by Robb, J. D.
“There are small tool droids for cleaning floors and other tasks.
There is a tutor for the children, but as I relayed, she is also on holiday with Ms. McEnroy at this time. Mr. McEnroy’s administrative assistant and other business staff in this location are often called to the residence but, by and large, Mr. McEnroy works daily, when in New York, from his base in the Midtown Roarke Tower building.”
“Huh. I’ll let you know if I have more questions. What have you got, Peabody?” she asked when her partner came back.
“He left when the droid says, wearing what the droid says. No one came to the door until we did. He overwrote the previous seventy-two, but just a standard from what I can tell. EDD can get under that.”
“Tag McNab, and get sweepers up here.”
Eve made her way to the master bedroom. More soft, tasteful colors, more tasteful art. Though the bed’s headboard spread like a peacock fan, the fabric covering it followed that soft and tasteful tone with a quiet peach one a few shades lighter than the fluffy duvet, which itself was shades lighter than the pillow shams, the stylishly arranged throw.
But the kicker was an all-directional vid camera on tripod placed in the center of the room.
She checked it, found it cued up for voice command, and currently no vids in its storage.
She went back out, called the droid. “Up here.”
“Of course.”
He climbed the stairs, followed her back into the bedroom. She gestured to the camera. “Is that usually here?”
“No. I have not seen that instrument before.”
“Here, or at all?”
“At all, Lieutenant.”
“Okay. You can go back down, stand by.”
She checked the drawers in the polished pewter bedside tables, found e-readers in both that she tagged for EDD, condoms in the one closest to the windows, a nail buffer and hand lotion in the one closest to the attached bath.
No sex toys or enhancements.
Interesting.
Curious, she turned down the duvet, ran a hand over the sheets, bent down, sniffed. Crisp and fresh and smelling very faintly of lavender.
She walked back out to the droid. “Master bedroom sheets. When were they put on fresh?”
“Yesterday morning. Ten A.M.”
“Did Mr. McEnroy request the change, or is that the usual?”
“When Mr. McEnroy is alone in residence, the sheets are changed daily.”
“And when the family is in residence?”
“Twice weekly.”
“Where are the sheets you took off yesterday morning?”
“With the laundry service.”
“Too bad. Peabody, we’ll start in the master.”
“McNab’s on his way. Sweepers should be up in twenty. Well,” Peabody added as they stepped into the master and she saw the camera.
“Yeah, all-directional vid cam, set to voice activation, in the bedroom. Sheets changed twice a week when the wife’s with him, daily when she’s not.”
Peabody curled her lip. “He taps his side pieces in the bed he shares with his wife, and records the action?”
“That’d be my take. And I’m betting he’s got toys stashed somewhere. Start in his closet. I need to talk to his wife.”
She contacted the resort first, confirmed Geena McEnroy, her daughters, and a Frances Early were currently guests, their check-in date, checkout date.
Then she used the contact the droid had given her, prepared to notify next of kin.
Geena answered on the third beep with blocked video and a sleepy voice. “Yes, hello?”
“Geena McEnroy?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Lieutenant Eve Dallas with the New York Police and Security Department.”
“What? Oh my goodness!” The voice leaped alert, the video flashed on to reveal a pretty, sleep-rumpled woman with tousled brown hair, alarmed blue eyes. “Was there a break-in?”
“No, ma’am. Mrs. McEnroy, I regret to inform you your husband is dead. His body was found earlier this morning. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“What? What? What are you talking about? That’s not possible. I spoke to Nigel just this afternoon—here. I-I-It would have been evening there. You’ve made a mistake.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. McEnroy, there’s no mistake. Your husband was killed early this morning, approximately three A.M., and has been officially identified.”
“But you see, that’s not possible. You said there hadn’t been a break-in. Nigel would have been home, in bed, at that hour.”
“According to your house droid’s statement and your apartment security feed, your husband left your West Ninety-first Street apartment shortly after nine last evening. His body was found”—no need for the harsh details now, Eve thought—“a short time ago. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“But …” Confusion, the edge of annoyance, simple disbelief began to melt into shock and shock to grief. “What happened? What happened to Nigel? An accident?”
“No, Mrs. McEnroy. Your husband was murdered.”
“Murdered? Murdered? That’s insane!” Her voice pitched up, then she seemed to catch herself. She pressed a hand to her mouth. “How? Who? Why?”
“Ms. McEnroy, it might be best for you to return to New York. We’ve just begun our investigation. Is there anyone I can contact for you at this time?”
“I—No—I— Wait.”
The video blurred as Geena obviously ran from the bedroom with the ’link in hand. Eve saw pieces of a living area—bold, tropical colors, a hint of moonlight through glass, long, narrow feet with toes painted pastel pink.
“Francie!” The harsh whisper shook. Tears, Eve calculated, were coming. “Oh God, Francie, I need you.”
“I’m up, I’m up!” A light flashed on. “Are you sick, honey?”
To Eve’s best guess, Geena thrust the ’link at the woman in bed, sat, and burst into tears.
The screen filled with the outraged face of a mixed-race woman of about fifty, hazel eyes firing out of a dusky face. “Who is this?”
“This is Lieutenant Eve Dallas with the New York City—”
“Oh, bullshit! I’ve read the book, I’ve seen the vid. Dallas is …” Those hazel eyes blinked before she rubbed them clear. “Oh dear God. What happened? Who’s dead?”
She shifted as she spoke, showing a sturdy body in a pink—not pastel—sleep shirt with a unicorn prancing over it. “Here now, Geena, here now. I’m going to get you some water. I’m going to take care of this, all right? What happened?” she demanded again, obviously on the move.
“Nigel McEnroy is dead. He was killed early this morning.”
“Ah God. How— No don’t bother with that.”
From what Eve could see, the woman dumped ice and fizzy water in a glass in some sort of kitchen. “She needs me. The girls need me, so we’ll wait on that. They loved him. I’ll take care of things here. We’ll be on our way back to New York as soon as possible. Did it happen in the apartment?”
“No.”
“All right.
We’ll go there, as soon as I can arrange it.”
“Your name, ma’am.”
“Francie—Frances,” she corrected. “Frances Early. I teach the girls. I need to see to Geena.”
“Please contact me when you arrive in New York.”
“Geena will. She’ll have steadied up by then, for the girls. I have to see to her now.”
When the woman clicked off, Eve shifted modes, did a quick run on Frances Early.
“The tutor,” Eve began as she walked into what was a his-and-hers dressing room rather than a closet. “Frances Early, one marriage, one divorce, no children. Age fifty-six, educator, twenty-two years in the public school arena, New York, born and raised. Seven years with the McEnroys as tutor to first the older daughter, then both. Travels with the family when they travel. Lives here or with her sister when they’re in New York, has rooms in their London home, and is given
accommodations in their other residences. One bump—assault charge brought by her ex, then dropped. She seems solid.”
“I’m not finding anything in here except really nice clothes, his and hers, and excellent products in the makeup and grooming area. But there is a safe.”
Eve eyed it, calculated she could open it—she’d been taught by the expert thief (former) who happened to be her husband. “It’s going to be jewelry,” she decided. “She’d likely have the codes, so he wouldn’t stash anything in there he didn’t want her to see. Shared space.
“Keep at it. I’ll hit his home office.”
Wandering through, she paused at a bedroom obviously shared by the two daughters. All pink and white and frilly, it said girlie girls. One section held a pair of facing desks, another toys and games.
She identified the third bedroom as the tutor’s. The bright floral spread indicated a fondness for color—added to when a glance in the closet showed a wardrobe in bright, cheerful hues.
One wall held a big frame, with various kid art on display, and on a table under the window sat a trio of photos—the girls, the tutor with the family.
She’d called the wife by her first name—called her honey when concerned. Kid art, photos. Part of the family, Eve concluded. And people who lived as part of a family knew things.
She’d want to talk to Frances Early.
She moved on, found what she figured served as the kids’ classroom/ playroom, a kind of gathering room, formal dining, and McEnroy’s office.
No office or separate space for his wife, she noted, but McEnroy’s work space hit upscale in every note. The view, the desk, the chair, the sofa, the art, the data and communication system.
Top-of-the-line, she mused, as would behoove a man of his position and wealth.
She found his memo book, passcoded; his work comp, passcoded; communications, passcoded.
A careful man, even in his own home.
Desk drawers locked and coded.
Even the closet required a swipe and code.
She started there.
Opening her field kit, she took out a tool—one Roarke had given her—and got to work.
She heard the sweepers come into the unit, heard Peabody talking to them. Ignored it.
She could do this, and she’d be damned if McEnroy put this kind of security on an office holding freaking memo cubes and work discs.
Ten minutes later, frustrated, she nearly gave in and just kicked the damn door down. But then she’d have to report herself.
She heard McNab’s cheery, “Hey, She-Body!” And doubled her efforts.
She’d also be damned if she’d work this long, then pass the stupid task to the EDD geek, have him show her up.
She set her teeth as she heard his airboot prance coming her way.
“Hey, LT.”
“Start on the electronics,” she ordered. “Open what you can here, do a quick pass, tag and transport. Shit, shit, shit! Open the hell up! Take what you can’t open back to EDD.”
“On it. Hey, that’s a mag code reader. Is that a TTS-5?”
“How the hell do I know? Stop breathing on me.”
“Looks like you’re through everything but—”
She made a sound deep in her throat even a rabid dog would have backed away from. McNab just leaned closer.
When the pad blinked green, he tapped a fist to her shoulder. “Nice.”
“Fucking A,” she said, and used the master to swipe through the rest.
She figured McNab could have done it in half the time she’d taken, and Roarke? He probably could have slid through by his damn Irish charm.
But she’d done it.
She opened the door, saw the memo cubes, the discs, the other organized office supply paraphernalia—and a case she judged would hold the camera in the bedroom.
And a locked cabinet. “Jesus Christ. Is he storing the crown freaking jewels?”
“Just a key lock this time,” McNab noted. “We can pry it.”
“No property damage.” From the field kit she took lock picks—again courtesy of Roarke. She had a better hand with key locks than e-locks, and had the cabinet open in under five.
When she opened the door, McNab let out a low whistle. “Wowzer. Kink City.”
“I knew it.”
“Dude could practically open his own sex shop.” McNab slipped his hands into two of the many pockets on his plutonium-infused purple baggies.
She couldn’t disagree as she scanned the padded cuffs, the vibrators, the oils and lotions, the cock rings, nipple clamps, ticklers, silk cords, blindfolds, the supply of condoms, of Stay Up, feathers, gels.
She gestured at a bottle clearly marked ROHYPNOL, another marked RABBIT, and a small one labeled WHORE.
“Son of a bitch. He’s got travel vials. Go clubbing, take a vial, pick your target. Get her back here, do what you want. Lady Justice’s poem wasn’t wrong.”
“Poem?”
“We’ll get to it. Electronics, McNab.”
“On it.” He stepped back, a skinny guy with a pretty face, a long tail of blond hair, an earlobe weighed down by silver hoops. “The toys, you know, that’s one thing. No harm, no foul if everybody’s having fun. But the chemicals, that’s fucked-up.”
“And now so’s he.”
And whatever he’d done, whatever he’d been, now he was hers.
She went out, spoke to the head sweeper, rounded up Peabody.
“Let’s take his New York admin. That’s the best chance of getting his habits, his schedule, his friends, and his side pieces if he had repeats.”
“Lance Po,” Peabody read from her PPC as they started out. “Thirty-eight, mixed-race male, married five years to Westley Schupp, worked the New York base for just under eleven years, the last four as the vic’s admin. The apartment was so classy,” Peabody added as they rode down.
“Yeah, that’s how it looked. Nice, quiet, upper-class class. He had photos of his wife and kids on his desk ten feet from a locked cabinet full of sex toys and bottles of roofies, Rabbit, Whore. Not so goddamn classy.”
“So he didn’t just cheat on his wife in her own damn bed. He used rape drugs.”
“Hard to believe he had them—and not all the bottles were full—and didn’t use them. Let’s see if the admin knows where he was heading last night, and who—if anyone—he headed out to meet.”
They went outside, where life in New York hit full churn. Ad blimps blasting, traffic snarling, pedestrians surging. No body lay over the sidewalk now, and no sign remained that it had.
Inside the building was a different story. She had uniforms knocking on doors, sweepers spreading over a family home, an EDD geek who’d dig through what that family had documented, what they’d talked about on their ’links, what they’d keyboarded, what photos they’d saved on any device.
Death unearthed secrets.
When Eve slid behind the wheel, Peabody gave her the admin’s address. “It’s going to be a hard trip home for his wife and kids,” she commented.
“Yeah. Did she know?” Eve wondered. “Maybe, maybe she didn’t know about what he kept locked in a cabinet, but how could she not know about the cheating? A guy doesn’t have that kind of sex supply—out of the bedroom he shares with his spouse—and not cheat as a matter of habit. How could she not know?”
“Some women just believe, and some guys are really good at covering.”
Eve shook her head. “Nobody’s that good.”
She punched out, muscled her way into the snarling traffic.
Po and his husband lived in a Midtown unit over a Greek restaurant. A reasonable walk to work, if Po was inclined, Eve calculated. She buzzed in at the street-level door, and in seconds got a cheerful “Hey, yo!” through the intercom.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We need to speak to Mr. Po.”
“Yeah, right, and Roarke’s up here having a bagel. Is that you, Carrie?”
“Lieutenant Dallas. Am I speaking to Lance Po
?”
“Well, yeah. Come on, seriously?”
“Seriously. We need to come up.”
Eve heard some cross talk, a laugh. “Says she’s Eve Dallas. It’s gotta be Carrie.”
But the buzzer sounded, the locks clicked open.
The tiny hallway held a skinny elevator Eve wouldn’t have trusted if Po had lived a mile up, and an equally skinny set of stairs.
As they climbed up, she heard the door open above. “You sounded pretty kick-ass, Carrie, but—”
The man in the doorway broke off.
He hit about five-eight of trim, slim, mixed-race Asian. He looked younger than his thirty-eight years in a natty metallic-blue suit, a red-and-blue-dotted tie, and with raven black hair in short, curly dreads tipped in gold.
His eyes, nearly as gold as the tips, popped wide.
“Holy shit! Holy shit, Wes! It’s fucking Eve Dallas.”
“Get real, Lance.” The second man, with a muscular, shaved head, black skin covered in faded jeans and a long-sleeved red T-shirt, stepped out. He blinked, laid a hand on Po’s shoulder, said, “Well, son of a bitch.”
Then he blinked again, and his dark eyes filled with worry. “Jesus, somebody’s dead.”
“Oh God. God. Is somebody dead?”
“Can we come in?”
“My mom. My mom—”
“It’s not about your mother, Mr. Po, or any family member. We’re here about your boss.”
“Sylvia?” He reached up, grabbed his partner’s hand.
“No, Nigel McEnroy.”
“Mr. McEnroy’s dead?”
“We’d like to come inside.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He stepped back. “Yes, please. I was—we were—just thrown off. We’re big fans, of both of you. Not just the book and vid, though totally mag there. But we’ve been following you since you and Roarke—big fans there, too—and it’s your work, and the fashion, and the no-prisoners interviews when they get you on camera. We’re just—”
“You’re babbling, honey.” Schupp nudged Po aside, reached for Eve’s hand, then Peabody’s. “Please, sit down. We don’t have your coffee, but—”
“We’re fine.”
The living space, though small, struck Eve as a lot more friendly and comfortable than the McEnroys’. A high-backed navy sofa ranged along one wall, topped with a long, interesting pencil sketch of the city. It faced a couple of easy chairs in bold, multicolored stripes. A bench padded with fake leather added more seating, and a jog to the left opened into a smart-looking little kitchen and eating area.