Echoes in Death

by J. D. Robb

  He turned his head, aimed that killer smile at Eve. “And here’s my cop, and our own Peabody.”

  “What’s the deal?” Eve demanded.

  “As I was just telling the delightful Donna, we’re closing down most of the operations for the day, and I’m here to hitch a ride with my wife.”

  “I’m not going home.”

  “I’ll still take the lift, wherever you’re going. You mind your step out there, Donna.”

  “Oh, I will. I like the snow.”

  Eve moved straight to the elevator, gave Roarke the hard eye when the doors closed. “She’s old enough to be your mother.”

  “Your point?”

  Eve only shook her head, ordered Level One Garage. “Did you actually track us to Wythe’s office?”

  “It was easy enough. How are you, Peabody?”

  “I’m all good. I like the snow, too. I’m thinking of hitting the market when I get home, getting the makings for a pot of soup, maybe some beer bread ’cause it’s quick.”

  “Beer bread?” Roarke asked, apparently fascinated.

  As Peabody explained—God knew why—the details of making beer bread, Eve ignored the conversation, considered what she knew, didn’t know.

  And what came next.

  “Go home,” Eve said as they reached their level. “Make the soup and bread of beer.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Write up what you have on the bartender, write up the interview we just had with Wythe. Check with Santiago and Carmichael on the rest of the guest list, and get me that, and for the thorough, confirm Wythe’s alibi for Saturday night through Sunday morning.”

  “Can do.”

  “I can get a car to drive you home,” Roarke said.

  “Thanks. I’d take it, but I can catch a subway a couple minutes from here, and get downtown without the crazy drivers. I can stick, Dallas.”

  “I’m going to work from home myself. It’s desk work for now anyway. We’ve covered the field for today.”

  “I’ll cover my list. See you tomorrow. Snow day!” she added, almost dancing away.

  “You drive,” Eve told Roarke. “I need to check a couple things.”

  As Roarke worked through miserable traffic, she checked her incomings, read the lab report.

  “All the blood on the DB and the surviving victim was his and hers. No blood from the assailant. None of his blood in the room, so if Strazza got in a shot, he didn’t draw blood, or none ended up on the crime scene.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  “Potentially … Strazza breaks out of the chair, charges. He’s probably still tangled up some, and he’s hurting from the beating. Killer grabs the heavy object, spilling water and flowers as he bashes Strazza with it. She may still be restrained and/or unconscious. Maybe just dazed, in shock, but I lean toward restrained or out as Morris estimates about fifteen minutes between the initial blow to the head and the killing blows.”

  “That’s quite a gap.”

  “Yeah.” Fifteen minutes could equal a lifetime, she thought. “Potentially. Killer thinks Strazza’s dead or dying, Daphne is out of it or restrained. He leaves the room to clear out the safes, select what he wants, clean up. He’d have blood on him. Or he took the time to rape the female again. Potentially, one more time, he comes back to get his zip ties, his rope, his tape, his light, whatever else.”

  Everything into the case, she thought. The case he’d carried in with him, in front of witnesses.

  “Now Daphne’s unrestrained—he released the other vics, so pattern indicates he’d release her. But Strazza comes to, not dead, starts to get up. Killer bashes him again and again. Daphne tries to stop him, or to just run. He gives her a knock, hard enough so she cracks her head on the footboard, and she’s out. She crawled through some of the blood—Strazza’s, her own. It was on her hands, on her knees. We’ve got smears of it on the floors from her feet where she walked through it.”

  She left it there, checked something else, stared out at the snow.

  “He abused her in the will. Even dead he’s slapping at her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The lawyer had to circle, use hypothetical, but was a lot more cooperative than I expected. He didn’t like Strazza.”

  “Did anyone?”

  “Not so far. In any case, Strazza left the bulk of his estate to the hospital—with strings. They use it for whatever purpose he designated, and name it after him.”

  “What of his wife?”

  “She gets the house, her clothes, her jewelry—which was stolen—and whatever’s left in the house he didn’t earmark to be sold to go to the hospital. No financial trusts or whatever toward her maintaining the house, or paying it off. I got the impression he didn’t own it free and clear. And since you showed up, you could check on that.”

  “I could indeed.”

  “And a good dig into the rest of his finances.”

  “Now it’s a happy day for me. I feel as giddy as Peabody in the snow.”

  He would, she thought. Roarke wasn’t—thank God—a cheerful optimist, but he had his moments.

  “You saw the house. Just an educated guess on what it’s worth.”

  “Double townhouse, that neighborhood, well maintained? Twelve to fifteen million. Unless he’s heavily mortgaged or borrowed against it, she’ll be more than fine.”

  “She doesn’t want to go back there, and the lawyer says she can’t sell it until the estate’s settled. At least a year, more like two. He didn’t want her to just be able to walk away, not with his money, if he popped first. I couldn’t wrangle any details on the prenup, but clearly Wythe felt Daphne got screwed over there. He says he advised her to get her own attorney, but she didn’t.”

  “Neither did you, it turns out.”

  She aimed a look at him. “Did I get screwed over?”

  “No, but…” He lifted a hand, let it fall. “We settled that, didn’t we?”

  “Add this: He worked things so she needed him for money. No job, no family—and I’m contacting them when we get home, because I want to know those details—no friends. It’s classic. She was completely dependent on him, and he structured the will so she gets a house and her own damn clothes, plus the baubles he gave her. She nearly always calls him ‘my husband,’ rarely actually uses his name.”

  Eve shrugged it away. “Not the issue, it just pisses me off in general. I don’t know if it applies. I can’t see how it would, except the killer might have targeted her because he saw and recognized it, saw her as weak. An easy target. He may have seen Rosa that way, too. But Lori doesn’t come off as soft or easy.”

  She brooded about it as he turned through the gates, then reached over, laid a hand on his arm. “Stop a minute.”

  When he did, she slid her hand down, linked fingers with his. “I hate winter mostly. It’s cold, wet, messy, and inconvenient. But that? That’s a hell of a visual.”

  Some droid, she supposed, had cleared the long, winding drive and the steps leading to the house. All else stood white and perfect with that house rising up from the snowy carpet, the stone laced on the rooflines. Trees and shrubs, wrapped in white mink, shimmered in the lights.

  “I’m glad we came home,” she told him.

  He leaned over to kiss her. “So am I.”

  He drove the rest of the way as more lights flickered on inside the house. When they stepped inside that light, Summerset and the cat waited.

  “Early and together,” Summerset observed as Galahad pranced over to slither between two sets of legs.

  “I expect the city will be shut down in another hour or two,” Roarke told him. “You shouldn’t plan to go anywhere.”

  “I don’t. I’d hope the two of you will also do the sensible thing and stay inside.”

  “Easier to reschedule a ghoul party than a murder investigation.” Eve tossed her coat over the newel post. “But I’m working from here until I’m not.” She started up the stairs, stopped. “Don’t go outside
. It’s cold, windy, and slick.” And continued up.

  “Was that actually a concerned directive?” Roarke asked as he walked up the stairs with her.

  “Sure. His bony ass slips in the snow, we’ve got to deal with it. It gets buried in the snow, I’ve got an unattended death to wade through. Just trying to avoid the mess.”

  “Of course.” He swung an arm around her shoulders.

  “I need to contact Daphne Strazza’s foster family. She’s indicated she doesn’t want anyone contacted, but I want a better sense of who she is, and what they—the family—might know about her relationship with Strazza.”

  “How will that help you?”

  “Details.” She shrugged. “It could give me—or Mira—a clearer sense of how to help her to remember the attack.”

  “I’ll leave you to that, and give myself the entertaining time of digging into Strazza’s finances.”

  “Speaking of.” It didn’t apply, Eve thought, but … “The first wife probably got a financial settlement. See if you can find that.”

  “The fun never ends.”

  “Glad you see it that way. Catch you later.”

  She went into her office, Roarke into his. The cat debated, then opted for her sleep chair.

  Eve nearly headed into the kitchen, then remembered she had the ability to program coffee from her magalicious command center. Then remembered she now had the addition of a fireplace.

  Why not use it?

  She ordered it on, stood studying the simmer of flames, wondering why the hell she’d ever bucked Roarke on his idea of updating her office.

  She sat, programmed coffee while watching the snow fall outside the window, fast and steady.

  Getting to Central in the morning would be a bitch. But that was tomorrow.

  Now she opened the file with Daphne’s data, and contacted the number for the couple who’d been her guardians.

  The woman who answered, bouncily, was far too young to be Daphne’s guardian. Mid-twenties, Eve judged, hair an improbable shade of red streaked with an improbable shade of blue. A line of multicolored hoops—à la McNab—ran down the lobe of her left ear while a single red stud punctured her right. She looked almost fiercely bright and happy.

  “I’m trying to reach Mr. or Mrs. DeSilva.”

  “Sorry, they’re not available. Can I take a message?”

  “It’s important I reach them.” Eve held up her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”

  “New York.” That bright and happy froze, turned to fear. “Daphne? Something happened to Daphne? Tell me! I’m her sister. I’m Tish DeSilva. What happened to Daphne? Is she— Oh my God, oh God, is she—”

  “She’s all right. How can I reach your parents?”

  “They’re in Fiji—vacation of a lifetime. Please, tell me. I’m staying here while they’re gone, watching the house, the dog. Please. I’ll give you their contact information, but please.”

  No need to keep the woman tied in knots, Eve thought. And Minnesota was closer than Fiji. Pretty much.

  “First, I’m telling you Daphne’s all right. She’s in the hospital, but—”

  “Was there an accident? It’s snowing something fierce out east, right? I saw the reports.”

  “No, she wasn’t in an accident.”

  “Then what— Did he—” She broke off again, held up a hand studded with rings. “Wait, just give me a second to settle down. I won’t interrupt again.”

  “Late Saturday night Daphne and Anthony Strazza were assaulted in their home.”

  “Both of them?” Tish’s eyes narrowed. “Both of them were hurt? Sorry, I said I wouldn’t interrupt again.”

  “Daphne was seriously injured but her condition has been upgraded, and, in fact, she could be released tomorrow or the day after. Anthony Strazza was killed during the attack.”

  Tish DeSilva didn’t so much as blink at the death notification. “He’s dead? You’re sure he’s dead?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Tish nodded, slowly, then let out a long breath. “But Daphne’s okay? She’s all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is she, please? What hospital?”

  “She’s currently in St. Andrew’s.”

  “You said they were both attacked. Who did it? Why?”

  “That investigation is ongoing.”

  “You don’t know yet? But didn’t Daphne tell you? You said she was okay, so why hasn’t she told you? Look, you can be straight with me. I’m not the hysterical type—this just—it’s upsetting and it’s terrible to know she’s hurt and we’re not there. I’m going to contact our parents as soon as I get off with you. I want to be able to give them the truth, the facts.”

  Eve considered. “You say ‘our’ parents.”

  “Daphne’s mom and dad died when she was only nine, and she came to us. That’s what her mom and dad wanted. It’s not just blood that makes family. We’re her family. She’s my sister. Do you have a sister?”

  “Not through the blood.”

  “But you have a sister,” Tish said, eyes keen. “So you know. Please, tell me what happened to my sister.”

  “She and her husband were assaulted physically. Daphne was assaulted sexually.”

  “She was beaten and she was raped.” Tish’s eyes filled, a few tears spilled over, but she stayed steady.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s in St. Andrew’s Hospital, in New York, in good condition?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she able to speak, to talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she asked you to contact us?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  Tish closed her eyes, nodded, swiped at tears. “Okay, got it. I’ll give you my parents’ contact information, but I’d like to talk to them first. It’s going to— They love her, so much. Let me talk to them first, so they don’t hear this from a stranger. From the police.”

  “Why do you think she didn’t ask me to contact you?”

  “He poisoned her. It’s like he infected her, God knows he controlled her. There wasn’t anything we could do, or … we couldn’t figure out the right thing to do. Hang a second, will you?”

  The screen bobbled, then settled on a tilted image of a ceiling, a corner of a wall. Eve clearly heard the sound of a nose being thoroughly blown, then two, quick, hitching breaths, a longer, smoother one.

  The screen shifted again. Tish’s face, eyes fierce, glittering wet, came back.

  “I’m glad he’s dead. If I knew how, I’d be doing fucking cartwheels. I’m glad because now we can do something, do something, to bring her back. He killed my sister, he turned her into a droid. I have to tell my parents. I have to get to New York.”

  Eve wrote down the contact info as Tish rattled it off.

  “She’s under police protection and medical care, Miss DeSilva. I can’t say if she’ll agree to see you. And we’re in the middle of a blizzard.”

  “You don’t know from blizzards,” she said with frank and amused derision. “I’ll get there, and she’ll see me.”

  Eve simply raised her eyebrows as the screen went blank.

  She weighed the idea of contacting the parents immediately, decided to let their daughter relay the situation first. Thinking through the conversation, the reactions, she rose to update her board.

  She added all three DeSilvas, connecting them to Daphne.

  She wrote up the conversation, added it to her case notes. She sent a copy to Mira as she wanted a shrink’s take on the sister’s reaction and statements.

  Poisoned, infected, controlled.

  Clearly, the foster family had been cut loose, cut off. And, yeah, she could believe Strazza had manipulated that. Why? Likely for the same pathology as the killer. For control and power over another.

  Though she’d set Peabody on the task, Eve took a good look at the bartender/actor. No violent incidents on record didn’t mean he didn’t have violence under the mask.

  When Roarke came in,
she was adding him to the board.

  “You have a suspect?”

  “I have a person to look at harder. Actor—that’s what he lists as his profession, though he makes his living tending bar at Jacko’s. He hits a couple notes.”

  “So you’ll push buttons, see if he plays the whole tune.”

  “Yeah. Nice colorful metaphor. I spoke with Daphne’s sister—the guardians’ daughter. She clearly despised Strazza, clearly blames him for them being out of touch with Daphne. Parents are in Fiji on a big vacation. I’m letting her contact them, tell them. If it wasn’t for the severity of the attack on Daphne, I’d actually look closer at the sister. Taking a look anyway.”

  “As you will at the parents.”

  “Yeah. Gotta cross the i’s, dot the t’s. I know it’s the other way around,” she said before Roarke could correct her. “But that gets boring.”

  “Speaking of boring, Strazza’s financial didn’t present any challenge at all. He’s a cautious investor, has a few pet charities, though he’s a bit stingy even there. The house itself is worth what I estimated, but it’s mortgaged for a bit more than half of that.”

  “So she won’t exactly be rolling in it.”

  “Well now, it’s better than a poke in the eye—though a spouse might see it as one. His first walked away with five million, which—as I thought you might want to know, and I certainly did—she used to purchase a sheep station in Porongurup—that’s Australia.”

  “Why do sheep need a station? Are they catching trains? Where are they going? Why do they have to go there?”

  “I imagine they find themselves herded onto trains from time to time, but a sheep station’s a ranch.”

  “Then why do they call it a station?”

  “Blame the Aussies. In any case,” he continued before she could take him further into the weeds, “she invested a bit more than half of the settlement in the property and the sheep. Appears to be making it work well enough. I also found no travel out of Australia for her in more than three years. Absolutely none to New York.”

  Because visuals always helped, Eve called up the first wife’s most current ID shot.

  Attractive, Eve thought, an attractive, outdoorsy-looking female in her late forties. Someone who looked both competent and content.