"The what?"
"Like in the story." He nearly smiled now. "The goose that laid the golden eggs. He was happy to give her whatever she wanted, and more. Now he's dead. No more golden eggs."
Unless, Eve thought as she left the office, she'd wanted all the eggs at one time.
She knew as she already consulted the animated map in the lobby that B. Donald Branson's office was at the opposite end of this level from his brother's. Hoping to find him in, she headed down. Many of the stations were unmanned, most of the glass doors locked with the offices behind them dark and empty.
The building itself seemed to be grieving.
At regular intervals, holograph screens were set up to show off Branson Tools and Toys' new or favored products. She stopped at one, watching with equal parts amusement and dismay as a uniformed beat cop action-droid returned a lost child to his tearfully grateful mother.
The cop faced the screen, its face sober and trustworthy, his uniform as severely pressed as Peabody's. "It's our job to serve and protect."
Then the image pulled back, spun slowly to give the viewer a three-sixty view of the product and accessories while the computer's voice stated product and pricing details. A street thief action-droid with airskates was offered as a companion piece.
Shaking her head, Eve turned away. She wondered if the company produced LC droid figures, or illegals dealers. Maybe a couple of psychopaths just to keep the game interesting. Then, of course, you'd need victim-droids.
Jesus.
The clear glass doors opened as Eve approached. A pale and weary-eyed woman manned a sleek U-shaped console and fielded calls on a privacy headset.
"Thank you very much. Your call is being recorded and your condolences will be passed on to the family. Mr. Branson's memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow, at two o'clock at Quiet Passages, Central Park South. Yes, it's a great shock. A great loss. Thank you for calling."
She swiveled the mouthpiece aside and offered Eve a sober smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Branson isn't available. These offices will be closed until Tuesday of next week."
Eve took out her badge. "I'm primary on his brother's homicide. Is he in?"
"Oh, Lieutenant." The woman touched her fingers briefly to her eyes, then rose. "One moment, please."
She slipped gracefully from behind the console, then after a quick knock on a tall white door, disappeared inside. Eve heard the soft beep of incoming calls from the multiline 'link, then the door opened again.
"Please come in, Lieutenant. Mr. Branson will see you. Is there anything I can get you?"
"No, I'm fine."
She entered the office. The first thing she noticed was that it was dramatically opposed to J. C.'s. This was cool colors, sleek lines, rich sophistication. No silly animal chairs or grinning droid dolls. Here the muted grays and blues were designed to soothe. And the wide surface of the desk, uncluttered with gadgets, clear for business.
B. Donald Branson stood behind that desk. He didn't have the bulk of his brother but was slim in a sleekly tailored suit. His hair was a dull gold, slicked back from a high forehead. Eyebrows, thick and peaked, were shades darker over tired eyes of pale green.
"Lieutenant Dallas, it's kind of you to come in person." His voice was as quiet and soothing as the room. "I meant to contact you, to thank you for your kindness when you called last night to inform me of my brother's death."
"I'm sorry to intrude at this time, Mr. Branson."
"No, please. Sit down. We're all trying to deal with it."
"I gather your brother was well liked."
"Loved," he corrected as they took their seats. "It was impossible not to love J. C. That's why it's so hard to imagine him gone, and in this way. Lisbeth, she was like part of the family. My God." He looked away for a moment, trying to compose himself.
"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.