The In Death Collection, Books 16-20

by J. D. Robb

  “Okay. Next of kin on the other vics?”

  “Grant Swisher’s parents divorced. Father’s whereabouts currently unknown. Mother remarried—third time—and living on Vegas II. Works as a blackjack dealer. Keelie Swisher’s parents are deceased—back when she was six. Foster care and state schools.”

  And that, Eve knew, was just tons of fun. “When we’ve talked to the Dysons, contact Grant Swisher’s next of kin and inform. She may have legal guardianship of the kid, and we’ll need to deal with that. You got an addy on Swisher’s law firm?”

  “Swisher and Rangle, on West Sixty-first.”

  “Close to the hotel. We’ll hit there after the Dysons. See how it goes and tap in another pass at the scene if it fits.”

  This, as hard as it was, she knew how to do. Shattering the lives of those left behind was a job she did all too often. Roarke had, as promised, cleared the way. Since she was expected, she avoided the usual wrangle with the doorman, the time-consuming conversation with desk clerks and hotel security.

  She almost missed it.

  But she and Peabody were efficiently escorted to the elevators and given the Dysons’ room number.

  “Only child, right?”

  “Yeah, just Linnie. He’s a lawyer, too, corporate. She’s a pediatrician. Reside about two blocks south of the Swishers. Daughters go to the same school, same class.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Eve commented as they rode up to the forty-second floor.

  “You were wrapped up with the kid awhile. We detectives do what we can.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw Peabody shift her stance, wince just a bit. Ribs still bothering her, she thought. Should’ve taken a few more days medical. But she let it pass.

  “Get any financials on the Swishers?”

  “Not yet. We detectives are not miracle workers.”

  “Slacker.” Eve stepped off, walked straight to 4215. She didn’t allow herself to think, to feel. What good would it do?

  She pressed the buzzer, held her badge up to the security peep. Waited.

  The man who answered was wrapped in a plush hotel robe. His thatch of dark brown hair stuck up in wild tufts and his square, attractive face held the sleepy, satisfied look of someone who’d just enjoyed some early morning nookie.

  “Officer?”

  “Lieutenant Dallas. Matthew Dyson?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, we’re not up yet.” He cupped his hand over a huge yawn. “What time is it?”

  “Just after seven. Mr. Dyson—”

  “Is there a problem in the hotel?”

  “Can we come in, Mr. Dyson, speak to you and your wife?”

  “Jenny’s still in bed.” The sleepy look was fading into mild irritation. “What’s the problem?”

  “We’d like to come in, Mr. Dyson.”

  “All right, all right. Hell.” He stepped back, waved at them to shut the door.

  They’d sprung for a suite—one of the dreamy, romantic ones with banks of real flowers, real candles, fireplace, deep sofas. There was a bottle of champagne upended in a silver bucket on the coffee table. Two flutes, and she noted, some lacy portion of female lingerie draped like a flag over the back of the sofa.

  “Would you get your wife, Mr. Dyson?”

  His eyes were brown like his hair. And irritation flashed into them. “Look, she’s sleeping. It’s our anniversary—or was yesterday—and we celebrated. My wife’s a doctor, and she works long hours. She never gets to sleep in. So tell me what the hell you want.”

  “I’m sorry, we need to speak with both of you.”

  “If there’s a problem with the hotel—”

  “Matt?” A woman opened the bedroom door. She was sleep-tousled and robed, and smiling as she shoved a hand through her short, disordered blonde curls. “Oh, I thought you must’ve ordered room service. I heard voices.”

  “Mrs. Dyson, I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. This is my partner, Detective Peabody.”

  “The police.” Her smile became uncertain as she walked to her husband, hooked an arm through his. “We weren’t that loud last night.”

  “I’m sorry. There was an incident at the Swishers’ early this morning.”

  “Keelie and Grant?” Matt Dyson went stiff and straight. “What kind of incident? Is everyone all right? Linnie. Did something happen to Linnie?”

  Fast, Eve knew. Like a short-armed punch to the face. “I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter was killed.”

  While Jenny’s eyes went blank and frozen, Matt’s went hot with rage. “That’s ridiculous. What is this, some sort of sick joke? I want you out of here, I want you to get out.”

  “Linnie? Linnie?” Jenny shook her head. “This can’t be true. This can’t be right. Keelie and Grant are too careful. They love her like their own. They’d never let anything happen to her. I need to call Keelie.”

  “Mrs. Swisher is dead,” Eve said flatly. “Persons unknown entered the residence last night. Mr. and Mrs. Swisher, their housekeeper, their son Coyle, your daughter were murdered. Their daughter Nixie was overlooked, and is now under protective custody.”

  “This is a mistake.”

  Jenny squeezed a hand on her husband’s arm as he began to shake. “But they have security. They have good security.”

  “It was compromised. We’re investigating. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m extremely sorry.”

  “Not my baby.” It wasn’t a cry so much as a wail as Matt Dyson crumbled, as he turned to his wife and collapsed against her. “Not our baby.”

  “She’s just a little girl.” Jenny rocked, herself, her husband, as her shattered eyes clung to Eve’s. “Who would hurt an innocent little girl?”

  “I intend to find out. Peabody.”

  On cue, Peabody stepped forward. “Why don’t we sit down? Can I get you something. Water? Tea?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” With her arm still wrapped around her husband, Jenny sank with him onto the couch. “Are you sure it was my Linnie? Maybe—”

  “She’s been identified. There’s no mistake. I’m sorry I have to intrude at this time, but I need to ask you a few questions. Did you know the Swishers well?”

  “We . . . Oh God, dead?” The barrage of shock had turned skin to paste. “All?”

  “You were friends?”

  “We were, God, like family. We . . . Keelie and I shared patients, and we . . . we all . . . the girls, the girls are like sisters, and we—Matt.” She encirled him, rocked again. Said his name over and over.

  “Can you think of anyone who wished them harm? Who wished anyone in the family harm?”

  “No. No. No.”

  “Did any of them mention being worried about anything? About being threatened or bothered by someone.”

  “No. I can’t think. No. Oh God, my baby.”

  “Was either of them involved with someone, outside of the marriage?”

  “I don’t know what you . . . Oh.” She closed her eyes as her husband continued to weep on her shoulder. “No. They had a good marriage. They loved each other, enjoyed each other. Their children. Coyle. Oh my God. Nixie.”

  “She’s all right. She’s safe.”

  “How? How did she get away?”

  “She’d gone downstairs for a drink. She wasn’t in bed at the time of the murders. I don’t believe she was seen.”

  “She wasn’t in bed,” Jenny said softly. “But my Linnie was. My baby was.” Tears flooded her cheeks. “I don’t understand. I can’t understand. We need to . . . Where is Linnie?”

  “She’s with the Medical Examiner. I’ll arrange for you to be taken to see her, when you’re ready.”

  “I need to know, but I can’t.” She turned her head so her shoulder rested on her husband’s as his did on hers. “We need to be alone now.”

  Eve dug a card out of her pocket, laid it on the coffee table. “Contact me when you’re ready. I’ll arrange the rest.”

  She walked away from their grief, and she and Peabody rode down to the lobby in silen
ce.

  The law offices boasted a comfortable waiting area, divided by theme rather than walls into distinct parts. A child’s corner, with a mini-comp and a lot of bright toys, flowed into a section designed, Eve imagined, with the older child in mind. E-mag vids, puzzles, trendy comp games. Across the room, adults could wait their turn in pastel chairs, and watch vids on parenting, sports, fashion, or gourmet cooking.

  The receptionist was young, with a cheerful smile and a shrewd eye. She wore her streaked red and gold hair in what Eve assumed to be a stylish fringe of varying lengths.

  “No appointment, but then cops don’t usually need one.” She made them as cops before badges were shown, and angled her head. “What’s up?”

  “We need to speak to Rangle,” Eve said and pulled out her badge for form.

  “Dave’s not in yet. He in trouble?”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “He’ll swing in any minute. Early bird. We don’t open for business until nine.” She made a point to gesture to the clock. “Still nearly an hour shy.”

  “That makes you an early bird, too.”

  The woman smiled, toothily. “I like coming in early, when it’s quiet. I get a lot done.”

  “What do you do here?”

  “Me, personally? Manage the office, assist. I’m a paralegal. What’s up with Dave?”

  “We’ll wait for him.”

  “Suit yourself. He’s got an appointment at . . .” She turned to a data unit, tapped the screen with short, square-shaped nails painted gold like the streaks in her hair. “Nine-thirty. But he likes to get here, line up his ducks beforehand like me. Should be in soon.”

  “Fine.” Because she wanted Peabody off her feet, Eve gestured her partner to the chairs, then leaned casually on the reception counter. “And you’d be?”

  “Sade Tully.”

  “Got an eye for cops, Sade?”

  “Mother’s on the job.”

  “That so? Where?”

  “Trenton. She’s a sergeant, city beat. My grandfather, too. And his daddy before him. Me, I broke tradition. Seriously, is Dave in trouble?”

  “Not that I know of. Anybody else here, in the office?”

  “Dave’s assistant isn’t due until ten. Health appointment. Receptionist generally clocks in about quarter to nine. Grant Swisher, Dave’s partner, should be in pretty soon. Grant’s between assistants, so I’m filling in that slot. We got a droid clerk, but I haven’t activated it yet today. Law student comes in about noon—after class—today. Well, if you’re going to hang, you want coffee?”

  “I would. We would,” Eve corrected. “Thanks.”

  “No prob.” Sade popped up, walked two steps to an AutoChef. “How you take it?”

  “Black for me, sweet and light for my partner.” As she spoke, Eve wandered, gave herself the chance to study the setup. Friendlier than most law offices, she decided. Little touches of hominess in the toys, the cityscape wall art. “How long’s your mother been on the job?”

  “Eighteen. She freaking loves it, except when she hates it.”

  “Yeah, that’s the way.”

  Eve turned when the outer door opened.

  The man who came in was black and trim, in a trendy suit of rusty brown with pencil thin lapels and a flashy striped tie. He carried a jumbo cup of takeout coffee in one hand, and was biting into a loaded bagel.

  He made a mmm sound, nodded to Eve and Peabody, winked at Sade. “Minute,” he managed with his mouth full, then swallowed. “Morning.”

  “Cops, Dave. Want to talk to you.”

  “Sure. Okay. Wanna come back?”

  “We would. Sade, would you join us?”

  “Me?” The paralegal blinked, then something came into her eyes. A knowledge of trouble, bad trouble. She might have broken tradition, Eve thought, but she had cop in the blood. “Something happened. Did something happen to Grant?”

  No point in going back to an office, Eve decided. “Peabody, on the door.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, Grant Swisher is dead. He, his wife, and his son were killed last night.”

  Coffee streamed out of Dave’s cup as it tipped in his hand and spilled a pool onto the company carpet. “What? What?”

  “An accident?” Sade demanded. “Were they in an accident?”

  “No. They were murdered, along with their housekeeper and a young girl named Linnie Dyson.”

  “Linnie, oh God. Nixie.” Sade was around the counter and gripping Eve’s arm in a flash. “Where’s Nixie?”

  “Safe.”

  “Mother of God.” Dave staggered to the sofa, slid onto it, crossed himself. “Merciful Jesus. What happened?”

  “We’re investigating. How long have you worked with Swisher?”

  “Um, God. Ah, five years. Two as a partner.”

  “Let’s get this out of the way. Can you give me your whereabouts between midnight and three a.m.?”

  “Shit. Shit. Home. Well, I got home just after midnight.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. Overnight guest. I’ll give you her name. We were up and . . . occupied until around two. She left about eight this morning.” His eyes were dark, and when they met Eve’s again, they were shattered. “He wasn’t just my partner.”

  Sade sat beside him, took his hand. “It’s just what she has to ask, Dave. You know. Nobody thinks you’d hurt Grant or his family. I was home. I’ve got a roommate,” she added, “but she wasn’t home last night. I was talking to a friend on the ’link until just after midnight. She’s got man trouble. You can check my machine.”

  “Appreciate it. I’m going to want the name of your overnight guest, Mr. Rangle. It’s routine. Ms. Tully, you said Mr. Swisher was between assistants. What happened to his assistant?”

  “She just had a baby last month. She took maternity, but was planning to come back, so we did the temp thing. But a few days ago, she opted for professional mother status. There wasn’t any friction, if that’s what you’re after. God, I’ll have to tell her.”

  “I’ll need her name, and the names of all the staff. Just routine,” Eve added. “Now I want you to think, to tell me if you know of anyone who’d wish Mr. Swisher or his family harm. Mr. Rangle?”

  “I don’t have to think. I don’t.”

  “A client he’d pissed off?”

  “Honest to God, I can’t think of anybody who’s ever walked in that door who would do something like this. His kid? Coyle? My God.” Tears swam into his eyes. “I played softball with Coyle. The kid loved baseball. It was like his religion.”

  “Swisher ever cheat on his wife?”

  “Hey.” When Dave started to rise, Sade pressed a hand on his thigh.

  “You can never say a hundred percent, you know that. But I’d give you a ninety-nine point nine percent no, and that goes for her, too. They were tight, they were happy. They believed in family, since neither of them had much of one before they hooked up. And they worked to keep it together.”

  Sade took a steadying breath. “You work as close as we work in this firm, you know that kind of thing. You get the vibes. Grant loved his wife.”

  “Okay. I want access to his office, his files, his client list, court transcripts, the works.”

  “Don’t make her get a warrant, Dave,” Sade said quietly. “Grant wouldn’t if it had been one of us. He’d cooperate. He’d help.”

  He nodded. “You said Nixie was safe. She wasn’t hurt.”

  “No. She wasn’t injured, and she’s in protective custody.”

  “But Linnie . . .” He passed a hand over his face. “Have you told the Dysons?”

  “Yes. Do you know them?”

  “Yeah, God, yeah. Parties at Grant’s, weekends at this place they have in the Hamptons on time share. Grant and Matt and I golfed a couple times a month. Sade, can you make calls, close things down for the day?”

  “Sure. Don’t worry.”

  “I’ll show you Grant’s office—sorry, I can’t remember
if I got your name.”

  “Dallas, Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “Um, they didn’t have close family. Arrangements . . . Will we be able to make arrangements?”

  “I’ll see if I can clear that for you.”

  When they got back in their vehicle, they had a box full of discs, several files of hard copies, Swisher’s office calendar, address, and memo books.

  Peabody strapped in. “Picture’s coming clear of a nice, happy family, nicely secured financially, good circle of friends, close relationships with associates, satisfying careers. Not the sort you expect to get murdered in their beds.”

  “Plenty of layers to pick through. A lot of families might look happy on the surface, even to friends and coworkers. And they hate each other like poison in private.”

  “Cheery thought.” Peabody pursed her lips. “That makes you the cynical cop, and me the naive one.”

  “That’s about right.”

  3

  SHE FELT SQUEEZED FOR TIME, BUT GOING BACK to the scene, moving through it, feeling it was essential. A nice three-story single-family, she thought, bumped up against other nice two- or three-story single- or multiple-families in a tony Upper West Side neighborhood.

  More solid than flashy.

  Kids went to private schools, one live-in domestic. Two full-time careers, one outside the home, one based in it. Two front entrances, one rear.

  Security, she noted, on all doors and windows, with the addition of decorative—but efficient—riot bars on the below street level where Keelie Swisher based her office.

  “They didn’t come in from below,” Eve noted as she scoped out the house from the sidewalk. “Security was active on the office entrance, and on the rear.” She turned, scanned the street, the curbs. “Parking’s a bitch in neighborhoods like this. You need a permit, curb scanners verify. If you park at the curb without one, it’s an automatic ticket. We’ll check, but I can’t see these guys making it that easy for us. Either they walked from another point, or had a permit. Or they live right around here.

  “Walked, more likely walked. Block or two anyway,” she said as she crossed, opened the useless little iron gate and stepped up to the door. “Walked to the front door. Jammed the security, the alarms, the cameras, the ID pads by remote before they moved into scanning distance. Had the codes, or knew how to bypass locks quickly.”