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?”