by J. D. Robb
“A visit to a vid set, a DB, and dinner with celebrities. It’s a really good day.”
Not for Cecil Silcock.
His day had ended early on the leopard-print tiles of his elaborate kitchen. He lay there, blood from the head wound running river to lake over the black-spotted gold. It made the floor look a little too much like a terminally wounded animal, in Eve’s opinion.
Cecil was definitely terminally wounded. Blood also soaked into the tissue-thin white cashmere robe he’d put on sometime before his head had made contact with a blunt object of some weight, then the unfortunately patterned tiles. From the gash down his forehead, Eve figured Cecil also made contact with the edge of the gold-topped black cooking island.
The rest of the kitchen, the dining and living areas, master bedroom, guest bed and bath were as spotless, accessorized and arranged as an upscale home decor showroom.
“No sign of forced entry,” the officer on the door told Eve. “We got the vic’s spouse in the bedroom there. He says he was out of town the last two days, got home—early, wasn’t supposed to come in until this afternoon—and found the body.”
“Where’s his suitcase?”
“In the bedroom.”
“Let’s get the security discs.”
“The spouse said the security was off when he arrived. He claims the vic often forgot to set it.”
“Find their security station, check anyway.” Eve tossed her Seal-It back in her field kit and crouched by the body. “Let’s confirm ID, get TOD, Peabody. He took a hard blow here, left side of the head, across the temple, eye socket. Something wide, heavy, and flat.”
“Vic is confirmed as Cecil Silcock, age fifty-six, of this address. Married to Paul Havertoe, four years. He’s the owner/operator of Good Times—party planning company.”
“No more good times for him.” Sitting back on her heels, Eve looked around. “No forced entry. And the place looks like it’s been cleaned and fluffed by magic fairies. He’s wearing a—bet it’s platinum—wedding band with a big fat diamond. Robbery unlikely as a motive here. The jewelry, plus I can see plenty of easily carried top-scale electronics.”
“TOD ten-thirty-six. Dressed like this, no forced entry, he had to know the killer. He let the killer in, walked back here, maybe to make coffee or something. Whack, and Good Times Cecil is no more.”
“Could be just like that. Or could be, dressed like this, Cecil had company while his spouse was out of town, which out-of-towning we will confirm. Comes out to make a nice breakfast, company whacks him. Or spouse returns, realizes Cecil has not been a good boy, whacks him.”
The uniform came back in. “The security’s been off for twenty-eight hours, Lieutenant. We’ve got nothing for last night or this morning.”
“Okay. Start the knock-on-doors. Let’s see if anyone saw anything.”
Fitting on microgoggles, Eve took a careful study of the body. “Cecil’s as clean as the house. Smells like lemons.” She leaned her face to the face of the dead, took another sniff. “But there’s a little coffee here, too. Had himself a shower and a cup before the whack. No visible defensive wounds, or other trauma. Takes the hit, goes down, smacking the edge of the island here, then takes another hit, other temple, on the tiles. It’s odd, isn’t it?”
“It is?”
“Everything’s so clean, so tidy.”
“The vic was neat?”
“Maybe. Probably.” Eve took off the goggles, stood. “There’s no AutoChef. What kind of place is this?” She poked in the fridge. “Everything very fresh here, and also sparkly clean.” She began opening cupboards, drawers. “Lots of pots, pans, gadgets, matching dishes, wineglasses, blah, blah.” She pulled out a large, heavy skillet. Wide and flat-bottomed. “Got weight.”
“Oh, my gran’s got one of those. Cast iron. She swears by it, came down from her gran.”
Eve studied the skillet, crouched again, goggles on, to study the wound on the side of Cecil’s head. Pulling out another tool from the kit, she took a quick measure. Nodded.
“Betcha. Seal and tag for the sweepers. Let’s see if there’s any of Cecil on here. So, Cecil has company—or gets it—then they come in here, behind the cooking island. But there’s no sign of cooking—and since there’s no AutoChef like any other civilized kitchen in the known world, he’d have to use a pan, tools. And what about coffee?”
“That’s an espresso-type machine there. You put the whole beans in, water, and it grinds and brews.”
“But it’s clean and empty.”
“Maybe he didn’t have time before the whack to prep.”
“Uh-uh. He’s got a touch of coffee breath. He didn’t just come in here with the killer, and get smacked with a heavy object. I’m betting the cast-iron deal is the murder weapon. If he got that out, where’s the other stuff, whatever he was going to put in it to cook? If he’s arguing with somebody, is he thinking about making breakfast? Why doesn’t the killer leave the murder weapon out or take it with him? Instead he cleans it up, stores it—and in what appears to be its proper place.
“If you’re getting breakfast, what’s the first thing you do?”
“Get the coffee,” Peabody said.
“Everybody gets the coffee, and Cecil tells me he did just that. But there’s no coffee made, no cup or mug.”
Lips pursed, eyes scanning, Peabody tried to see it as Eve did. “Maybe he or they had already eaten, cleaned up. Then had the argument.”
“Could be, but if so, was this pan still out handy for the whack? Everything’s put away all perfect, but this is within handy reach. Because this?” She lifted the now-sealed skillet. “It’s a weapon of opportunity. Get pissed, grab, whack. You wouldn’t open the drawer, take it out of the stack, select the weapon, then whack.”
Peabody followed the dots. “You think the spouse did it, then cleaned up, then called the cops.”
“I wonder how Havertoe got home. It’s time to have a chat.”
Eve released the uniform sitting with Havertoe to join the canvass. Like the kitchen, the master bedroom could have stood as an ad for Stylish Urban Home. From the sleek silver posts and zebra-print spread—with its carefully arranged mound of black and white pillows—the mirror gleam of bureaus, the strange angled lines of the art to the sinuous vase holding a single, spiky red flower that looked to Eve’s eye as if it might hide sharp, needle-thin teeth under its petals.
In the sitting area in front of the wide terrace doors, Paul Havertoe huddled on a silver-backed sofa with red cushions, and clutched a soggy handkerchief.
Eve judged him about twenty years his dead spouse’s junior. His smooth, handsome face carried a pale gold tan that showed off well against the luxurious sweep of his caramel-colored hair. He wore trim, pressed jeans and a spotless white shirt over a body that Eve assumed put in solid health-club time.
His eyes when they lifted to Eve’s were the color of plums and puffy from weeping.
“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Havertoe.”
“Cecil’s dead.”
Under the rawness of the tears, Eve caught hints of molasses and magnolia.
“I know this is a difficult time, but we need to ask you some questions.”
“Because Cecil’s dead.”
“Yes. We’re recording this, Mr. Havertoe, for your protection. And I’m going to read you your rights so you’re clear on everything. Okay?”
“Do you have to?”
“It’s better if I do. We’ll make this as quick as we can. Is there anyone you’d like us to contact for you—a friend, family member—before we start?”
“I … I can’t think.”
“Well, if you think of someone you want with you, we’ll arrange it.” She sat across from him, read off the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, good. You were out of town?”
“Chicago. A client. We’re event creators.
I got back this morning, and …”
“You returned from Chicago this morning. At what time?”
“I think, about eleven. I wasn’t due until four, but I was able to finish early. I wanted to surprise Cecil.”
“So you switched your flight and your car service?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. I was able to take an earlier shuttle, arrange an earlier pickup. To surprise Cecil.” Choking on a sob, he pressed the damp handkerchief to his face.
“You’ve had a terrible shock, I know. What car service was that, Mr. Havertoe? Just for the record.”
“We always use Delux.”
“Okay. And when you got home,” Eve continued as Peabody stepped quietly out of the room, “what happened?”
“I came in, and I brought my bag in here, but Cecil wasn’t in the bedroom.”
“Should he have been home at that time of the day?”
“He was scheduled to work from home today. He has a client coming in this afternoon. I should contact them.” He looked blankly around the room with streaming eyes. “I should—”
“We’ll help you with that. What did you do next?”
“I … I called out for him—um—the way you do. And I thought he must be in his office. It’s off the kitchen, with a view of the courtyard, because he likes looking out at our little garden when he works. And I saw him on the floor. I saw him, and he was dead.”
“Did you touch anything? Anything in the kitchen?”
“I touched Cecil. I took his hand. He was dead.”
“Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt Cecil?”
“No. No. Everybody loves Cecil.” With some drama, he pressed the soggy handkerchief to his heart. “I love Cecil.”
“Who do you suppose he’d let in, while he was wearing only his robe?”
“I …” Havertoe struggled to firm his trembling lips. “I think Cecil was having an affair. I think he’d been seeing someone.”
“Why do you think that?”
“He’d been late getting home a few times, and—there were signs.”
“Did you confront him about it?”
“He denied it.”
“You argued?”
“Every couple argues. We were happy. We made each other happy.”
“But he was having an affair.”
“A fling.” Havertoe dabbed at his eyes. “It wouldn’t last. Whoever he was seeing must have killed him.”
“Who do you think he was seeing?”
“I don’t know. A client? Someone he met at one of our events? We meet so many people. There’s a constant temptation to stray.”
“You have an impressive home, Mr. Havertoe.”
“We’re very proud of it. We often entertain. It’s what we do. It’s good promotion for the business.”
“I guess that’s why you cleaned up the kitchen,” Eve said conversationally as Peabody came back in. “You didn’t want people to see the mess.”
“I … what?”
“Was Cecil fixing breakfast when you got in—earlier than he expected? Or had he finished? Were there signs he hadn’t been alone? Cheating on you when you were away. He was a very bad boy.”
“He’s dead. You shouldn’t talk about him that way.”
“What time did you get home again?”
“I said—I think—about eleven.”
“That’s odd, Mr. Havertoe,” Peabody said. “Because your shuttle landed at eight-forty-five.”
“I—I had some errands—”
“And the driver from Delux dropped you off at the door here at nine-ten.”
“I … took a walk.”
“With your luggage?” Eve angled her head. “No, you didn’t. You came in at nine-ten, and you and Cecil got into it while you—one of you or both—made coffee, fixed breakfast. You wanted to know who he’d been with while you were in Chicago. You wanted him to stop cheating on you. You argued, and you picked up the cast-iron skillet, swung out. You were so mad. All you’ve done for him and he can’t be faithful. Who could blame you for losing your temper. You didn’t mean to kill him, did you, Paul? You just lashed out—hurt and angry.”
“I didn’t. You have the time wrong. That’s all.”
“No, you got it wrong. You got home early. Did you think you might catch him with someone?”
“No, no, it wasn’t like that. I wanted to surprise him. I wanted things to be the way they were. I fixed him his favorite brunch! Mandarin orange juice mimosas and hazelnut coffee, eggs Benedict with raspberry French toast.”
“You went to a lot of trouble.”
“Everything made by hand, and I set the table with his favorite china.”
“And he didn’t appreciate it. All the time and effort you went to, just to do something special for him, and he didn’t appreciate it.”
“I … then I went for a walk. I went for a walk, and when I came back he was dead.”
“No, Paul. You argued, you hit him. It was like a reflex. You were so mad, so hurt, you just grabbed the skillet and swung out. And then it was too late. So you cleaned up the kitchen, put everything away.” While he lay there, dead on the floor, Eve thought. “You scrubbed the cast-iron skillet.” With his blood staining the bottom. “You made everything neat and tidy again, just the way he liked it.”
“I didn’t mean to do it! It was an accident.”
“Okay.”
“He said he wanted a divorce. I did everything for him. I took care of him. He said I was smothering him, and he was tired of me looking through his things, going through his schedule and calling him all the time. He was tired of it. Of me. I made him brunch, and he wanted a divorce.”
“Harsh,” Eve commented.
WITH HAVERTOE CHARGED AND BOOKED, THE reports filed, the case closed, Eve couldn’t come up with a single excuse to ditch the dinner with the Hollywood types.
And she tried.
She poked her fingers in the active cases of her detectives, hoping to hook an angle that required her immediate and personal attention. When that failed she considered pulling out a cold case at random. But nobody would buy that as an emergency, especially with Peabody breathing down her neck.
“What are you wearing tonight?” Peabody demanded.
“I don’t know. Something to cover nakedness.”
“Long or short?”
“Long or short what?”
“The outfit. Short, showing lots of leg. You’ve got all that leg so you can. Or long and sleek because you’re skinny and can pull that off.”
Eve dawdled over a report Detective Baxter had turned in. Reading it three times was just being thorough. “You’re spending too much time thinking about my body.”
“Thoughts of your body haunt me night and day. But really, Dallas, are you going sexy or restrained, elegant or snap?”
“Maybe the restrained sexy snappy elegant. Whatever the hell any of that is.” Taking her sweet time, Eve signed off on Baxter’s report. “And why the hell do you care what I wear?”
“Because I have two main choices for me, and once I know which direction you’re going, I’ll have a better handle on it. The one really shows the girls off, but if you’re going restrained I don’t think I should put the girls on display. So—”
Genuinely stumped, Eve swiveled in her chair. “You actually think I’m going to help you decide if you should flaunt your tits at dinner?”
“Never mind. I’ll ask Mavis.”
“Good. Now why are you and your famous girls in my office?”
“Because it’s almost end of shift and you’re trying to stall, looking for a reason you can legitimately skip the party.”
“I am so.”
Peabody opened her mouth, then laughed. “Come on, Dallas, it’ll be fun. Nadine will be there, and Mavis and Mira. How often do any of us get to party with celebs?”
“Hopefully this will be the last time. Take your girls and go home.”
“Really? We’ve still got ten till end of shift.”
And the odds of catching something hot in ten weren’t good. “Who’s the boss?” Eve asked her.
“You are, sir. Thanks! See you tonight.”
With little choice once Peabody bolted, Eve signed off on another report. Since staring hard at her ’link didn’t cause it to signal that a psycho had just wiped out all the tourists on Fifth Avenue, she gave up and shut it down for the day.
It was just one evening, she reminded herself on the way down to the garage. The food would probably be good, and Peabody was right, there’d be plenty of people there she knew. It wasn’t as if she’d have to spend the whole time making small talk with strangers.
But it made her think about the Icoves, the father and son, the respected doctors who had played God in their underground lab. Creating human clones, she thought, dispatching those who weren’t perfect, duplicating others. Educating them, training them, enslaving them.
Until they’d both been murdered by their own creations.
After this dinner, she reminded herself, she’d be done. Except she’d already been told she had to go to the New York premiere. But after that she’d be done with the whole celebrity thing. And finally she’d be done with the Icove case.
How many of them were out there? she wondered. The clones, the Icove creations? She thought of the little girl and the baby she’d let go—or Roarke had let go—of Avril Icove—the three Avril Icoves, all married to the younger Icove.
Had they read Nadine’s book? Wherever they’d gone, were they paying attention to the never-quite-ending interest in how they’d come to be?
And she thought of what she and Roarke had left—no choice with the facility about to blow—in tubes and hives in the underground lab. The set, the hype, the actress in the long, black coat fixed the lives that had been created in, and had ended in that nightmare facility front and center in her mind.
Yeah, she wanted to be done with the Icove case.
She drove through the gates, rolled her shoulders back. One evening, she reminded herself as she saw the glory of home.
Next time she had a full evening free, and if the weather stayed mild, she and Roarke would have dinner on one of the terraces. Do the whole wine and candlelight thing. Maybe walk around the estate in the starlight.