Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

“His closet. It’s obsessively organized. He has about sixty white dress shirts—same shirt like sixty times. White shirts, black shirts, a smaller amount in gray. Black pants, black suits, gray suits. No color. Everything’s in order,” she continued as she bagged the shoes. “Everything’s precisely hung. He’s got some casual wear in drawers—a built-in—and workout gear same deal, though he loosened up there enough for a little navy blue. Even his casual clothes are precisely folded and coordinated. Same with underwear and socks. Oh, and every shirt—even the casual—has his monogram on the cuffs.

“He has two pair of white athletic shoes,” Peabody went on, “two pair of black—all four the same brand and style, all pristine. All the rest are black dress shoes. About fifty pair. His closet comp not only lists each article of clothing, when he last wore it, and where, but when and where it was purchased. Nothing is more than a year old.”

“So he was fussy.”

“And then some.”

“Check out the other closet.”

Eve moved to a bedside table, opened the drawer. She took out a tablet, and at her swipe saw it was passcoded. She tagged and bagged it for McNab to take into the Electronic Detectives Division. She bagged a bottle of prescription sleep aids, another bottle for male sexual enhancement, a white silk blindfold, and a long white silk cord.

Considering all, she walked around the bed to the other night table. Another tablet—no passcode. On it she found a number of books on entertaining, hostessing, menus.

Peabody stepped out as Eve sniffed a small bottle with a gold lily as a topper. “Perfume. And her bedside tablet’s filled with domestic stuff. No photos, no personal data, no music, no novels.”

“Her closet’s nearly the female version of his, organizationally. Not quite as precise, but close. Nearly everything’s white, but there are some prints, some color—but it’s either gold or silver over white. And the underwear runs from virginal to deep slut city. Same with her nightwear.”

“Interesting. No sex toys. He’s got his performance enhancer candy and that’s it.” She circled the room. “Could be a kind of theme, right? Bedroom’s all white and gold. Like a church or temple. Anyway…”

They went back to it. By the time Eve finished the bathroom—a lot of bath oil and female products in the same scent as the perfume—the morgue team and the sweepers were at work.

She turned a tube of cleanser in her hand, sorely tempted, but put it back.

“Lilies and white. Lily-white. Maybe the guy wanted that from the wife. Or wanted her to project that. That image shattered when she was raped.”

“You think the killer knew them, or one of them?”

“He knew enough to get into the bedroom undetected,” Eve said as they started out. “He knew enough. Daphne Strazza said he was in the bedroom when they came up for the night after the party. She said he was the devil. She’s still in shock, but that’s how she described him.”

“A mask?”

“That’s my take. We need the name of whoever catered the party, any outside staff. Valets, bartenders, servers, extra housekeeping, decorators. Some of that’s on her tablet, as is the guest list.”

“Handy.”

“Considering, to the best of my knowledge, all the regular household staff are droids, now kicked to hell and back, it is pretty handy.”

“Next of kin?”

“He has parents—divorced. Mother’s in France—a retired physicist, remarried. Father’s a neurologist, department head in a private hospital in Switzerland. Her parents were killed in a tsunami in Asia while the whole family was vacationing. She was nine. She was raised by Gayle and Barry DeSilva—family friends and the appointed guardians through the parents’ wills. They, like Daphne Strazza’s deceased parents, live in Minnesota. I haven’t made any notifications, or done any deeper runs.”

They stood outside Strazza’s home office, looking in.

“I can start the runs,” Peabody said.

“Do that, and check on the e-geeks. They’ve obviously been here, taken Strazza’s desk comp and comm center. I want to look around.” Eve checked her wrist unit. “I’ll contact Strazza’s parents shortly. We need to see about another interview with Daphne Strazza, and we’ll see if she wants her guardians contacted.”

“She has to have a pal,” Peabody pointed out. “Probably on the guest list. Everybody’s got a pal.”

Though Eve nodded as she moved into the office, she knew differently. She hadn’t had anyone remotely like a pal. Until Mavis Freestone. She’d lived two decades of her life without someone close enough to be considered a friend.

A short round in Strazza’s office added weight to Peabody’s OCD diagnosis. Everything in the room was meticulously organized. Every drawer and door secured. Roarke or McNab—or both—had bypassed the locks and codes, so she sat in Strazza’s custom-built leather chair, fishing through his desk.

McNab pranced in on plaid airboots, his blond hair streaming back in a tail, earlobes forested with glittery hoops. He wore a sweatshirt sporting a madly gyrating Elvis over sapphire-blue baggy pants with a h

alf dozen emerald and ruby pockets.

“Hey, Dallas, early start. Wanted to let you know I had a team come in to haul in the murdered droids. We got some non-humanoid domestics. We’ll look at them, but don’t expect much there. Gathering up ’links and comps and tabs. Peabody said you got his-and-hers tabs from the bedroom.”