Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(81)

She looked behind art of strange, long-bodied dogs and rearing horses.

Finding nothing, anywhere, she looked back at Feeney as he busied himself checking ’link transmissions.

“You cheated on your wife.”

He kept working. “Not if I wanna live past Tuesday.”

“Think like a cheat. You end up marrying one of the women you cheated with. You’re still cheating—it’s what you do. Do you keep anything to do with your sidepieces, and more, anything to do with something that would turn a woman murderous, where the current wife could find it?”

“Me? I’d have a separate account she didn’t know about, maybe a bank box, too. And, if I’m rich like this asshole, I’ve got a place she doesn’t know about. If I had a place when I was cheating with her, it’s gone, sold, done when I’m cheating on her. Anything I did cheating with her, I switch up now.”

“A place. A place,” she murmured. “Like Edward Mira had the hotel. His wife knew he cheated, so he didn’t have to worry about it. Wymann wasn’t married—I’m still waiting for Roarke to tell me if he used the hotel. We’ll do the same with Betz. But, a place. A place just for sex. You can only have it here when your wife’s out of town, and you really like cheating.

“He’d need a key, a swipe, codes, something. And he wouldn’t keep it in a desk drawer, even a locked one, where his wife might get to it.”

She opened a door, looked into a red and silver powder room, turned and studied the bar in the corner of the office.

“I bet I know where she doesn’t go.”

Eve walked out, jogged downstairs, back into the master.

She found Peabody and McNab beside the huge red (naturally) bed with its avalanche of pillows. They had a look in their eyes, but fortunately for them nobody’s hands were on anybody’s ass.

“I don’t think anybody broke in a second-story window.”

“Nobody broke in anywhere,” McNab told her. “Two other doors on the main, and neither of them have been opened for twenty-six hours. The windows haven’t been opened for weeks. I figured I’d take the ’links and comps in here.”

“Is that what you figured?”

He grinned. “Abso-true. And hang with She-Body while I’m at it.”

Saying nothing, she walked over, looked into the hers bathroom.

As she suspected, it was filled with frills and a carnival full of pink.

The cleaning crew had started there, so fresh pink towels and white towels with pink edging were stacked on a painted bench or hung on a standing rack. Surfaces—all pink and white—shined, and the air gave off a faint whiff of citrus. Jars of various girl products stood on the long counter between two pink vessel sinks. The faucets were silver mermaids, and that motif was repeated in the triple-glass shower.

In addition to the divan—pink-and-white stripes—there was a curvy vanity; drawers full of creams, lotions, enhancements; a closet filled with various robes and slippers; a mini AutoChef and friggie built into the wall.

The toilet rated its own little room with mermaid art and a wall screen.

She stepped back out. “Have you been in there?”

“Yeah. Any woman would kill for a bathroom that size all her own. But she showed how even that mag space can be ruined.”

“Her side. Her bath, her closet/dressing room, her sitting room, her side of the bed, her dresser—the one with all the pink bottles. Right?”

“Yeah. His side.” Peabody jerked a thumb. “You know they’ve got a toddler, but you don’t see any kid stuff in here. Not even a stray teddy bear. It’s a little sad.”

“When your nanny has a helper, you don’t spend a lot of time with the kid, and this space is adults only. With a definite line of demarcation. Anyway, you’re the woman of the house.”

“I’m the queen of my castle,” Peabody agreed, and got a wink from McNab.

“This house, Peabody. Keep up. You’ve got staff and servants, and three floors to decorate into terrible death. Where’s the one room you don’t go into?”

“The doll room. Okay, that’s just me. She must like dolls. Well, from my brief conversation with her, I’d cross off the laundry facilities. That’s staff territory. And she probably doesn’t go into the kitchen much.”

“Try this. What’s the one place he goes you don’t go?”

“I . . . his bathroom!” Peabody shot her two index fingers in the air. “She’s all pink and shiny in hers, and his is full of man. What woman wants to go into a bathroom after a guy?”

“We do all right,” McNab said.

“Abso-true.” But when his back was turned again, Peabody rolled her eyes at Eve. “You’re thinking potential hidey-hole.”

“Let’s check it out.”

If the hers bathroom was an explosion of pink and fuss, the his was a study in desperate masculinity. Black tile with red flashes covered the floors, the walls. The odd addition of a bar—red, with cherub carvings—along one wall stood before a portrait of a zaftig reclining woman eating a fat purple plum. The black counter held a large square of red sink with a wolf’s head faucet that would vomit out the water.

Shelves held bottles and bowls, the manly versions of creams and lotions and oils, as they were all cased in red or black leather.