Creation in Death (In Death #25)(78)

“Of course.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Mr. Klok has been out of residence these past two weeks.”

“Does Mr. Klok live alone?”

“He does.”

“Any houseguests in his absence?”

“There are no guests in residence.”

“Okay.” She’d have preferred to get inside, snoop around a little. But without warrant or cause, there was no legal way past the threshold.

She left the Klok house for a bustling section of Little Italy.

One of the victims had been a waitress in a restaurant owned by Tomas Pella. Pella had served on the Home Force during the Urbans, and in them had lost a brother, a sister, and his bride of two months. His young, doomed wife had served as a medic.

He’d never remarried, had instead opened and owned three successful restaurants before selling out eight years before.

“Reclusive, according to Newkirk’s notes,” Eve said. “Also listed as hot-tempered and angry.”

He lived in a trim whitewashed home within shouting distance of bakeries, markets, cafés.

When she was greeted for the third time by a droid—female again, but of the comfortable domestic style—Eve concluded that men of that generation preferred electronic to human.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We’d like to speak to Mr. Tomas Pella.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pella is very ill.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s that?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss his medical condition with you without his authorization. Is there any other way I can be of help?”

“Is he lucid? Conscious? Able to speak?”

“Yes, but he requires rest and quiet.”

Droids were tougher than humans on some levels, but could still be bullied and intimidated. “I require an interview with him.” Eve tapped her badge, kept her eyes keen and level. “I think it would disturb his rest and quiet a great deal more if I had to get a warrant and bring police medicals in here to evaluate his condition. Is there a medical with him?”

“Yes. There’s a medical with him at all times.”

“Then inform the medical that if Mr. Pella is awake and lucid, we need to speak with him. Got that?”

“Yes, of course.” She stepped back, shutting the door behind them before going to a house ’link. “If Mr. Pella is able, there are two police officers here who insist on speaking to him. Yes, I’ll wait.”

The domestic glanced back at Eve and looked as intimidated as a droid could manage.

The entrance boasted soaring ceilings, and was elegantly if sparely furnished. The staircase was directly to the left, a straight, sleek line, the treads were highly polished wood with a faded red runner climbing their center. The chandelier was three tiers of blown glass in shades of pale, delicate blue.

She wandered a few feet farther to glance to the right, into a formal parlor. Photographs lined the creamy white mantel, and from the style of dress worn in them, she judged them to be a gallery of Pella’s dead. Parents, siblings, the pretty and forever young face of his wife.

Third man on the list, she thought, and it could be said—in this case—that Pella occupied a house of the dead.

“If you’d come with me?” The droid folded her hands neatly at her waist. “Mr. Pella will see you, but his medical requests you make your visit as brief as possible.”

When Eve didn’t answer, the droid simply turned and started up the steps. They creaked softly, Eve noted. Little moans and groans of age. At the top was a landing, which split right and left. The droid walked to the right, and stopped at the first door.

It would, Eve thought, overlook the street and the bustle of life outside.

It wasn’t life she sensed when they stepped inside. If this was a house of the dead, this was its master chamber.

The bed was enormous, canopied, with head-and footboards deeply carved with what she supposed were cherubs on the wing. The light was dim, drapes drawn fully across the tall windows.

The man in bed was ghostly pale, propped against white pillows. An oxygen breather was fixed over his face, and above it his eyes were almost colorless and full of bitter rage.

“What do you want?”

For a sick man, his voice was strong enough, though the breather made it raspy. Fueled, perhaps, by what Eve saw in his eyes.

“Sir.” The medical was female, sturdy and competent. “You mustn’t upset yourself.”

“Go to hell.” He tossed it off like a shrug. “And get out.”

“Sir.”

“Out. I’m still in charge around here. You get out. And you.” He pointed a finger that shook slightly at Eve. “What do you want?”

“We’re investigating the murder of a woman whose body was found in East River Park.”

“The Groom. Back again. I was a groom once.”

“So I hear.” She stepped closer to the bed. She couldn’t insist he remove the breather, and with that and the poor light, his features were difficult to distinguish. But she saw his hair was white, his face round. She would have said somewhat doughy—and thought: steroids. “You’re aware she was killed in the same way Anise Waters, who worked for you, was killed nine years ago.”

“Nine years. A fingersnap of time, or a life sentence. Depends, doesn’t it?”