Chapter One #2
Now she covered her face with her hands.
“The basement door’s open. Haven’t I told him a thousand times to always close that door?
But it’s open, and Dave . . . I ran down, but he won’t wake up, and there’s so much blood.
Someone’s screaming. It’s me. I’m screaming, but he won’t wake up.
I have to call for help. The police came and the ambulance, but they said he was gone. ”
Tears spurted out of furious and grieving eyes.
“I can see him, right there! He’s not gone. They mean dead, but he can’t be dead. We’ve been married sixty years and we’re supposed to have more. His parents are a hundred and twelve! He’s going to the ball game tomorrow.”
“Ms. Pressley. Marleen. Is there someone I can contact for you? Someone to come be with you now?”
“I want Dave.” She lowered her hands, stared at them. “Are you married?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you love someone?”
“Yes, I do. I love him a lot.”
Marleen nodded. “Married or not, it’s not till death. It doesn’t stop, if you love someone, at death.”
In the end, Peabody contacted the daughter.
“Officer Arnette, would you stay with Ms. Pressley until her daughter gets here?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant.”
“Peabody, check the security feed. I’ll talk to the neighbor.”
“It’s going to verify her statement.”
“Yeah, but we check the boxes.”
When it was done, and the day fading, they stood on the sidewalk.
“The ME’s going to rule this accidental death.”
Eve nodded. “Yeah. But death’s death, Peabody. We don’t shortchange it because the stubborn man gets on a ladder in house skids that should’ve been retired a year ago. He deserves, and his wife, his family deserve, full attention.”
“You gave me the lead, right?”
“I did, and you checked the boxes.”
“Still another to check. I’ll go in, write it up. We’re already, hell, about two hours past end of shift. No point in you going all the way downtown, then up again. I’ve got to go down to get home anyway. To my amazing house where we’re soon having a big-ass whoop of a party.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And you’ll get to meet more Peabodys!”
“And the population of Free-Agers in New York spikes. I’m going home.”
“And after one quick stop to check that last box, so am I. See you tomorrow.”
They split off, Eve toward her car, Peabody walking to the subway.
A long day, she thought. But it might’ve been longer, as death usually meant murder in her line, then the hunt.
Since the Marriage Rules insisted, she texted Roarke when she got behind the wheel.
On my way now.
Should I get your case board ready?
Not this time. Accidental. Wouldn’t mind a glass of wine.
It’ll be here, and so will I.
He would, she thought as she waited for a break in traffic. That made her lucky. She had someone who loved her, who’d be there when she got home.
And who bought her obscenely expensive boots despite the fact she too often got blood on them.
And tonight, she thought as she finally zipped away from the curb, they’d have some wine, some dinner. Maybe take a walk out to the pond, maybe watch a vid, maybe have lots of sex.
Maybe all three.
As she stopped at a light, watched pedestrians stream like a storm-churned river over the intersection, her communicator signaled.
“Come on. Don’t do that. Shit. Dallas.”
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, what is your status?
A little tired, she thought, a lot hungry.
“Closed unattended death, expect accidental ruling from ME. Leaving crime scene at 522 East Eighty-Second.”
See the officers at 330 West Seventy-Eight. Possible homicide.
“Acknowledged. I’m en route.”
She blew out a breath, streamed through the light. Said, “Crap,” before texting Roarke again.
Caught another. People just keep dying. It’s on my way home. I’ll let you know when I know.
Is Peabody with you?
Negative, already on her way to Central to write up the accidental. No point hauling her back.
Give me the address. I’ll be your Peabody.
She started to tell him not to bother, but stopped, admitted the futility. So she texted the address.
He had a good eye—a cop’s eye, though he didn’t like to hear it. But the fact he did, and could think like a cop—surely due to his criminal days—made him an asset.
She didn’t expect to hit another accidental, or a natural causes.
Traffic pulsed and sputtered as she drove across town, and the river of pedestrians didn’t abate. September teased at fall and still brought the balmy rather than the brisk.
People walked dogs, walked babies, hauled shopping bags, rolled suitcases, clipped toward restaurants, bars, shops still open.
New York pulsed, she thought, but it sure didn’t sputter.
While she didn’t believe she’d hit another accidental, she inched warily toward the hope she’d caught one she could close quickly.
Peabody had family coming in. And when Peabody said big-ass whoop of a party, she—along with Peabody’s main man and EDD ace McNab, in coordination with Eve’s oldest friend Mavis and Mavis’s Leonardo—really meant it.
It wouldn’t surprise Eve if they hired trapeze swingers, dancing elephants, a marching band to celebrate the completion of their big, rambling, shared home.
Add in Mavis was pretty damn close to pushing out her second kid. Something Eve didn’t want to think about, as she’d yet to come up with a way to avoid being there, right there, at that downright terrifying event.
She pulled up at the location behind a police car, noted the building.
Two stories, single-family residence. A sturdy old building with the brick whitewashed, and double doors up a set of six steps.
Wide windows, privacy screened, and as she got out for a closer look, an excellent security system.
She supposed stately fit the feel of it all.
She went up the stairs, rang the bell, held up her badge.
The uniform who answered wasn’t fresh baked. By her judgment he’d come out of the Academy’s oven about a quarter century before.
“Officer . . . Regel.”
“Lieutenant. Got a puzzle for you.”
“I was afraid of that. My consultant, civilian, is on the way.”
“That’d be Roarke?”
“It would.”
Regel nodded. “I’ll pass him through. Where’s Peabody?” At Eve’s look, Regel smiled a little. “My kid went through the Academy with her. She’s with the five-four.”
“Peabody’s heading to Central to write up the one we closed right before I caught this one.”
“Keeps us busy. Anyway, tell her Nick Regel said yo.”
“Will do. What’ve we got, Regel?”
“DB, male—wife ID’d him as Lawrence Chu.
He’s in the study, office, den-type room back there, to the left.
Wife states she came downstairs. They were supposed to meet friends for dinner at eight, and she was a little annoyed he hadn’t come up to change.
Door’s locked, he doesn’t answer, she’s more steamed at first. Then she’s a little worried.
She gets the key, unlocks it, finds him on the floor.
“From the visual, my official determination is somebody beat the living shit out of him until he was dead. Room’s soundproofed if you were wondering.
The whole place is. My partner has the widow in the back.
Big kitchen and lounge back there. Officer Renee Seven.
She’s still a little green around the edges, but she’s a solid cop. ”
Second widow in one day, Eve thought.
“All right. I’ll take the body first.”
She carried her field kit over polished floors, beyond the short foyer where a staircase curved its way along the left and the living area spread beyond a wide case opening to the right.
Fireplace, white stone, maybe marble, furniture that ran to sleek and modern, all in neutral tones—whites, grays, taupes.
She wondered for an instant who made up words like taupe.
Modern art provided the color in slashes and splashes.
Powder room beyond the staircase, a kind of sitting room on the right, and beyond that her crime scene.
“Record on.”
Blood, she thought. Humans sure had a hell of a lot of blood. And this human had spilled a great deal of his.
The second time today, she thought.
She sealed up, stepped inside.
She scanned the room first, a spacious office with a pair of windows facing what looked like a small courtyard where security lights showed a bird feeder, a bench, a wide bowl on a pedestal she decided was a bathtub for birds.
Since the workstation sat facing the door rather than the windows, she figured the dead guy hadn’t entertained himself watching birds eat and wash up.
The computer she assumed had sat on the desk now lay smashed on the floor. Blood striped it, as it did the wall where a table and lamp also lay broken.
More blood was spattered on the cream-colored leather sofa.
There’d been what she thought of as an ego gallery on another wall. Photos of the victim with important people, at galas, at what looked like state dinners, awards, plaques.
Using the blood as a guide, she saw the victim’s head slamming against that wall so the photos and awards fell, scattered their broken glass or clung crookedly to the wall.
Another frame lay facedown on the workstation. With her sealed fingers, she tipped up what she took to be a family photo taken at the beach.
Frowning, she set it down again.
She saw from the smears and trail on the floor how the broken and bloodied victim had tried to crawl away from his attacker.
“What did you do?” she murmured. “What did you do to boil up this kind of rage?”
Skirting the body, avoiding blood, she tested both windows.
Locked.
“Locked windows, locked door. All from inside.” She studied the walls. “We’ll ask the widow if there’s a hidden door, search for one.”
She looked down at the body. “You sure didn’t do this to yourself.”
“Well, Christ.”
She glanced toward the open door at Roarke.
He’d changed from the ruler-of-the-business-universe suit he’d worn that morning. He’d dressed that tall, leanly muscled frame in black trousers, a black leather jacket, and a shirt that matched the wild, bold blue of his eyes.