Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(34)

“Problem?”

“I’m just waiting to see if Summerset slithers into view.”

Roarke rolled his eyes, well used to her digs at his majordomo, and started up the stairs. “I let him know we’d be late, and would have dinner out. The night’s chilly enough for a fire. I expect you’ll want to set up your board and book.”

“Yeah, and more, I need to review more of McEnroy’s vids. We need to ID the women, run them, interview them. I’ve had the London cops hit his offices and residence there. I’ve got copies of more vids coming.”

They made their way to her office, where he walked to the fire, ordered it on low. The cat, sprawled in her sleep chair, rolled his tubby body over, stretched. “You haven’t spoken with his partners as yet?”

“On for tomorrow.”

Since Galahad deigned to jump down, stroll over to wind through her legs, she bent to scratch him.

“If I were going to kill the guy, I might try to cover it by doing it in New York if I lived elsewhere. So I’ve got travel to check.”

“Why don’t I see to that for you when you have it ready?” An equal opportunist, Galahad wandered to Roarke, ribboned there until he got a good stroke. “I’ve a few things to deal with, so you can let me know if you want that help.”

“I will, thanks.”

When Roarke went into his adjoining office, Eve programmed a pot of coffee. She poured a large mug, began to set up her board.

Drinking coffee, adjusting her board, she glanced over to where Galahad lay, once again, sprawled in her sleep chair.

“You know, he had that right—big surprise. I wasn’t dumping you on him. I was bringing both of us home. You just got used to it faster.”

Once she had her board and book finished, she sat to open the file from London. And found a very helpful detective inspector had written a detailed memo attachment. She’d identified the hotel McEnroy used, statements from staff at the clubs McEnroy had detailed in his memo book—the London version also locked in his office there.

She’d also confiscated the illegals and all electronics.

Same pattern.

Moreover, Detective Inspector Lavina Smythe had reviewed a full dozen of the vids and run face recognition on the women.

Eve now had a list of names to work with, in addition to a comprehensive report. Smythe ended the memo with:

While Nigel McEnroy’s murder occurred in New York City, he is now posthumously under investigation for possession and use of illegals, for rape, extortion, and abduction, all of which took place in London. We will arrange interviews with all individuals related to said investigation, and subsequently copy you on these reports. We request any information you gather in the course of your investigation be shared.



“You got it, DI Smythe.” And in that spirit, Eve wrote her own memo, attached it to a report, shot it to London.

She printed out the ID shots Smythe sent her—all redheads—added them to her board under a section she headed as LONDON.

She walked over to Roarke’s office, where he sat working on his comp, making minute changes to some weird-ass schematic.

“I’ve got a dozen names from London, if you want them.”

He glanced over. “That was very quick.”

“London did the work. There’s a DI Smythe, and if I’m reading between the lines, she looks at it like I’ve got the DB, but she’s got a lot of female vics—potentially suspects, but vics. And she’s going to see they get justice. So we’ll share salient data. I can hope I get the same level of cooperation from Paris and so on.”

“I’m nearly done here so—”

“How can you tell?”

He merely smiled. “Do you really want to know?”

She looked at the wall screen, the lines, curves, tiny notes and numbers. “Absolutely not.”

“Well then. Shoot me the data, and I’ll check the travel.”

“Smythe would probably do it, but—”

“As it’s the middle of the night in London, she can have the information when she gets up in the morning.”

“I’m not going to think about stupid time zones. I’ll send you the ID shots.”

Back at her desk, she did that first, then poured more coffee before she cued up the next vid from McEnroy’s office.

The hotel room this time, obviously prebooked, as he’d already set up the camera. Another redhead, no surprise there, but Eve judged this one at barely legal age, and giggling high. He called her Rowan when he put on music, ordered her to dance.

Eve paused the vid, ordered magnification on the woman’s face.

“Computer, run facial recognition on female subject. Resume video.”

Acknowledged.



She ran through the dance, the striptease in case there was any useful dialogue. Noted down the run time when he added a dose from a vial to a glass of wine, offered it to her.

After she downed it, the giggling playfulness ended, turned to desperate moans, grappling. Eve switched to split screen when he shoved the woman on the bed, mounted her.

She studied the young, pretty face of Rowan Rosenburg, age twenty-one, calculated the rape had occurred only two weeks after her twenty-first birthday. A student at Juilliard, Eve noted, living in New York for the past two years and originally from Vermont.