“He sure as hell knew Senator Mira. Now we have two. And if my angle is right, that’s two BFDs from Yale, probable rapists. But—” She shoved her wet hair out of her eyes. “That angle may be a dead end now, and we might just have a couple of psychopaths torturing and murdering BFDs.”
She jumped out of the shower, let her thoughts swirl as hot and fast as the air in the drying tube.
Then she put them aside. Better to go in cold, stop trying to bend new angles. See, observe, gather data and evidence.
They dressed, and as she sat to put on her boots, Roarke handed her an egg pocket on a small plate. “Eat. He isn’t going anywhere, and we’ll be there in minutes.”
To save time, she bit in, then scowled at him. “There’s more than eggs in here.”
“Is there?” With an innocent smile, Roarke sampled his own. “I believe you’re right.”
She ate it anyway, gulped more coffee. “I need things from my office.”
To save time, they took the elevator, then the steps from there. He’d already ordered her car remotely, so it sat out in the cold, dark night, heat already running.
She let him drive and did a quick run on the newest victim.
“Two marriages, two divorces, currently single. Three offspring, and five offspring from them. Lots of letters after his name. Graduated magna cum laude from Yale, did some postgrad work there, some at Columbia, did some more at Oxford. Guest lecturer at Yale, at Columbia. Wrote a couple of books on economics, lots of papers. Served as adviser for two administrations—and did that while Senator Mira was in Congress. They damn well knew each other.”
Before she’d finished the run, Roarke pulled up at a three-story townhouse. A couple of black-and-whites sat outside, along with Baxter’s snazzy vehicle.
Two uniforms stood out on the sidewalk in their heavy winter coats, gloved hands around go-cups. Eve held up her badge.
“Lieutenant,” one of them said. “Detectives are inside. Said wait on the canvass until you said different.”
“Hold on that until I take a look at things. Who’s first on scene?”
“That’s us. We were on patrol, and Dispatch sent us over, oh-three-forty-two. We arrived on scene within two. Vic’s grandson called it in.”
“Does the grandson live here?”
“No, sir, but he’s got the passcodes, swipes. Said he stayed here now and then.”
“Okay. Hang tight.”
The cop on the door must’ve been watching for them as he opened it before they started up the short flight of steps. “Lieutenant,” he said, and stepped aside.
They’d left Wymann hanging. His eyes bulged out of his swollen, bruised face as he swayed gently from the rope attached to a complex series of boldly colored swirls that served as the foyer light. Dried blood left thin ribbons down his throat, his torso, his legs.
Like Eve, Baxter stood, looking up. “He’s yours.”
“Yeah.”
“My boon companion and fresh-faced young detective and I want in.”
“Yeah. Where’s the grandson?”
“Baker, Jonas Wymann. Put him back in the kitchen with a uniform. He’s pretty wrecked.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Nope. First on scene got the basics. It only took one look to figure this was yours, so we just secured the scene, stowed the wit, and tagged you.”
“Peabody’s on her way, Lieutenant,” Trueheart told her.
“Okay, seal up,” she told Roarke, “and let’s get him down. Where’s the thing to lower the thing?” she wondered.
Roarke found it, and at her nod, brought the swirling light and its burden down.
“Detective Trueheart, verify vic’s ID.”
She knelt with him, took out gauges to establish time of death while Baxter and Roarke exchanged small talk.
“TOD’s reading oh-three-eleven. Nine-one-one came in about thirty minutes later. Didn’t miss them by much. Facial bruising, looks like a broken jaw, ligature marks on wrists, more bruising on the genitals, signs of anal rape. All injuries consistent with those on Edward Mira. Bag his hands,” she ordered. “Bag the placard and the rope for the lab.”
“ID’s verified, sir, a Jonas Bartell Wymann, this address.”
She put on microgoggles, got closer. “Busted his nose, too. It’s going to be a weighted sap. Security?”
“The hard drive and discs are missing,” Baxter told her. “No signs I can see of forced entry. The little bit the uniforms got out of the wit was he wasn’t able to reach his grandfather all evening.”
“Let’s talk to him.” After a glance at Baxter, she rose. “You and me, Trueheart. Baxter, go ahead, bring in the sweepers and the morgue. Let’s see what Morris can tell us. Have EDD come in, go over the electronics.”
“Um,” Trueheart said as he started back with Eve.
“Spit it out, Detective.”
“Baxter and I cleared the house. There wasn’t any sign of struggle, any sign any of the beds had been slept in. There are two house droids, sir, but since we could see this would be your case, we didn’t take them out of sleep mode.”
“We’ll get to them. Big fricking house,” she commented.
“Yes, sir. Ah . . .” He cleared his throat. “There’s also what appears to be a sex droid in the closet of the master bedroom.”
“Is that so? How do you know it’s a sex droid?”
