Survivor in Death (5 page)

“Black for me, sweet and light for my partner.” As she spoke, Eve wandered, gave herself the chance to study the setup. Friendlier than most law offices, she decided. Little touches of hominess in the toys, the cityscape wall art. “How long's your mother been on the job?”

“Eighteen. She freaking loves it, except when she hates it.”

“Yeah, that's the way.”

Eve turned when the outer door opened.

The man who came in was black and trim, in a trendy suit of rusty brown with pencil thin lapels and a flashy striped tie. He carried a jumbo cup of takeout coffee in one hand, and was biting into a loaded bagel.

He made a mmm sound, nodded to Eve and Peabody, winked at Sade. “Minute,” he managed with his mouth full, then swallowed. “Morning.”

“Cops, Dave. Want to talk to you.”

“Sure. Okay. Wanna come back?”

“We would. Sade, would you join us?”

“Me?” The paralegal blinked, then something came into her eyes. A knowledge of trouble, bad trouble. She might have broken tradition, Eve thought, but she had cop in the blood. “Something happened. Did something happen to Grant?”

No point in going back to an office, Eve decided. “Peabody, on the door.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm sorry, Grant Swisher is dead. He, his wife, and his son were killed last night.”

Coffee streamed out of Dave's cup as it tipped in his hand and spilled a pool onto the company carpet. “What? What?”

“An accident?” Sade demanded. “Were they in an accident?”

“No. They were murdered, along with their housekeeper and a young girl named Linnie Dyson.”

“Linnie, oh God. Nixie.” Sade was around the counter and gripping Eve's arm in a flash. “Where's Nixie?”

“Safe.”

“Mother of God.” Dave staggered to the sofa, slid onto it, crossed himself. “Merciful Jesus. What happened?”

“We're investigating. How long have you worked with Swisher?”

“Urn, God. Ah, five years. Two as a partner.”

“Let's get this out of the way. Can you give me your whereabouts between midnight and three a.m.?”

“Shit. Shit. Home. Well, I got home just after midnight.”

“Alone?”

“No. Overnight guest. I'll give you her name. We were up and ... occupied until around two. She left about eight this morning.” His eyes were dark, and when they met Eve's again, they were shattered. “He wasn't just my partner.”

Sade sat beside him, took his hand. “It's just what she has to ask, Dave. You know. Nobody thinks you'd hurt Grant or his family. I was home. I've got a roommate,” she added, “but she wasn't home last night. I was talking to a friend on the 'link until just after midnight. She's got man trouble. You can check my machine.”

“Appreciate it. I'm going to want the name of your overnight guest, Mr. Rangle. It's routine. Ms. Tully, you said Mr. Swisher was between assistants. What happened to his assistant?”

“She just had a baby last month. She took maternity, but was planning to come back, so we did the temp thing. But a few days ago, she opted for professional mother status. There wasn't any friction, if that's what you're after. God, I'll have to tell her.”

“I'll need her name, and the names of all the staff. Just routine,” Eve added. “Now I want you to think, to tell me if you know of anyone who'd wish Mr. Swisher or his family harm. Mr. Rangle?”

“I don't have to think. I don't.”

“A client he'd pissed off?”

“Honest to God, I can't think of anybody who's ever walked in that door who would do something like this. His kid? Coyle? My God.” Tears swam into his eyes. “I played softball with Coyle. The kid loved baseball. It was like his religion.”

“Swisher ever cheat on his wife?”

“Hey.” When Dave started to rise, Sade pressed a hand on his thigh.

“You can never say a hundred percent, you know that. But I'd give you a ninety-nine point nine percent no, and that goes for her, too.

They were tight, they were happy. They believed in family, since neither of them had much of one before they hooked up. And they worked to keep it together.”

Sade took a steadying breath. “You work as close as we work in this firm, you know that kind of thing. You get the vibes. Grant loved his wife.”

“Okay. I want access to his office, his files, his client list, court transcripts, the works.”

“Don't make her get a warrant, Dave,” Sade said quietly. “Grant wouldn't if it had been one of us. He'd cooperate. He'd help.”

He nodded. “You said Nixie was safe. She wasn't hurt.”

“No. She wasn't injured, and she's in protective custody.”

“But Linnie . . .” He passed a hand over his face. “Have you told the Dysons?”

“Yes. Do you know them?”

“Yeah, God, yeah. Parties at Grant's, weekends at this place they have in the Hamptons on time share. Grant and Matt and I golfed a couple times a month. Sade, can you make calls, close things down for the day ?”

“Sure. Don't worry.”

“I'll show you Grant's office--sorry, I can't remember if I got your name.”

“Dallas, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Urn, they didn't have close family. Arrangements ... Will we be able to make arrangements?”

“I'll see if I can clear that for you.”

When they got back in their vehicle, they had a box full of discs, several files of hard copies, Swisher's office calendar, address, and memo books.

Peabody strapped in. “Picture's coming clear of a nice, happy family, nicely secured financially, good circle of friends, close relationships with associates, satisfying careers. Not the sort you expect to get murdered in their beds.”

“Plenty of layers to pick through. A lot of families might look happy on the surface, even to friends and coworkers. And they hate each other like poison in private.”

“Cheery thought.” Peabody pursed her lips. “That makes you the cynical cop, and me the naive one.”

“That's about right.”

SHE FELT SQUEEZED FOR TIME, BUT GOING
   
back to the scene, moving through it,feeling it was essential.

A nice three-story single-family, she thought, bumped up against other nice two- or three-story single- or multiple families in a tony Upper West Side neighborhood.

More solid than flashy.

Kids went to private schools, one live-in domestic. Two full-time careers, one outside the home, one based in it. Two front entrances, one rear.

Security, she noted, on all doors and windows, with the addition of decorative--but efficient--riot bars on the below street level where Keelie Swisher based her office.

“They didn't come in from below,” Eve noted as she scoped out the house from the sidewalk. “Security was active on the office entrance, and on the rear.” She turned, scanned the street, the curbs. “Parking's a bitch in neighborhoods like this. You need a permit, curb scanners verify. If you park at the curb without one, it's an automatic ticket. We'll check, but I can't see these guys making it that easy for us. Either they walked from another point, or had a permit. Or they live right around here.

“Walked, more likely walked. Block or two anyway,” she said as she crossed, opened the useless little iron gate and stepped up to the door. “Walked to the front door. Jammed the security, the alarms, the cameras, the ID pads by remote before they moved into scanning distance. Had the codes, or knew how to bypass locks quickly.”

She used her police master to deactivate the seal, open the locks. “Not a lot of people on the street around here that time of night, but some. You could have some. Walking a dog, taking a stroll, coming home from a night out. People watch people in this kind of area. Had to be slick, move fast, and casual.”

She stepped inside the narrow hall that separated living from dining areas. “Whatcha got? A couple of bags, likely. Nothing big or bold. Soft black bags, probably, to carry the weapons, the jammers, protective gear. Couldn't gear up outside, too risky. Right here, I'd wager, right here just inside the door. Pull on the gear, split up. One upstairs, one straight back to the housekeeper. No talking, just business.”

“Hand signals maybe,” Peabody suggested. “Night vision equipment.”

“Yeah. Tools in the pouch, but you know the route, the routine. You've done sims. Bet your ass you've done sims.” She walked back toward the kitchen, imagining the dark, the utter quiet. Straight back, she thought. Been here before or had a blueprint. She flicked a glance toward the table and benches where Nixie had been.

“Wouldn't see the kid, wouldn't be looking.”

She went into a crouch, and had to angle her body to see the police marker where Nixie's soda had been found. “And even if you glanced around, you wouldn't see a little girl lying on the bench. Attention's this way, toward the housekeeper's rooms.”

Inga had been neat, as she'd expect of someone who made her living cleaning up other people's debris. She could see the order under the disorder caused by the sweepers. Catch the fresh scents, and the death scents, under the smear of chemicals. And she imagined Nixie creeping in, the excitement of a child hoping to catch adults in a forbidden act.

In the bedroom, blood patterned the walls, the bedside table and lamp, pooled on the sheets, had dripped to the floor.

“She liked the right side of the bed, probably a side sleeper. See?” Eve moved into the murder zone, gestured to the spatter pattern.

“He walks up to this side, has to--or wants to--lift her head up. The spatter shows that her head was turned a little, so her body's on her left side, facing away from the bed--the way he left her after he cut her throat. Her blood's on him now, but he doesn't worry about that. Take care of that before he leaves. Walks right out again, walks right by the kid.”

Illustrating, Eve turns, heads out. “Must've passed inches away from her. Smart kid, scared kid. She doesn't make a peep.”

Turning again, she studied the bedroom. “Nothing out of place. He doesn't touch anything but her. Isn't interested in anything but her, and the rest of the mission.”

“Is that how you see it? A mission?”

“What else?” Eve shrugged. “Leaves, work's done here. Why doesn't he take the back steps?”

“Ah .. .” Peabody frowned in concentration, looked at the layout. “Positioning? Master bedroom's actually closer to the main stairs. That's probably where his partner was stationed. Does another sweep by going around that way.”

“Adults have to come first, have to be done at the same time.” Eve nodded as they made the trip around. “He probably has a way to signal his partner that the first wave is complete and he's on his way.”

She glanced at the blood, the occasional drops of it staining floor or carpet, stair treads. “He leaves a little trail, but no big. It's her blood, not his. This down here, on the right, will all be the housekeeper's. They removed the bloody gear, stuffed it in the bags before they came down again.”

“Cold,” Peabody commented. “No hand slapping, no good job. Slice five people, strip off the gear, and move on.”

“Straight up, straight in while the kid pulls it together enough to get the pocket 'link and call nine-one-one. 'Y' off in here, in the main bedroom, one to each side of the bed. Same pattern as the housekeeper. They've got a rhythm down. Terminate the targets, move out and on.”

“They slept back-to-back,” Peabody pointed out. “The ass-to-ass snuggle. McNab and I do that, mostly.”

Eve was seeing them, husband and wife, mother and father, sleeping butt-to-butt on the big bed with its sea green sheets, its downy quilt. Sleeping in a tidy, relaxing room, with its windows facing the back patio. Him in black boxers, her in a white sleepshirt.

“Lift the head, expose the throat. Slice, drop, head out. No chatter. They're out and heading for the two other bedrooms as the kid's coming up the stairs. They've already designated who takes which room. Split off. One takes the boy--going in as Nixie crawls across the hall behind them.”

Eve walked out as she spoke, and into Coyle's room. “Boy's a sprawler, flat on the back, covers kicked off. Don't have to touch this one to do the job. Take him out while he's flat.”

She saw it in her head, the cold horror of it as she walked across the hall to the other bedroom. “Girl's room, girl in bed. Too sure of yourself to think twice. Too steeped in the routine to deviate. Just cross over. Why would you notice the shoes, the extra backpack? You're not looking at anything but the target. She's mostly buried under the covers--stomach sleeper. Yank her up, by the hair probably. A lot of blonde hair, as advertised. Slice her throat, dump her back, walk away.”

“Not as much spatter here,” Peabody commented. “He probably took most of it on his person, and the rest went on the bed and covers.”

“Steps out into the hall, coordinating with his partner. See the blood in this spot. From their gear, dripping off the gear as they strip it off. Shove it in the bags with the knives. Go downstairs and out, clean. Walk away. Mission accomplished.”

“Except it wasn't.”

Eve nodded. “Except it wasn't. And if they'd taken a few more minutes, just a few, if they'd taken time to pick up a few goodies on the way out, or linger over the job, the black-and-white would have pulled up before they walked out. As it was, it was close. The kid acted fast, but they acted faster.”

“Why kill the kids?” Peabody asked. “What threat were they?” “For all we know at this point, one or both of the kids was the main target. Saw something, heard something, knew something--was into something. We can't assume the adults were the primary. The point is they all had to go, the entire household. That's where we start.”

She was late for Mira, but it couldn't be helped. Eve found her sitting in the parlor, drinking tea and working on her PPC.

“Sorry. I got hung up.”

“It's all right.” Mira set the PPC aside. She wore a simply cut suit in a smokey color that wasn't quite blue, wasn't quite gray. Somehow her shoes managed to be the exact same in-between tone. There were twists of silver at her ears and a trio of hair-thin chains around her neck.

Eve wondered if she had to strategize to put herself together with such elegant perfection, or if it came naturally.

“She's sleeping. The child,” Mira said. “Summerset has her on monitor.”