Survivor In Death (In Death #20)(9)

“God's pity.”

“I know you've probably got a full slate, but I'm going to need to interview this kid today. I'm going to need a shrink--sorry.”

“No problem.”

“I'm going to need a psychiatrist on hand, one who's got experience with children and police procedure.”

“What time do you want me?”

“Thanks.” And relief rolled in where the weight had rolled off. “I'd prefer you, but if you're squeezed I'll take your best recommendation.”

“I'll make room.”

“Ah.” Eve checked her wrist unit, tried to gauge the timing. “Can we make it noon? I've got a lot to push through before then.”

“Noon.” Mira began to make notes in a mini memo book. “What's her condition?”

“She wasn't injured.”

“Emotional condition.”

“Ah, she's fair, I guess.”

“Is she able to communicate?”

“Yeah. I'm going to need an eval for Child Protection Services. I'm going to need a lot of things for the red tape brigade. I'm on borrowed time here since I went over the rep's head. Have to notify the supervisor there. Soon.”

“Then I'll let you get to it, and see you at noon.”

“EDD's on scene,” Peabody said when Eve ended transmission. “Their team's going through security and checking 'links and data centers on site. They'll transport the units to Central.”

“Okay. Next of kin on the other vies?”

“Grant Swisher's parents divorced. Father's whereabouts currently unknown. Mother remarried--third time--and living on Vegas II. Works as a blackjack dealer. Keelie Swisher's parents are deceased-- back when she was six. Foster care and state schools.”

And that, Eve knew, was just tons of fun. “When we've talked to the Dysons, contact Grant Swisher's next of kin and inform. She may have legal guardianship of the kid, and we'll need to deal with that. You got an addy on Swisher's law firm?”

“Swisher and Rangle, on West Sixty-first.”

“Close to the hotel. We'll hit there after the Dysons. See how it goes and tap in another pass at the scene if it fits.”

This, as hard as it was, she knew how to do. Shattering the lives of those left behind was a job she did all too often. Roarke had, as promised, cleared the way. Since she was expected, she avoided the usual wrangle with the doorman, the time-consuming conversation with desk clerks and hotel security.

She almost missed it.

But she and Peabody were efficiently escorted to the elevators and given the Dysons' room number.

“Only child, right?”

“Yeah, just Linnie. He's a lawyer, too, corporate. She's a pediatrician. Reside about two blocks south of the Swishers. Daughters go to the same school, same class.”

“You've been busy,” Eve commented as they rode up to the forty second floor.

“You were wrapped up with the kid awhile. We detectives do what we can.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw Peabody shift her stance, wince just a bit. Ribs still bothering her, she thought. Should've taken a few more days medical. But she let it pass.

“Get any financials on the Swishers?”

“Not yet. We detectives are not miracle workers.”

“Slacker.” Eve stepped off, walked straight to 4215. She didn't allow herself to think, to feel. What good would it do?

She pressed the buzzer, held her badge up to the security peep. Waited.

The man who answered was wrapped in a plush hotel robe. His thatch of dark brown hair stuck up in wild tufts and his square, attractive face held the sleepy, satisfied look of someone who'd just enjoyed some early morning nookie.

“Officer?”

“Lieutenant Dallas. Matthew Dyson?”

“Yeah. Sorry, we're not up yet.” He cupped his hand over a huge yawn. “What time is it?”

“Just after seven. Mr. Dyson--”

“Is there a problem in the hotel?”

“Can we come in, Mr. Dyson, speak to you and your wife?”

“Jenny's still in bed.” The sleepy look was fading into mild irritation. “What's the problem?”

“We'd like to come in, Mr. Dyson.”

“All right, all right. Hell.” He stepped back, waved at them to shut the door.

They'd sprung for a suite--one of the dreamy, romantic ones with banks of real flowers, real candles, fireplace, deep sofas. There was a bottle of champagne upended in a silver bucket on the coffee table. Two flutes, and she noted, some lacy portion of female lingerie draped like a flag over the back of the sofa.

“Would you get your wife, Mr. Dyson?”

His eyes were brown like his hair. And irritation flashed into them. “Look, she's sleeping. It's our anniversary--or was yesterday--and we celebrated. My wife's a doctor, and she works long hours. She never gets to sleep in. So tell me what the hell you want.”

“I'm sorry, we need to speak with both of you.”

“If there's a problem with the hotel--”

“Matt?” A woman opened the bedroom door. She was sleep-tousled and robed, and smiling as she shoved a hand through her short, disordered blonde curls. “Oh, I thought you must've ordered room service. I heard voices.”