The surgeon had more than twenty years on his wife—his second wife, Eve noted. Wife number one—divorced five years ago—currently lived in Australia and had not remarried.
Current wife, of three years, had been a student and part-time event planner (or assistant planner) when they’d married. No updated employment listed.
As trophy wives went, Eve supposed Daphne fit the bill. Young, beautiful when her face hadn’t been pummeled. Probably an excellent hostess with the event-planning bent.
Eve wondered, though she was Roarke’s first and only spouse, if some considered her a trophy.
She glanced at him as he maneuvered into a street slot outside the double redbrick townhouse where the Strazzas lived.
“You didn’t get a shiny prize.”
“I’m fond of shiny prizes,” he said. “Why didn’t I get one?”
“Your own fault. As trophies go, I’d be in the dull-and-dented category.”
“Not in the least. But then again, you’re no trophy.”
She got out, navigating from curb to sidewalk in the stupid fancy-girl shoes. “That’s a compliment?”
“It’s truth. If I’d wanted a trophy, I’d have one, wouldn’t I?” He took her hand, rubbed his thumb over her wedding ring. “I much prefer my cop. You’re thinking of Daphne Strazza, and the generational difference in age with her husband.”
“How do you know? You haven’t had time to do a run.”
“Simple enough, as Strazza’s a surgeon of some repute—and the name rings a dim bell. He’s bound to be twenty years or so older than she.”
“Twenty-six. Second wife. First, close to his age, divorced after about a dozen years. Lives in Australia, on a sheep ranch, which is a pretty far ways from New York and dinner parties in town mansions on the Upper East.”
She gave the house a study. Three stories of old elegance, New York style. Strazza had merged two townhomes into one, widening one entrance to highlight the main with carved double doors. Tall, slim windows, privacy screened for the night, stood like blank eyes in their frames of dark wood. A pair of glass doors on the second floor led to a kind of Juliet balcony with a stylized S centered in the rail.
The same ironwork flanked the three steps leading from sidewalk to entrance.
And there, Eve noted, he had top-of-the-line security.
“Cam, palm plate, intercom, double swipe,” she said as they approached. “He paid for the dignified look, but he’s got a pair of high-end police locks on here. Audio, visual, and motion alarms.”
“Back in the day, this is just the sort of house in just the sort of neighborhood I’d have targeted.” The thought of those days as a master thief brought a nostalgic smile to his lips. “It’s quiet, settled, and inside? That’s where all the goodies are. Art, jewelry, cash as well.”
“If we were back in the day, how long would it take you to compromise the security?”
His hair blowing in the wind, Roarke angled his head to study the locks. “With proper due diligence and preparation? Two or three, I’d say. Likely closer to two.”
“Minutes.”
“Of course.”
He wasn’t bragging, she mused. Just stating a fact.
Eve rang the bell. She expected an automated comp response, but got nothing at all.
She rang again. “I’d call that a security lapse. No warning, no response from the system, no attempt to scan.”
As they waited, Roarke took out his PPC, ran some sort of scan of his own. “The system’s down,” he told Eve. “Deactivated, and the door, Lieutenant, is unlocked.”
“Shit.” She took her weapon and badge out of her bag, tossed the bag on the stoop, clipped the badge to her coat. And wasn’t surprised, as she also clipped a recorder to her coat, when Roarke took a clutch piece out of an ankle holster.
“Hold it. Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and expert civilian consultant Roarke entering unsecured residence of Anthony Strazza. Two attempts at contact elicited no response. There is reason to believe Strazza is injured or under duress. I have armed the civilian.”
She shoved open the door, went in low. Roarke went in high.
She swept the foyer. Overhead a silver-and-white free-form chandelier dripped dim light, and illuminated drops and smears of blood on the white marble floors.
“We’ve got blood—and footprints through it. Bare feet—probably Daphne Strazza’s.”
She gestured him one way, went the other, each calling out “Clear!” when they’d swept a room.
She didn’t need Roarke to tell her someone had walked off with some trinkets. She spotted a couple of empty wall niches—and the dinner-party debris no house droids had dealt with.
They rounded back, started up to the second floor, once again separated.
She caught the scent as she walked toward the room in line with the balcony, the one with double white doors open.
Blood and death … and flowers.
She found all three in the spacious suite with its wide bed flanked with high posts of burnished gold. Like the floor, drops and smears of blood marred the knotted white linens. A chair with gold finish lay with its back broken and trailing duct tape—bloodied and ragged. Trampled white lilies swam in a pool of blood or scattered bruised petals over the white-and-gold carpet.
A large vase of deeply cut crystal had spilled its flowers and water over the carpet and lay smeared with blood and gray matter.