Vendetta in Death (In Death #49) - J. D. Robb Page 0,7
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?”
“I— No—I— Wait.”
The video blurred as Geena obviously ran from the bedroom with the ’link in hand. Eve saw pieces of a living area—bold, tropical colors, a hint of moonlight through glass, long, narrow feet with toes painted pastel pink.
“Francie!” The harsh whisper shook. Tears, Eve calculated, were coming. “Oh God, Francie, I need you.”
“I’m up, I’m up!” A light flashed on. “Are you sick, honey?”
To Eve’s best guess, Geena thrust the ’link at the woman in bed, sat, and burst into tears.
The screen filled with the outraged face of a mixed-race woman of about fifty, hazel eyes firing out of a dusky face. “Who is this?”
“This is Lieutenant Eve Dallas with the New York City—”
“Oh, bullshit! I’ve read the book, I’ve seen the vid. Dallas is…” Those hazel eyes blinked before she rubbed them clear. “Oh dear God. What happened? Who’s dead?”
She shifted as she spoke, showing a sturdy body in a pink—not pastel—sleep shirt with a unicorn prancing over it. “Here now, Geena, here now. I’m going to get you some water. I’m going to take care of this, all right? What happened?” she demanded again, obviously on the move.
“Nigel McEnroy is dead. He was killed early this morning.”
“Ah God. How— No don’t bother with that.”
From what Eve could see, the woman dumped ice and fizzy water in a glass in some sort of kitchen. “She needs me. The girls need me, so we’ll wait on that. They loved him. I’ll take care of things here. We’ll be on our way back to New York as soon as possible. Did it happen in the apartment?”