Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(7)

There is a tutor for the children, but as I relayed, she is also on holiday with Ms. McEnroy at this time. Mr. McEnroy’s administrative assistant and other business staff in this location are often called to the residence but, by and large, Mr. McEnroy works daily, when in New York, from his base in the Midtown Roarke Tower building.”

“Huh. I’ll let you know if I have more questions. What have you got, Peabody?” she asked when her partner came back.

“He left when the droid says, wearing what the droid says. No one came to the door until we did. He overwrote the previous seventy-two, but just a standard from what I can tell. EDD can get under that.”

“Tag McNab, and get sweepers up here.”

Eve made her way to the master bedroom. More soft, tasteful colors, more tasteful art. Though the bed’s headboard spread like a peacock fan, the fabric covering it followed that soft and tasteful tone with a quiet peach one a few shades lighter than the fluffy duvet, which itself was shades lighter than the pillow shams, the stylishly arranged throw.

But the kicker was an all-directional vid camera on tripod placed in the center of the room.

She checked it, found it cued up for voice command, and currently no vids in its storage.

She went back out, called the droid. “Up here.”

“Of course.”

He climbed the stairs, followed her back into the bedroom. She gestured to the camera. “Is that usually here?”

“No. I have not seen that instrument before.”

“Here, or at all?”

“At all, Lieutenant.”

“Okay. You can go back down, stand by.”

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?”

“No, Mrs. McEnroy. Your husband was murdered.”

“Murdered? Murdered? That’s insane!” Her voice pitched up, then she seemed to catch herself. She pressed a hand to her mouth. “How? Who? Why?”

“Ms. McEnroy, it might be best for you to return to New York. We’ve just begun our investigation. Is there anyone I can contact for you at this time?”