by J. D. Robb
“That’s a long time between visits.”
“Yeah, and with a little pressing it comes out they met for lunch. Strazza junior was very busy, blah-blah. The mother? Five years, she believes.”
“But—how long ago did Strazza get married?”
“Three years. Neither parent was invited. Neither have met the wife. Again, with a little pressing, it sounds like the mother had specifically asked the vic if she could come to New York, spend some time, take the new bride to lunch, whatever. Too busy.”
“That’s pretty harsh.”
“Maybe they were shit parents. Maybe one or both abused or neglected him. Maybe he was a shit son. Hard to say. But they’re both flying in to New York, dropping whatever they’ve got going to come here and see what’s left of him, to see his widow. So I lean toward shit son until I lean differently.”
“It’s sad. I know I only see my parents, my family, a couple times a year now, but we talk every week. Same with McNab and his.”
“Say he was a shit son, and a shit husband. Odds are, if so, he was a shit in other areas.”
Peabody embraced her coffee. “And the burglary deal is a cover. Somebody wanted him dead.” As she considered that a strong possible, Peabody gave a nod. “But then why beat and rape the wife?”
“To torture Strazza, maybe to torture the wife. Maybe because the killer likes beating and raping women. We’ll look for similar crimes.”
Coffee, Eve thought, pleased traffic was light enough so she could enjoy it as she headed the few blocks to Dr. Lucy Lake’s and Dr. John O’Connor’s condo.
She knocked the last of the coffee back as she swerved to the curb in front of an impressively refurbished building. She figured the nice jolt of caffeine would add a buzz to slapping back the doorman in his forest-green livery.
“Don’t get excited.” Peabody anticipated her. “I looked it up. It’s Roarke owned.”
Slightly deflated, Eve reached for the door handle even as the doorman whisked it open for her. “Lieutenant Dallas, how can I help you today?”
Eve reminded herself that a cooperative doorman saved time, even if it was a buzzkill. “We need to speak to Drs. Lake and O’Connor.”
“You come on in out of the cold. I’ll ring up and tell them you and Detective Peabody are here.”
He led the way into a classy lobby decked out in Deco style. It smelled, very faintly, of pomegranates.
3
It took the cooperative doorman under two minutes to contact the doctors’ apartment, relay the information, and clear them up.
“Apartment 1800,” he told them as he escorted them to an elevator. “They’re expecting you.”
Since he was being so damned helpful, Eve sized him up. “Lake and O’Connor. Impressions.”
Probably weighing duties and ethics, he scratched the back of his neck. “Well, they’ve had 1800 for about ten years now. I’ve been here twelve myself. Doctors’ hours, so a lot of late nights, early mornings. Most always have a word, though. Got two grown kids, a couple of grandkids—visit pretty regular. Never had any trouble with any of them. In fact, a few years back when my boy took a header off his airboard and was in the hospital a couple days, they both went by to see him. That says something to me.”
“Okay. Were you on when they got in last night?”
“I came on at six. We have Droid Denise on from midnight to six. She’s in the storeroom if you want me to activate her. Or I could tag up Pete at home. He had the evening shift.”
“We’ll hold on that. Thanks.”
They rode up to eighteen in the smooth, blissfully silent elevator.
“It looks like Roarke,” Peabody commented. “The building. Old-world class with modern efficiency. And it does say something when people take time to look in on their doorman’s kid.”
“Maybe. We’ll see what they have to say for themselves.”
The eighteenth floor was as silent as the elevator. There the air carried the faintest drift of something herby—maybe rosemary.
Apartment 1800 had the west corner. The double doors opened almost as Eve rang the bell.
The woman who greeted them was round—body, face, even the ball of pale blond hair on top of her head. She wore bright blue pants and a boldly printed top under a starched white apron. “Lieutenant, Detective, come right in. My husband’s on the job. Sergeant Tom Clattery out of the one-one-three. Twenty-two years. And wait till I tell him who came to the door early this morning. Have a seat.”
The housekeeper chattered away as she led them into a living space made cozy by a long, narrow electric fire built into the far wall. “Would you have some coffee? There’s fresh as the doctors are just finishing up their breakfast. Never knew a badge to say no to coffee.”
“We wouldn’t want to break the record,” Peabody said just as cheerfully. “Black for the lieutenant, coffee regular for me.”
“Two shakes. Now sit down and be comfortable. The doctors will be right with you.”
She walked off, a ball of cheer on sturdy black shoes.
“Kind of homey,” Peabody commented. “A couple of doctors in a big apartment in a swank Upper East building, but it’s homey. Somebody needlepoints,” she added, tapping one of the mountain range of pillows scattered over sofas and chairs. “And really well, too.”
Eve could admit a sofa where your ass snuggled right in hit the homey mark. In addition, framed photos—kids various ages, vacation shots, holiday poses—fit into that. But she’d developed enough of an eye to recognize important art on the walls and the elegant gleam of a few antiques perfectly placed.
So homey, sure, she thought, with a foundation of comfortable wealth.
The doctors came in together. She was tall and lean, her hair clipped short and dark around a sharply defined face with deep-set eyes more gray than green. A flawless complexion just a shade richer than Peabody’s beloved coffee regular. She wore her age—sixty-three according to her official data—as stylishly as the trim suit of steel blue.
He was taller, leaner yet, with thick black brows over keen blue eyes. He’d allowed his dark hair to streak silver at the temples. Sprinkles of that silver dashed through his narrow goatee. His smoke-gray suit complemented hers.
In fact, Eve thought their looks and body language spoke of unity.
Lake touched a hand to her husband’s arm before she stepped forward.
“Lieutenant, Detective. Alice recognized your names. You’re homicide. It’s not about our children.”
Before Eve could speak, could reassure, O’Connor spoke up. “We contacted them as soon as Greg called up. We know they’re all fine. Who isn’t?”
“Anthony Strazza.”
Lake let out a stream of air as she sat. “We just saw him last night. A dinner party at his home. Which you know, of course.” She drew in more air, let it out again. “We were there until about eleven. Johnny?”
“Yes, about eleven.” Now he sat beside her. “We were the first to leave, actually. I have rounds this morning, and Lucy has an early meeting.”
“Should I reschedule that?”
“This shouldn’t take long,” Eve told her.
“I—” She broke off when Alice wheeled in a coffee cart. “Alice, would you contact my office? Have Karl push my morning meeting an hour.”
“I’ll do just that, don’t you worry. Now there’s good black coffee for you, Lieutenant. And I’ll have yours here, Detective. You’ll have your second cup,” she said to both doctors, pouring and serving. “I’ll be right back in the kitchen if you need me for anything. Don’t you worry,” she repeated, and left them.
“If something happened after we left”—Lake looked at her husband—“someone would have contacted us. If something happened to Anthony during the dinner party.”
“He was killed after the party.”
“I don’t understand how— Oh God, Daphne. His wife.” With a hand pressed to her heart, Lake came halfway out of her chair. “Was she killed, too?”
<
br /> “She’s in the hospital,” Eve told Lake. “Your hospital.”
“Her condition?” O’Connor demanded, even as he pulled his ’link from his pocket.
“Just hold off on contacting the hospital. I’ve just checked on her. She’s in stable condition, mildly sedated.”
“Her attending?”
“Dr. Delroy Nobel.”
The tension in O’Connor’s face eased, and his wife rubbed a hand on his thigh. “Then she’s under excellent care,” Lake said. “Can you tell us her injuries? There’s nothing we can do for Anthony,” she added.
“You’ll have to get the medical details from Nobel, but I can tell you Mrs. Strazza was physically and sexually assaulted.”
“Raped.” Lake’s eyes stayed level, but something in them hardened.
They’d get the details, Eve thought, so she laid it out. “Shortly after two this morning, Mrs. Strazza was found near her home, wandering outside, naked, in shock. She’d suffered numerous contusions and lacerations and was hypothermic. Dr. Nobel stabilized her. I interviewed her. Her memory is spotty, but she stated there was someone in the master bedroom when she and her husband entered after the last guest left. Dr. Strazza was restrained, Mrs. Strazza was repeatedly raped and assaulted.”
“She saw who did this?” O’Connor covered his wife’s hand with his.
“She was unable to describe or identify the assailant, and was too distraught to press on it at that time. During the assault, Dr. Strazza was killed. Mrs. Strazza suffered a blow to the head. I need to ask—to eliminate—can you verify the time you returned home and verify your whereabouts from eleven-thirty to two this morning?”
“We left about eleven, as we said.” O’Connor rubbed his temple. “We’d have been home before eleven-thirty. I think it was about ten or fifteen after eleven, actually. We’re practically neighbors. The security feed would verify it, and would verify we didn’t leave the house once we got in.”
“Is it all right if I check the feed?” Peabody asked. “Just to cross it off.”
“Yes, yes. Alice can show you.” Lake gestured. “A home invasion?” she continued as Peabody left. “Their home seems very secure.”
“We’re investigating. What was your relationship with Anthony Strazza?”
“We were colleagues. I’m his chief.”
“And you socialized?”
“Yes. That’s part of being chief. Anthony was a brilliant surgeon. Orthopedic surgeon. His talents will be sorely missed.”
“Just his talents?”
“I had no issue with Anthony.” She spoke carefully, politically. “I respected his skills. We weren’t friends, but colleagues.”
“He was a difficult man. Lucy,” O’Connor said when she shot him a sharp look. “It’s no secret. Surgeons are often difficult.” He gave his wife’s hand a squeeze as he spoke. “He was well respected, admired for his skill. He was not particularly well liked.”
“Anybody particularly dislike him?”
“Enough to kill him?” Lake shook her head. “I could see a dozen who might get into an altercation, might take a swing in the heat of the moment. But to invade his home, to kill him? To attack his wife? No.”
She leaned back on the couch, shook her head again. “No. And people tend to like Daphne. It would be easy to disdain her. The young, beautiful trophy wife, marrying status and money. But she simply didn’t fit that slot. There’s a shy sweetness about her, and a kindness. She doesn’t flaunt and strut and demand. Initially she volunteered at the hospital once a week in the pediatric unit. But after a few months, Anthony said it was too stressful for her.”
“Was it?”
“I couldn’t say. I do know she won over a lot of skeptics during that time. She has a quiet way, remembers everyone’s name—their children’s names. She hosts lovely parties, and faithfully attends all the often-tedious events required of a doctor’s spouse. We don’t know her very well—again, we’re not friends—but I like her.”
“As do I,” O’Connor confirmed. “A sweet girl. And, I think, browbeaten.”
“John.”
“Lucy,” he returned, in the same exasperated tone. “You asked if anyone disliked him particularly. I did. Very much disliked him. He was cold, arrogant, egotistical. Some would say a perfectionist, a fine trait in a surgeon. I’d say overbearingly demanding of perfection. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, there is. I appreciate your candor. Did he have any altercations with colleagues, staff, patients?”
“Altercations, yes. Incidents, no,” Lake said firmly. “We work in stress, in life and death, every day. Altercations happen. I’ve fielded complaints, formal and informal, regarding Anthony’s behavior, his treatment of other doctors, interns, nurses, orderlies. I’ve done the same for any number of doctors on staff.”
Eve changed tack. “You say most like Mrs. Strazza. Could anyone you know have misconstrued her kindness, wanted more from her?”
“An affair?” Lake’s eyebrows winged up. “Absolutely not. Believe me, that’s the sort of thing that runs through the hospital grapevine like wine. I’d have heard.”
“Let’s go back to the party. Was there any trouble? Any arguments? Any sort of tension?”
“No. It was a lovely evening.”
“Do you know who catered it?”
“Mmm.” Lake frowned. “I imagine Jacko’s. I asked Daphne last year who she used, as the company I’d used for years changed management—and wasn’t working out well. It was Jacko’s, and I recognized a couple of the servers, as we’ve used Jacko’s a few times since.”
Peabody came back. Eve caught the signal, wrapped it up. “We appreciate the time,” she said as she got to her feet. “If you think of anything else, please contact me.”
Lake rose. “Please let me know how—when—we can make arrangements for Anthony. Daphne may need help in that area. We weren’t friends, but I was his chief.”
“Understood, but his parents are coming in, so—”
“His parents.” Lake’s brows drew together. “I was under the impression they’d cut him off, wanted nothing to do with him.”
“That wasn’t the impression I got when I notified them. Where did you get yours?”
“I— Anthony said as much to me. That when he refused to kowtow to their every wish and whim, they stopped speaking to him.”
Interesting, Eve thought. “What about his ex-wife?”
“I didn’t know her very well. She was distant, and I’d say on the brittle side. She— He said she’d tried to clean out their accounts, and had had one too many affairs. She ran off to Europe, I think.
“I can’t verify any of that,” Lake said quickly. “I don’t interfere with the personal lives of my people unless it overlaps the work. But Anthony was up-front about the divorce, took a month’s leave to sort things out. I don’t see how that could apply.”
“Information’s information. Thanks again.”
Peabody waited until they were back in the car. “They got home at eleven-thirteen. Locks engaged. No activity until Alice arrived at seven sharp. She adores them, by the way. I prodded some. She’s family—that’s how they think of each other. She’s been with them nearly thirty years. Her impressions of Strazza aren’t as warm and fuzzy. Can’t say she knows him, but he’s been around for parties and such. Likes people to stay in their place—or his idea of their place, according to Alice. No chitchat with staff. You don’t suspect them.”
“I don’t see O’Connor sneaking out of his house, sneaking back into theirs, laying into the wife—you can see he’s soft on her. Like paternally. Can’t see him killing Strazza and walking around taking goodies. But they gave me a picture. We’re swinging by the hospital first. I guarantee the two doctors won’t be far behind us.”
“What’s the picture?”
“Strazza was an asshole, disliked if respected. And very likely a big, fat liar. Claimed his parents cut him off, which I don’t buy. And his ex-wife had one too many aff
airs. A guy like Strazza? It would only take one. We’re going to want to talk to the ex, and the parents. Get some finer details on the picture.”
“I hate when the vic’s an asshole.”
“Happens.”
“Yeah, happens. And it widens the suspect pool.”
“It can. Caterer was likely Jacko’s. Check on that, and get us a list of who worked the party.”
“Can do.” Peabody pulled out her ’link as Eve drove to the hospital.
Two cups of coffee helped, but Eve wondered if she could just get a shot of straight caffeine. It was a hospital, after all. She hated shots, but she’d suffer through it for a good, strong jolt.
She badged her way to the ER desk, and after some dithering got the section and floor where Daphne Strazza had been relocated. Worked her way there, to that desk, badged again.
Yeah, she’d take the shot.
“I have to contact Dr. Nobel,” the nurse told her.
“Fine by me, but we’re going to her room now. Which way, or I’ll just swagger around with my badge and weapon until I find the uniform on her door.”
“Down this corridor and to the right. She’s in 523.”
“Got it.”
“I’m not sure I can pull off a swagger,” Peabody commented as they started down.
“Not in those sissy boots.”
“They’re not sissy boots.”
“They’re pink and have fluff. That’s the definition of sissy.”
She spotted the uniform in a chair outside 523, playing on his PPC. He heard her non-sissy boots on the tile and rose, sliding the PPC into his pocket as he came to attention.
“Lieutenant. No one but medical staff in or out. The nurse checked her about ten minutes ago. She’s awake.”
“Good. Stand by, Officer. We’ll order in your relief.”
Eve and Peabody walked in.
Daphne lay in the bed, her upper body slightly elevated. Her color looked nearly normal, and medical treatment had eased a lot of the bruising and swelling on her face. She stared blankly out the window until Eve moved into her field of vision.
Daphne blinked. “I … know you.”