Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(57)

“Right now, neither do I.” She dug out her communicator and called Peabody.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Brent Holloway had lived well, and died badly. The furnishing of his town house spoke of a man who was ruled by both trends and comfort. A lake-sized sofa dominated the living area and was pooled with triangular black pillows that appeared wet to the touch. A view screen was recessed in the ceiling above. In a cabinet, shaped like a well-endowed female from neck to knee, was an expansive collection of  p**n  discs, some legal, some bootlegged.

A silver serving bar stretched across one wall and was stocked with expensive liquor and cheap illegal drugs.

The kitchen was fully automated, soulless, and appeared to have been used rarely. There was an office with a high-end computer system and holophone and a playroom equipped with VR and a mood tube. A servant droid stood in the corner, shut down and blank-eyed.

Holloway was in the master suite, stretched over a water-to-air mattress, trussed in sparkly silver garland and staring blindly at his own reflection in the mirrored canopy. The tattoo had been painted low on his belly, and four plump birds flew on the silver choke chain around his neck.

“Looks like he’d been to a health center,” Eve commented. His nose was only slightly swollen. Whatever bruising there might have been was expertly concealed with cosmetics.

Roarke stood back, knowing he wasn’t permitted in the room. He’d seen her work before. Competent, thorough, with a gentleness under the professional moves as she tended the dead.

He watched her run the standard field test to establish time of death, recording it herself until Peabody and the Crime Scene techs arrived.

“Ligature marks, both wrists, both ankles indicate victim was restrained prior to death. Death occurred twenty-three fifteen. Bruising on throat indicates cause of death to be strangulation.”

She glanced up as the buzzer sounded.

“I’ll let her in,” Roarke said.

“Okay. Roarke?” She hesitated only a moment. He was here, after all, and he was able. “Can you reactivate the droid? Bypass the programmed commands?”

“I think I could handle that.”

“Yeah.” There was very little he couldn’t do to bypass security systems. She tossed him a can of Seal-It. “Coat your hands. I can’t have your prints on it.”

He gave the can a mild look of distaste, but carried it with him.

She turned back to the body, continuing her work. She could hear the muted conversation in the other room as Roarke spoke to Peabody. Moving to the doorway, she waited.

Peabody was back in uniform, her recorder pinned to her lapel, her hair ruthlessly slicked down in its usual straight bowl around her face. And her face was pale, her eyes horrified.

“Oh shit, Dallas.”

“Tell me if you can’t deal with it. I have to know now before you go in.”

She’d asked herself the same question over and over since she’d received the call. Because she still wasn’t sure of the answer, she kept her eyes on Eve’s. “It’s my job to handle it. I know that.”

“I tell you what your job is. There’s a droid. You can work that. You can check the ‘links, the security discs. You can start the door-to-doors.”

It was an out. She hated herself for wanting to take it. Wanting to do anything but step inside the room. “I prefer to work the scene. Sir.”

Eve studied her another moment, then nodded. “Engage your recorder.” She turned and walked back to the side of the bed. “The victim is Holloway, Brent, ID established by investigating officer. Preliminary on body recorded by Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Subsequent record by Peabody, Officer Delia. Time and apparent cause of death established.”

Peabody’s stomach jittered when she forced herself to study the body. “It’s just like the others.”

“Apparently. Sexual molestation has not yet been established, nor has the victim been tested for drugs. The exposed skin shows signs of disinfectant. I can still smell it.”

She took a visor out of her field kit, fit it over her head, adjusted the power on the eyepieces. “Crime Scene techs are late,” she muttered. “Lights out,” she commanded, and the spotlight beams trained on the bed went dark.

“Yeah, he’s been sprayed down. The brushstrokes on the tattoo coincide with those on previous victims. It’s damn good freehand,” she added, with her nose all but pressing on Holloway’s belly. “What have we got here? Give me the tweezers, Peabody. I got hair or fiber here.”

Without looking back, Eve held out a hand, felt the small metal tool when Peabody passed it. “It’s white, doesn’t look man-made.” Holding up the thin strand, she studied it through the magnified visor. “He’s got several of these on him. I need a bag.” Even as she said it, Peabody was holding one out. “I’d guess Santa’s beard is shedding, and he wasn’t as careful cleaning up after himself this time.”

Carefully Eve plucked white strands from the body, bagged them. “He just made his first mistake. Take the visor.” Eve pulled it off. “Check the bathroom, every corner. Pull the drains and bag the contents. I want everything. Lights on,” she added. “Missing Cissy last night shook him, Peabody. He’s getting sloppy.”

By the time Eve turned the room over to the Crime Scene team, she’d found more than a dozen hairs, and minute traces of fiber. Her eyes were dark with purpose when she found Roarke with the droid in the playroom.