Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(11)

“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.”

Probably weighing duties and ethics, he scratched the back of his neck. “Well, they’ve had 1800 for about ten years now. I’ve been here twelve myself. Doctors’ hours, so a lot of late nights, early mornings. Most always have a word, though. Got two grown kids, a couple of grandkids—visit pretty regular. Never had any trouble with any of them. In fact, a few years back when my boy took a header off his airboard and was in the hospital a couple days, they both went by to see him. That says something to me.”

“Okay. Were you on when they got in last night?”

“I came on at six. We have Droid Denise on from midnight to six. She’s in the storeroom if you want me to activate her. Or I could tag up Pete at home. He had the evening shift.”

“We’ll hold on that. Thanks.”

They rode up to eighteen in the smooth, blissfully silent elevator.

“It looks like Roarke,” Peabody commented. “The building. Old-world class with modern efficiency. And it does say something when people take time to look in on their doorman’s kid.”

“Maybe. We’ll see what they have to say for themselves.”

The eighteenth floor was as silent as the elevator. There the air carried the faintest drift of something herby—maybe rosemary.

Apartment 1800 had the west corner. The double doors opened almost as Eve rang the bell.

The woman who greeted them was round—body, face, even the ball of pale blond hair on top of her head. She wore bright blue pants and a boldly printed top under a starched white apron. “Lieutenant, Detective, come right in. My husband’s on the job. Sergeant Tom Clattery out of the one-one-three. Twenty-two years. And wait till I tell him who came to the door early this morning. Have a seat.”

The housekeeper chattered away as she led them into a living space made cozy by a long, narrow electric fire built into the far wall. “Would you have some coffee? There’s fresh as the doctors are just finishing up their breakfast. Never knew a badge to say no to coffee.”

“We wouldn’t want to break the record,” Peabody said just as cheerfully. “Black for the lieutenant, coffee regular for me.”

“Two shakes. Now sit down and be comfortable. The doctors will be right with you.”