Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

“Hers is really pretty—not gaudy like this one. Anyway, it was fun to look at all the stuff, and I picked up some things—I mean what they are, not actually picking them up. I was literally afraid to touch anything. What I’m saying is there’s a lot of pick-and-go stuff around here I can spot that’s worth bunches. Weird-ass burglary that leaves tens of thousands behind with a DB.”

“Some specialize. You come for the jewelry or the electronics. How many people would look at that lamp and think it’s worth ten grand? But you’re right, it’s a weird-ass burglary if that was the goal.”

Eve frowned at the empty place on the shelf. “He went through grabbing what caught his fancy along with cleaning out safes. Maybe weird, maybe just a flourish. We’re leaving the rest of this to the sweepers for now. We have the chief of surgery at St. Andrew’s and her husband on the guest list last night. We’ll hit them first, then the hospital, go from there.”

Peabody picked up her coat from where she’d tossed it, began to wind her mile-long scarf around her neck. “Notifications done?”

“Vic’s parents, yeah.” Eve pulled on her snowflake cap as they headed out. “Shock from both of them. Some tears, a lot of questions. And what struck me as a kind of emotional distance.”

She realized she’d forgotten just how freaking cold it was when the first gust of winter wind blasted her. She strode straight to her car, parked considerately at the curb. “I asked them both when they’d last seen or spoken with their son.”

Eve got in, hit the heat, the seat warmers. “Coffee,” she told Peabody. “Get us coffee.”

“Don’t have to ask twice.” Peabody immediately programmed the in-dash AutoChef for two coffees: one black, one regular.

“The father told me he saw Strazza three years ago when the father came to New York for a medical conference.”

“That’s a long time between visits.”

“Yeah, and with a little pressing it comes out they met for lunch. Strazza junior was very busy, blah-blah. The mother? Five years, she believes.”

“But—how long ago did Strazza get married?”

“Three years. Neither parent was invited. Neither have met the wife. Again, with a little pressing, it sounds like the mother had specifically asked the vic if she could come to New York, spend some time, take the new bride to lunch, whatever. Too busy.”

“That’s pretty harsh.”

“Maybe they were shit parents. Maybe one or both abused or neglected him. Maybe he was a shit son. Hard to say. But they’re both flying in to New York, dropping whatever they’ve got going to come here and see what’s left of him, to see his widow. So I lean toward shit son until I lean differently.”

“It’s sad. I know I only see my parents, my family, a couple times a year now, but we talk every week. Same with McNab and his.”

“Say he was a shit son, and a shit husband. Odds are, if so, he was a shit in other areas.”

Peabody embraced her coffee. “And the burglary deal is a cover. Somebody wanted him dead.” As she considered that a strong possible, Peabody gave a nod. “But then why beat and rape the wife?”

“To torture Strazza, maybe to torture the wife. Maybe because the killer likes beating and raping women. We’ll look for similar crimes.”

Coffee, Eve thought, pleased traffic was light enough so she could enjoy it as she headed the few blocks to Dr. Lucy Lake’s and Dr. John O’Connor’s condo.

She knocked the last of the coffee back as she swerved to the curb in front of an impressively refurbished building. She figured the nice jolt of caffeine would add a buzz to slapping back the doorman in his forest-green livery.

“Don’t get excited.” Peabody anticipated her. “I looked it up. It’s Roarke owned.”

Slightly deflated, Eve reached for the door handle even as the doorman whisked it open for her. “Lieutenant Dallas, how can I help you today?”

Eve reminded herself that a cooperative doorman saved time, even if it was a buzzkill. “We need to speak to Drs. Lake and O’Connor.”

“You come on in out of the cold. I’ll ring up and tell them you and Detective Peabody are here.”

He led the way into a classy lobby decked out in Deco style. It smelled, very faintly, of pomegranates.

3

It took the cooperative doorman under two minutes to contact the doctors’ apartment, relay the information, and clear them up.

“Apartment 1800,” he told them as he escorted them to an elevator. “They’re expecting you.”

Since he was being so damned helpful, Eve sized him up. “Lake and O’Connor. Impressions.”