The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [523]
“What possible reason would the Bransons have to fake his death?”
“The same reason they arranged his brother’s. Money. The same reason they timed it to pull part of the team away from the central theme. More money, with a little payback thrown in. We’ll tie them to Apollo. Sooner or later, something’ll click. Take care of Zeke. If I’m right, we’ll be able to tell him he didn’t kill anyone. Let’s move, Peabody.”
“I can’t keep up,” Peabody told her. “I can’t get it straight in my head.”
“You will, when we get the rest of the pieces. Check those financials.”
Peabody scrambled to keep pace as they worked their way down to the garage. “Jesus, Branson transferred fifty million—that’s most of the fluid cash in the business—to an off-planet, coded account. He did it last night, two hours before Zeke . . .”
“Check their personal accounts.”
Working one-handed, Peabody slid into the car. “Six personals, between twenty and forty apiece. He cleaned them out yesterday.”
“A nice little nest egg for Cassandra.” As she drove, Eve contacted Feeney on her communicator.
“Voiceprints match,” he told her. “Now how are we going to arrest a dead guy?”
“I’m working on it. Take a run by Branson T and T; take a look at the droids in development. Did we get the order for tapping Monica Rowan’s lines?”
“They’re tapped. Not a peep so far.”
“Keep me up.” She ended transmission. “Peabody, contact the locals up in Maine, get a black and white to do a runby. I want Monica under wraps.”
Lisbeth wasn’t pleased to see cops at her door. She stared through Eve and ignored Peabody. “I have nothing to say to you. My counsel has advised—”
“Save it.” Eve pushed her way in.
“This is harassment. One call to my lawyer, and I’ll have your badge.”
“How tight were the Branson boys, Lisbeth?”
“Excuse me?”
“J. C. must have talked to you about his brother. What did they think of each other?”
“They were brothers.” Lisbeth shrugged. “They ran a business together. They had their ups and downs.”
“Did they fight?”
“J. C. didn’t fight with anyone, really.” Something like grief flickered in her eyes and was quickly shut down. “They disagreed occasionally.”
“Who ran the show?”
“B. D. ran the show.” Lisbeth waved a hand. “J. Clarence was better with people, and creatively he enjoyed having input in new projects. It didn’t bother him that B. D. held the reins.”
“What was his relationship with Clarissa?”
“He liked her, of course. She’s a charming woman. I think she intimidated him somewhat. She’s very formal and aloof for all that air of fragility.”
“Really, but you were friends?”
“Friendly. After all, we were both involved with a Branson. We socialized, with and without them.”
“Did she ever tell you B. D. mistreated her?”
“Mistreated?” Lisbeth let out a short laugh. “The man fawned on her. All she had to do was bat her eyes and purr and he jumped.”
Eve glanced toward the wall screen, noted it was turned off. “Not watching the news these days?”
“No.” She turned her head and for a moment looked tired and strained. “I’m making arrangements to clean up some personal matters before I transfer to the rehabilitation center.”
“Then you wouldn’t have heard that B. Donald Branson was killed last night.”
“What?”
“He fell during a struggle when he was beating his wife.”
“That’s ridiculous. That’s absurd. He wouldn’t lay a hand on Clarissa. He worships her.”
“Clarissa claims he’s been abusing her physically for years.”
“Then she’s a liar,” Lisbeth snapped out. “He treated her like a princess, and if she says otherwise, she’s lying through her teeth.”
She stopped abruptly, went very pale.
“You didn’t find the photographs in your mail slot, did you, Lisbeth? You had them handed to you by someone you trusted—someone you thought cared about J. C.”
“I—I found them.”
“No point in lying to protect the Bransons. He’s dead, and she’s gone. Who gave you the photographs of J. C., Lisbeth? Who gave them to you and told you