn’t his wife—”
    â€œYou had to be there,” Eve said as the receptionist glided back.
    â€œMs. MacDonald will see you. If you’ll just take the elevator to three-one, someone will escort you to her office.”
    Eve stepped in, requested the floor. Then shook her head when Peabody pulled out her PPC. “I ran the top dogs last night. MacDonald, Tressa, forty-three. Divorce times two. One offspring, male. Law degree, Harvard with a side of poli-sci. Clerked for Judge Mira back in the day, served as his chief of staff during the senator years.”
    â€œThat’s a lot without notes.”
    â€œI figure the senator did her along the way, and she deserves a close look.”
    If the entrance to thirty had been slickly professional, the thirty-first floor hit palatial.
    Yeah, Eve thought, this was top-dog territory with its thick red rugs over white marble. Three people worked at the single curve of red counter, and lush potted trees flanked the window wall. Seating ran to slate-gray leather arranged in conversational groupings. Currently the gigantic wall screen split to show six of the twenty-four/seven media broadcasts.
    It wouldn’t be long, Eve thought, before those broadcasts included stories on former Senator Mira—alive or dead.
    As they started for the counter, a beefy man with a neck thick as a boar’s came through double, frosted doors.
    He looked like a brawler wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit.
    â€œLieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. I’m Aiden Bannion, Ms. MacDonald’s admin. I’ll take you to her office.”
    She’d never seen anyone who looked less like an admin, but followed him through the doors and into an open office area where workstations were separated by willpower rather than structure.
    She smelled coffee and someone’s take-out breakfast while voices clashed, ’links jangled, keyboards clattered.
    If you took away the fancy floors and colors, the fashionable wardrobe and footwear, it wasn’t much different from her own bullpen.
    They wound through, past offices with doors firmly closed, and to the corner office with the double doors signaling its rank.
    As these were open, he stepped straight in.
    â€œLieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”
    â€œThanks, Aiden—two seconds.” She tapped her earpiece. “I’m back. If you take care of your end on that, I’ll take care of mine. By end of day. That’s great. We’ll talk later. Bye now.”
    She rose as she signed off, a small, slender woman in a soft gray suit with a little frill of white over the cleavage. She wore her hair, flaming, fiery red, in curls that spilled to her shoulders.
    She came around the desk, assessing Eve with dark green eyes.
    â€œTressa MacDonald.” She held out a hand, shook Eve’s, then Peabody’s with a brisk, firm grip. “Someone’s hurt or worse. I know who you are,” she explained in a voice as brisk and firm as her handshake. “I know your reputation. You’re Homicide. If someone’s