by J. D. Robb
He began to rock now, then just dropped his head in his hands and wept.
Eve rose, ordered a uniform to find coffee somewhere, and gave Henry time to compose himself.
And did her best to block his view when they brought the body bag down from the fifty-second floor.
The doorman came up with a go-cup from the staff break room.
Henry cupped his trembling hands around it. “I can’t understand. I keep thinking, no, this isn’t real. I kissed her good-bye this morning. She’s been distant and distracted for a while now, but she kissed me back. She held on to me, and told me she loved me. Just this morning.”
“Was she taking any drugs? Any medication? Any illegals?”
“She used some sleep aid—a natural herbal blend. And she’d taken an antidepressant for a while, right after her parents died, but she threw it away last summer. She didn’t like how it made her feel. I’ve known her for five years, and lived with her for two now. She doesn’t do illegals.”
He drank some of the coffee, set it aside. “I know who you are. I mean, we’ve met. At Charles and Louise’s wedding. You had their wedding at your estate.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I work for Roarke.”
That she didn’t remember—or hadn’t known. “As what?”
“Architectural engineer, rehabilitation specialist. New York branch. Lieutenant Dallas, what they’re saying on the media reports, it’s not true. Darlene and Marcus fought like any brother and sister, but they loved each other. And Darlene, she’s gentle. She’s gentle and loving and compassionate. Someone did this to them. You have to find out who did this to them.”
“Working on it. Did she use a lapel recorder?”
“What? No. She didn’t have one. Why?”
“Just details.” Puzzling ones, Eve thought. “Is there someone you’d like me to contact for you?”
“The two people who mean the most to me in the world are gone.”
“Louise?” Eve suggested.
“I— Yes.” He swiped at his eyes. “Do they know? I should talk to them. I should—”
“They know.” Rising again, Eve contacted Louise, got the go-ahead. “I’m going to have you taken downtown, to Louise. She’d like you to stay with them tonight.”
“She loved them, too.”
“Who didn’t?”
He shook his head. “Marcus ran a tight ship, from what I know, and people who have a great deal of money can inspire envy or contempt. But I don’t know anyone who disliked either of them enough to hurt them.”
“Who’ll be running the tight ship now?”
“I’m not sure. I’d guess their uncle—Gareth’s younger brother, Sean. He and his wife—second wife—are based mostly in Europe. He runs their resort business over there. I don’t know that much about it. Darlene’s primarily involved in the foundation work. Marcus handled the reins of the businesses.”
“All right. I need to go through her things.”
He stared, blankly, with red-rimmed eyes. “Her things?”
“You said you lived together. I need to have access to your residence and go through her things. Your electronics.”
“We’re on First Avenue. I can take you.”
“I can get there. Your permission makes it smoother.”
“Whatever you need to do. I can give you my key swipe, my access codes.”
“I have a master. If you think of anything else, let me know. Louise knows how to contact me.”
“When can I see her? Please. When can I see Darlene?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“I kissed her good-bye this morning. I didn’t know it was going to be the last time.” He slid his hands into his pockets, drew out a pair of dark gray ladies’ gloves. “Darlene’s. She left them on the table by the door this morning. I saw them when I got home tonight to change for dinner. She’s always doing that. I put them in my pocket for her. It’s cold out.”
Eve carried his grief upstairs. It weighed on her as she studied the blood on the floor of the penthouse.
“All the electronics tagged,” Peabody told her. “I scanned them—and there’s a conversation between the male vic and Louise about coming over tonight and setting up what they called a mini intervention with the sister. Two conversations with the fiancé—who also left a v-mail about nine, saying Darlene was running late and didn’t answer her ’link.”
“Jibes with his statement.”
“Her ’link’s in the handbag we’re taking into evidence. Several v-mails and texts from the brother about her being late, then missing this meeting. A conversation with the fiancé and two v-mails and two texts from him asking where she was, asking her to get back to him. E-mails that appear to deal with business again—the foundation stuff.
“No illegals,” Peabody continued, “no evidence of another occupant. Sweepers took a good look at the security, and agree with you. No break-in. But EDD will give it the once-over. He’s got some cash, and the place has plenty of easily transported valuables—e-stuff, art, jewelry. We came up with two safes. One in the bedroom, one in the home office. EDD to access.”
“Okay. I want another look at the on-door security feed.”
“I had a look myself.”
Eve accessed the viewing screen through a panel by the main door.
“I ran it back to this morning when the vic left—oh-seven-thirty-eight,” Peabody said. “According to his calendar, he had an eight o’clock meeting at his HQ. Nobody came in or came to the door until he returned at eighteen-sixteen. Alone. And no other approach until the sister. Here. Twenty-oh-three.”
Eve watched Darlene step to the door, press the buzzer. Smile. Watched her mouth move as the door opened, and she stepped inside and out of cam view.
And Eve ran it back, watched again.
“No illegals. They all say nope, she never did illegals. Look at her eyes, for Christ’s sake.”
“Sure looks high.”
“Looks ready to fly, and I guess she did. Assess, Peabody.”
“We don’t really have all the data.”
“Assess with what we have. What’s your gut?”
Peabody sighed. “My gut says Darlene Fitzwilliams suffered a breakdown, likely self-medicated. Guilt, grief, said medication, exacerbated by an argument with her brother over the dead parents, turned that breakdown violent. Impaired by substance or substances as yet unknown, she stabbed her brother, then jumped off his terrace. Sad to the tragic.”
“It plays.”
“But?”
Eve wandered the room—wealthy, privileged, but not fussy, she thought. The sort of place, yes, where friends and family would be comfortable.
“My head agrees with your assessment, given current data. My gut . . . My gut may be overly influenced by the unrelenting insistence of someone I trust and respect that my head’s wrong.” Eve turned around again. “And unless I’m mistaken, those broken, bloody pieces in that evidence bag used to be a lapel recorder. Who was watching?”
“That’s creepy.”
“Hang here for the sweepers—and make sure they take that evidence bag to the lab. Tonight. Then go by Central on your way home, write it up. Write it up straight. I’m going to go by Darlene’s residence, take a look at her things, at her lifestyle. The fiancé gave me clearance.”
“You don’t want me to come with?”
“I want the report in. It’s so fucking clean and simple. I want to see it written up, see if there are holes to poke through. I can’t do that if I write it myself. Then go home, catch a few hours. We’ll probably take the lawyer, this Gia Gregg, first thing in the morning. I’ll give you the where and when. Figure on oh-eight hundred.”
“Will do.”
Eve pulled out her ’link as she headed down to the lobby.
Roarke fil
led the screen, made her wish she was home.
“I figured you hadn’t hit the rack yet.”
“I’m waiting for my wife.”
“You’re going to wait awhile yet.”
His eyes, so breathlessly blue, stayed on hers. “I knew them a little.”
“The Fitzwilliams.”
“Yes—the media’s having a rout over the salacious idea of murder/suicide in the gilded halls of the wealthy and powerful.”
“Fuck the media.”
“I’m sure others feel the same. You met them yourself—at Charles and Louise’s wedding.”
“I’ve been refreshed. What’s your take on the salacious idea?”
“I didn’t know them well enough to have one. How’s Louise?”
“Handling it. And she’ll be distracted, as I sent the sister’s fiancé down to her. Henry Boyle. He works for you.”
“He does, and for a number of years now. A smart, creative, interesting man. I know he was mad about Darlene.”
She’d seen the love; she’d felt the grief. “I’m about to turn their residence upside down to see if I can find the reason this is murder/suicide or the reason it’s not.” She stepped out in the lobby. “Did you watch the rest of that vid?”
“I didn’t, no. It’s not nearly as entertaining without you.”
“We’ll get back to it. Anyway, don’t wait up.”
“I won’t.”
She clicked off, stepped outside, glanced at her wrist unit.
Nearly midnight, she noted. It looked like the day would end and the next begin with murder.
CHAPTER FOUR
Eve considered double-parking, then homed in on a spot across the street. She hit vertical, took the short flight crossways over traffic, executed a quick one-eighty, then dropped down.
Not bad, she decided as she got out. Not half bad.
Since traffic was fairly light, she gauged it, jaywalked—more jay-jogged—back across the avenue, then hiked the three-quarters of a block to the pretty white-brick townhouse where her victim/suspect had co-habbed with Henry Boyle.
It shouldn’t have surprised her to see the ridiculously handsome Irishman sitting on the top of the three steps leading to the front door.
“I believe you just broke several traffic laws, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe.”
She stood at the base of the steps just looking at him, the way the wind ran through that black silk hair, the way that beautifully sculpted mouth curved just for her.
She wondered how many people could claim to have a spouse, a partner, a lover sitting out on a cold, windy January night waiting for them. Not many. And if you added in how gorgeous that spouse, partner, lover looked doing it, that number whittled down to one.
Just her.
“Why aren’t you home in the warm getting some sleep?”
“I’ll tell you,” he said, with the Irish a gilded thread woven through the words. “I debated my choices. Going off to bed without my wife, or coming out to join her.” He rose, tall and lean. “I found it an easy choice, even without the added incentive of poking about in other people’s belongings.”
He’d enjoy that part, of course, she mused; had built the foundation of his empire doing just that as a Dublin street rat.
She climbed up until they were eye to eye. “Did you mess with the locks, ace?”
“I didn’t, no. As yet.” Still smiling, he brushed his lips to hers. “Would you like me to?”
Her master would get them in. His skill would get them in quicker. And it was freaking cold.
“Go ahead, have some fun. Tell me about Henry Boyle,” she said as Roarke went to work.
“Bright, as I told you. Talented, creative. Earned a promotion about ten months ago. He’s done good work—and I have him in charge of engineering on the youth shelter. I like him quite a bit.”
So saying, Roarke opened the front door and gestured Eve in. In the dim light of the foyer, she saw the security panel blinking.
“I didn’t get his codes,” she began.
“Please.” Roarke only shook his head as he scanned the panel with some little tool, which had the light blinking off then going steady green.
“It’s a nice system,” he commented.
“One of yours.”
“It is, which made that simple.”
He glanced around the foyer, one that spilled seamlessly into a living area with cozy conversational groupings, a small glass-tiled fireplace and art of various European cities. She recognized Paris, Florence, London. Wondered a bit that she’d actually been to those places.
“Lights on full,” she ordered, and wandered into the living area. “Casually urban,” she decided.
“What does that tell you?”
“Just that it’s a comfortable space for a couple of city-dwellers. The art’s probably originals, and some of the dust-catchers are likely important. But it doesn’t come across as ‘we’re really rich.’ Then again, I guess he’s not.”
“He does well—and earns it.”
Roarke glanced around himself, noting she’d been right about the art.
“But no, he wouldn’t have her generational fortune. I met her a couple of times—before the wedding. I recall having a conversation with her about philanthropy. She was very dedicated to her work in her family foundation. And I would say she and Henry were very much in love, and nicely suited.”
“How did he get along with the brother?”
“Very well, as far as I know. Is Henry a suspect?”
“Right now I have what reads as murder/suicide. He wasn’t there—I checked his alibi on the way over. And he has no motive I can see.”
“But.”
“But both he and Louise—with Charles backing her—insist it couldn’t be what it reads. So . . .” She looked around. “Plus I found what appear to be pieces of a busted-to-shit lapel recorder beside the body. Who wears a recorder when they’re about to commit murder/suicide?”
“Some might want it documented—last words and so on—but jumping from the fifty-second floor would eliminate that.”
“Exactly. I’m going to start in the bedroom—must be upstairs. Why don’t you take the electronics?”
They started up together, then Roarke turned into a room serving as a home office. Comfortable again, Eve concluded on a quick glance. Organized without being obsessive about it. A coffee cup left on the desk, sketches pinned to a board, an ancient pair of skids—his—in a corner. A data and communication unit with an auxiliary comp. One large wall screen.
As Roarke took off his coat, she moved on.
A guest bedroom: soft, soothing colors, and the required—for reasons she couldn’t fathom—mountain range of pillows.
She found the master—a little more elaborate here. The bed, a soaring four-poster, struck her as an antique, while the set of chairs in the sitting area with their silky blue and silver print hit solid contemporary. Wood floors, a silver area rug, a sweep of blue—silky again—to frame the windows. The fireplace was a long, narrow rectangle inserted into the wall across from the bed.
Clear glass lamps vied with a painting of blue and white flowers in a thick, deeply carved silver frame. Real flowers—white lilies—speared out of a massive urn that looked as old as the bed.
She tried the closet.
It had likely been another bedroom at one time, gutted and outfitted as a massive closet. Henry’s clothes ranged along one side—slightly jumbled, and with plenty of room for more.
Hers, on the other hand, were double tiered, with the back wall reserved for countless pairs of shoes. Eve noted the comp, had seen its like before. Darlene could consult it when choosing an outfit, could use it to revolve the clothing from day wear to evening to sports.
Apparently she’d taken wardrobe as seriously as philanthropy. A
nd since Eve herself was married to a man who did the same, she couldn’t be too critical.
A large counter lined with drawers stood in the center of the closet. Eve opened a drawer at random and counted over a dozen bras.
Why does one set of tits need so many? she wondered, and began to rifle through them.
The drawer below that held sweaters—she didn’t bother to count these—and below that was stylish gym wear. In the bottom were the leggings, sweatpants, and T-shirts that told her the woman had worn regular clothes at least some of the time.
She moved down, top drawer middle: panties, and plenty of them, skimpy, lacy, colorful, all neatly folded.
And at the bottom of the stack—where a male co-hab was unlikely to go—she found a silver card case.
Inside she found business cards for psychics, sensitives, mediums, tarot readers, spiritualists.
“Interesting,” she murmured. “Why hide these from Henry?” She took out an evidence bag, dropped the case in.
Under another stack she found a few brochures—the same deal—with rates for readings and consultations, and with testimonials from satisfied clients.
By the time Roarke joined her, she’d finished the closet.
“I can’t say I’ve found anything helpful,” he told her. “Nothing on his office electronics, the house electronics and ’links that seems to apply. Her office is on the next floor, and what strikes is what’s not there.”
“What’s not there?”
“She has it set to automatically delete any searches twice daily.”
“And you let that stop you?”
He gave her a quiet look. “Hardly. I can tell you the vast majority of her searches fell into the area of research for her work. Running organizations that applied for a grant, that sort of thing. But she’s spent considerable time doing searches on the afterlife, on communicating with the dead, on those who claim to serve as a bridge between this world and the next.”
Eve nodded. “Like this?” she asked, and upended her evidence bag on the bed.
Roarke studied the brochures, pamphlets, business cards.
“Yes, like that.”