Chapter Two
Because she’d spent a large part of the evening sipping from an apparently bottomless glass of wine, Eve popped a Sober-Up before she got in the car.
It wasn’t a long drive, and after one in the morning, a quick one. Still, Eve had time, since Nadine had given her the springboard, to do a quick run on the residents of Barrister House.
“Nathan Barrister, white male, fifty, looks clean from a quick pass.
Married to Aileen Carville, mixed-race female, age fifty, for twenty-five years as of next month.
Also looks clean. Daughter Chloe—age twenty-one—Harvard, business major.
No bumps at this point. Daughter Anya, age nineteen—also Harvard, law student.
Sister, Joy Barrister, age fifty-two, fifty-three in November—divorced, no offspring, resides Third Avenue. Also looks clean.
“An optimist then.”
“Ha! Both his offspring come from the third marriage to Tina Glenn Barrister Carlyle Nance. So optimistic enough there for three tries. The old man was worth about a hundred and twenty-five billion at TOD.”
She glanced over. “Doesn’t hold a candle to you. And what does that mean? Why hold a candle? Sure, if it’s dark and that’s all you’ve got, or okay, romantic ambience.”
“I’d say the Sober-Up hasn’t kicked in, but you’d ask that if you hadn’t had a drink for a week.”
“Anyway. They’ve probably got live-in staff, so whoever’s dead might be family, might be staff, might be somebody else altogether.”
“I suppose it’s wait and see again. But not for long.”
He turned toward a gate.
“Gated. Should’ve figured.”
“I know this place—the history, in any case.”
Eve leaned past him to hold up her badge to the security cam. “NYPSD. Lieutenant Dallas and expert consultant Roarke.”
She watched the red light scan her badge, then a human voice responded.
“Officer McNee, Lieutenant. Passing you through.”
And silent as the grave, the gates opened.
The three-story house of faded, rosy brick stood tall and square. A detached garage connected to the main house with a glass-enclosed breezeway. Shrubs and leafy trees scattered artistically over the manicured lawn.
“Big place,” Eve said, “but there’s that candle thing again.”
Roarke laughed.
“It was built during New York’s Gilded Age for what you’d call a tycoon.
Unfortunately for him, his son, who inherited, lost the bulk of the wealth gambling.
At the tables, on the horses, in the market.
And so the house sold and was for a time a museum.
It was ransacked and damaged during the Urban Wars, after which, it seems, Henry Barrister bought it for a song.
Likely it cost him more to have it repaired, refurbished. ”
“How do you know all this? You know the Barristers?”
“I don’t, no.” He shot her a glance. “I know all this because it’s my business to know, and in fact, when I’d made up my mind to base in New York, I looked at homes like this, buildings like this.”
“Then built yourself something completely different.”
“Built what suited me, and what I’d built in my head as a child. Again, I don’t know the Barristers personally. But I do know Zip as a solid, successful, well-run company.”
They got out of the car, and while Roarke went around to the trunk for a field kit, Eve approached the uniform standing in the wide, covered portico.
Both the double doors behind him had lion’s heads with rings clutched in their jaws. To her eye, they looked pissed off.
“Officer McNee.”
“Lieutenant.”
He stood as straight as a poker. Young and green, Eve thought, and his polished shoes, spotless uniform, and squared-on cap reminded her of her first look at the then–Officer Peabody.
“Give me the rundown.”
“Sir. My partner, Officer Lawrence, and I responded to the nine-one-one at one hundred hours, two minutes. We arrived on scene at one hundred hours, eight minutes, approximately two minutes after the arrival of the medical techs.”
When Roarke joined her, McNee stopped, swallowed.
“And?” Eve prompted.
“Sir. A woman identifying herself as Uma Acker, the housekeeper, gave us entry and took us back through to where the MTs attempted to treat the victim, a male the housekeeper identified as Nathan Barrister. They pronounced him as deceased at one hundred hours, nine minutes.”
“Were others on scene?”
“Sir, yes, sir. Two women. Aileen Carville, the victim’s spouse.
The MTs administered a mild sedative, as she was very distressed.
Um … Joy Barrister, the victim’s sister, who placed the nine-one-one.
Two more individuals arrived from another section of the house and were held back by my partner and myself.
Staff members, Lieutenant, who live on the premises.
“Sir, my partner, Officer Lawrence, has all the individuals in the kitchen area, and posted me here when you announced your arrival.”
“All right. Stand by, Officer. My partner should be on her way. Inform your partner I’m taking the body first. Where’s the body?”
“Sir, the victim was killed in an office area on the main level, two rooms back from the central stairs.”
“And you know he was killed there because you were there at that time?”
“I…”
“You know he was killed rather than suffered an accident of some nature, as you saw the killing?”
“I— No, sir, I…”
“Correct response? The DB is in an office area on the main level, two rooms back from the central stairs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you been in uniform, Officer?”
“It’s my third day, Lieutenant.”
“First DB?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You gave a decent report. You’ll need to do better. Next time, leave out the conclusions. Focus on facts known and any relevant observations.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Stand by,” she repeated, and went inside.
“He’s very young,” Roarke commented.
“And has a ways to go.”
She scanned the enormous entrance, the grand staircase with its carved newel posts in the shape of sitting lions.
They didn’t look real happy, either.
The marble floors, white as the Swiss Alps, looked just as cold to her. The room to the right held an elaborate fireplace. Its face—white marble again—was framed by white pillars, topped by a thick, white mantel.
A glossy white grand piano dominated one corner. A couple of long, high-backed couches in gold, a few chairs in white-and-gold stripes, tables—white or gold—sat in an arranged formality that made her back itch.
The smaller room to the left sent out the same stiff and formal vibe with its white sofa, little slant-top desk in gold.
“Nobody lives in either of these rooms,” she decided, and walked on.
She found the office, and the victim.
And knew immediately the MTs had compromised the scene. Though it irritated, she had to assume they’d felt they had no choice.
The victim lay on his back, his head and hair drenched in blood that had yet to congeal.
His eyes had begun to film, so the blue had a dull and glassy stare.
He wore what had been a gray, long-sleeved tee—soaked red at the shoulders—and a pair of gray sleep or lounge pants.
One gray house skid lay beside his right foot, the other near the big desk of glossy black.
He wore a gold wedding ring and some sort of medallion on a gold chain.
As she sealed up, took her recorder out of her purse, and clipped it on, Eve glanced around the office.
A few paintings that were likely good ones hung on muted gray walls.
A chair rail in deeper gray ran about three feet up the walls.
A couple of black leather chairs, a gel sofa in a quiet blue gave the room some style.
The desk held a large comp monitor, a data and communication unit, framed photos that faced whoever sat at the desk. To the right, a door that would have blended into the wall if it were closed stood a few inches open.
Though she’d check it, she considered it a storage area, as to the left the door to a half bath stood open.
For now, she focused on the body.
“Record on. Victim is a Caucasian male, pronounced dead by medical techs at one hundred hours, nine minutes. The scene has been compromised by same. Though the victim is now on his back, the blood pattern on the floor indicates he was turned. Visible evidence of a head wound, probable weapon a large rock—looks like a decorative piece, about eighteen inches long, ah … eight inches wide at one end, descending down to about three at the tip.”
“I believe that’s a piece of amethyst, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah?” She glanced up at Roarke. “Expert consultant IDs said rock as amethyst, lab to confirm. Said piece, situated on the floor by the right side of the desk, has blood and gray matter on the head.”
She took out her Identi-pad, pressed the victim’s finger to it.
“Victim is identified as Nathan Barrister, age fifty, of this address. No visible defensive wounds. Victim wears a gold ring on the third finger of his left hand and a gold chain with…” She tipped the medallion up with a sealed finger. “Yeah, a Saint Christopher medal.”
She turned the head, huffed out a breath at the severity of the wound on the back of the victim’s head. “No wonder they pronounced so quickly. With this? If he wasn’t dead when they got here, he sure as hell was by the time they tried working on him.”
She sat back on her heels. “Close to one in the morning. He’s dressed for bed or lounging around. Maybe he’s working late, or came down to work.
“The way this looks? He’s bashed from behind as he’s walking back from that door over there. Check that out, will you? Probably office storage. You sealed?”
“I am, yes.”
As she continued her examination, Roarke, avoiding splatters and pools of blood, moved to the door.
“Not office storage, no, it’s not that.” He had to put his back into it to fully open the door. “It’s a vault.”
“A vault?” She looked up from her gauges that told her TOD was about ten, maybe eleven minutes before the MTs arrived.
“And it holds some very interesting treasures.”
She stood, walked over. It changed things, she thought. Changed everything.