Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(40)

“Meanwhile,” she continued, “Officer Markey picked up another wit on the knock-on-doors that said she’s pretty sure she saw Pettigrew getting in a car with a woman about nine.”

“A redhead?”

“No. She says short hair, brown or maybe blond, tipped with a darker color. Blue or purple or maybe black.” Peabody gave a shrug, knowing, as Eve did, some wits didn’t register or retain. “It was dark, and she wasn’t really looking.”

“But she saw Pettigrew and a female?”

“She’s not sure—not a hundred percent—it was Pettigrew because when she glanced out he was already half in the car, but the car—black, maybe dark blue, maybe dark gray—was right in front of his house.”

“We’ll talk to her. Or you go talk to her now, see if you can work more out of her than Markey. I’ll contact the cohab.”

“Can do.”

“He’ll have a home office. Since you’re here,” Eve said to Roarke, “you can help go through it. Maybe he has secrets locked away like McEnroy.”

“I do enjoy looking for secrets.”

Eve sat, and for the second time in two days, woke a woman with very bad news.

“Um, what? Hello?”

“Marcella Horowitz?”

“Yeah, what? Who is this?”

“Ms. Horowitz, this is Lieutenant Dallas, with the NYPSD. Can you give me your location?”

“Is this a joke? I’m in bed, whaddaya think? It’s like, what, six in the freaking morning. Who is this, really? I’m going to report you to the management.”

“Ms. Horowitz.” Eve held her badge up to the screen. Marcella had blocked the video on her end, but she’d see the ID perfectly. “I regret to inform you Thaddeus Pettigrew is dead. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say. Unblock video.”

Eve watched a woman with masses of blond hair rip off a sleep mask, glower at her.

“Listen, you—”

“Ms. Horowitz.” Eve held up her badge again. “I’m in the residence you shared with Mr. Pettigrew. I am the primary investigator in this matter. I’ve officially identified Mr. Pettigrew’s body. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I don’t believe you!”

But she did, Eve thought, she could see it in the shocked eyes as the woman, dressed in a silky red sleep shirt, tossed covers aside, leaped out of bed. The image on-screen bounced as she sprinted out of the bedroom, calling for lights, calling for her mother.

“Good God, Marci!” A woman in pink pajamas shoved up in bed. “What in the world—”

“She says she’s the police. She says Thad’s dead. Mom!”

“Give me that ’link! Who is this?”

“Ma’am, this is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I’m sorry to inform you Mr. Pettigrew was killed in the early hours of this morning.”

“It’s a lie, Mom!”

“Hush now, sweetheart. You go wake up your sister and Claudia. Go on now.”

Sobbing, Marcella ran out of range.

“How?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not able to give you that information at this time. Your name, please.”

“Bondita Rothchild”

“Ms. Rothchild, it would be best if you bring your daughter back to New York as soon as possible.”

“You said Thad was killed. You didn’t say he died, but was killed. Was it an accident? Surely you can say that much.”

Steadier by a mile than her daughter, Eve thought. “No, it wasn’t an accident. I’m Homicide.”

“Oh dear God.” She looked away as raised voices, sobs rolled toward the room. “Yes, we’ll come back right away. I need to go, to calm her down.”

“Contact me, Lieutenant Eve Dallas out of Cop Central, when you’ve made the arrangements to travel back to New York.”

“Yes, yes. I have to go. Marci—”

She clicked off.

Replacing the ’link, Eve spent some time going through the closets, spent more of it opening the jewelry safes in each. Good practice, she decided, even if neither had been particularly complex safes, and when both turned out to be exactly what they were.

Safe holds for jewelry, wrist units, a little spare cash.

She made her way down to the home office, where Roarke sat at a muscular workstation.

No female touches here, she thought. Another bar—a small one—a too-small-for-a-nap sofa in port-wine leather. A muscular data and communication center to go with the muscular desk.

Wall screen, a couple of chairs, framed degrees and awards rather than art on the walls.

“I’ve something for you,” Roarke began.

“Secrets?”

“One I’m going to assume is so. He has semi-regular transactions with a company called Discretion. That’s a licensed companion broker. Every month or two, he places an order, makes the payment. It may be the woman he lives with is aware, of course, but given the circumstances it’s doubtful. More,” he continued before Eve could speak, “he ordered an LC for last evening, made the payment. It shows a refund, less cancellation fee. He made the payment two days ago, canceled it yesterday afternoon.”