“To torture Strazza, maybe to torture the wife. Maybe because the killer likes beating and raping women. We’ll look for similar crimes.”
Coffee, Eve thought, pleased traffic was light enough so she could enjoy it as she headed the few blocks to Dr. Lucy Lake’s and Dr. John O’Connor’s condo.
She knocked the last of the coffee back as she swerved to the curb in front of an impressively refurbished building. She figured the nice jolt of caffeine would add a buzz to slapping back the doorman in his forest-green livery.
“Don’t get excited.” Peabody anticipated her. “I looked it up. It’s Roarke owned.”
Slightly deflated, Eve reached for the door handle even as the doorman whisked it open for her. “Lieutenant Dallas, how can I help you today?”
Eve reminded herself that a cooperative doorman saved time, even if it was a buzzkill. “We need to speak to Drs. Lake and O’Connor.”
“You come on in out of the cold. I’ll ring up and tell them you and Detective Peabody are here.”
He led the way into a classy lobby decked out in Deco style. It smelled, very faintly, of pomegranates.
3
It took the cooperative doorman under two minutes to contact the doctors’ apartment, relay the information, and clear them up.
“Apartment 1800,” he told them as he escorted them to an elevator. “They’re expecting you.”
Since he was being so damned helpful, Eve sized him up. “Lake and O’Connor. Impressions.”
Probably weighing duties and ethics, he scratched the back of his neck. “Well, they’ve had 1800 for about ten years now. I’ve been here twelve myself. Doctors’ hours, so a lot of late nights, early mornings. Most always have a word, though. Got two grown kids, a couple of grandkids—visit pretty regular. Never had any trouble with any of them. In fact, a few years back when my boy took a header off his airboard and was in the hospital a couple days, they both went by to see him. That says something to me.”
“Okay. Were you on when they got in last night?”
“I came on at six. We have Droid Denise on from midnight to six. She’s in the storeroom if you want me to activate her. Or I could tag up Pete at home. He had the evening shift.”
“We’ll hold on that. Thanks.”
They rode up to eighteen in the smooth, blissfully silent elevator.
“It looks like Roarke,” Peabody commented. “The building. Old-world class with modern efficiency. And it does say something when people take time to look in on their doorman’s kid.”
“Maybe. We’ll see what they have to say for themselves.”
The eighteenth floor was as silent as the elevator. There the air carried the faintest drift of something herby—maybe rosemary.
Apartment 1800 had the west corner. The double doors opened almost as Eve rang the bell.
The woman who greeted them was round—body, face, even the ball of pale blond hair on top of her head. She wore bright blue pants and a boldly printed top under a starched white apron. “Lieutenant, Detective, come right in. My husband’s on the job. Sergeant Tom Clattery out of the one-one-three. Twenty-two years. And wait till I tell him who came to the door early this morning. Have a seat.”
The housekeeper chattered away as she led them into a living space made cozy by a long, narrow electric fire built into the far wall. “Would you have some coffee? There’s fresh as the doctors are just finishing up their breakfast. Never knew a badge to say no to coffee.”
“We wouldn’t want to break the record,” Peabody said just as cheerfully. “Black for the lieutenant, coffee regular for me.”
“Two shakes. Now sit down and be comfortable. The doctors will be right with you.”
She walked off, a ball of cheer on sturdy black shoes.
“Kind of homey,” Peabody commented. “A couple of doctors in a big apartment in a swank Upper East building, but it’s homey. Somebody needlepoints,” she added, tapping one of the mountain range of pillows scattered over sofas and chairs. “And really well, too.”
Eve could admit a sofa where your ass snuggled right in hit the homey mark. In addition, framed photos—kids various ages, vacation shots, holiday poses—fit into that. But she’d developed enough of an eye to recognize important art on the walls and the elegant gleam of a few antiques perfectly placed.
So homey, sure, she thought, with a foundation of comfortable wealth.
The doctors came in together. She was tall and lean, her hair clipped short and dark around a sharply defined face with deep-set eyes more gray than green. A flawless complexion just a shade richer than Peabody’s beloved coffee regular. She wore her age—sixty-three according to her official data—as stylishly as the trim suit of steel blue.
He was taller, leaner yet, with thick black brows over keen blue eyes. He’d allowed his dark hair to streak silver at the temples. Sprinkles of that silver dashed through his narrow goatee. His smoke-gray suit complemented hers.
In fact, Eve thought their looks and body language spoke of unity.
Lake touched a hand to her husband’s arm before she stepped forward.
“Lieutenant, Detective. Alice recognized your names. You’re homicide. It’s not about our children.”
Before Eve could speak, could reassure, O’Connor spoke up. “We contacted them as soon as Greg called up. We know they’re all fine. Who isn’t?”
“Anthony Strazza.”