Survivor in Death

5

SECURITY AND STREETLIGHTS WERE POPPING ON by the time Eve headed back uptown from Central. Normally, the vicious traffic would have given her plenty of reason to snarl and bitch, but tonight she was grateful for the distraction, and the extra drive time.

It was gelling for her.

She could see the method, the type of killers. She could walk through the scene over and over in her mind and follow the steps. But she couldn't find motive.

She sat in stalled traffic behind a flatulent maxibus and circled around the case again. Violence without passion. Murder without rage.

Where was the kick? The profit? The reason?

Going with instinct, she called up Roarke's personal 'link on her dash unit.

“Lieutenant.”

“What's your status?” she asked him.

“Healthy, wealthy, and wise. What's yours?”

“Ha. Mean, crafty, and rude.”

His laugh filled her vehicle, and made her feel slightly less irritable. “Just the way I like you best.”

“Location, Roarke?”

“Maneuvering through this sodding traffic toward hearth and home. I hope you're doing the same.”

“As it happens. How about a detour?”

“Will it involve food and sex?” His smile was slow, and just a little wicked. “I'm really hoping for both.”

Odd, damn odd, she thought, that after nearly two years of him that smile could still give her heart a jolt. “It might later, but first on our lineup is multiple murder.”

“Teach me to marry a cop.”

“What did I tell you? Hold on a minute.” She leaned out the window, shouted at the messenger who'd nearly sideswiped her vehicle with his jet-board. “Police property, asshole. If I had time I'd hunt you down and use that board to beat your balls black.”

“Darling Eve, you know how that kind of talk thrills and excites me. How can I keep my mind off sex now?”

Eve pulled her head back in, eyed the screen. “Think pure thoughts. I need to do another walk-through of the crime scene. I wouldn't mind having another pair of eyes.”

“A cop's work is never done, and neither is the man's who's lucky enough to call her his own. What's the address?”

She gave it to him. “See you there. And if you beat me to the scene, for God's sake don't tamper with the seal. Just wait. Oh, shit, parking. You need a permit. I'll-”

“Please” was all he said, and signed off.

“Right,” she said to dead air. “Forgot who I was talking to for a minute.”

She didn't know how Roarke dispensed with such pesky details as parking permits, and didn't really want to. He was just stepping onto the sidewalk when she arrived. She pulled up behind his vehicle, flipped on her on-duty light.

“ Pretty street,” he said. “Especially this time of year with the leaves scattered about.” He nodded toward the Swisher house. “Prime property. If they had any equity in it, at least the child won't be penniless as well as orphaned.”

“They had a chunk, plus standard life policies, some savings, investments. She'll be okay. That's one of the deals, actually. She'll be set pretty well, coming into the bulk of it when she hits twenty-one. They both had wills. Trust-fund deal for the kids, supervised by legal guardians and a financial firm. It's not mega-dough, but people kill for subway credits.”

“Did they make contingencies for alternate beneficiaries should something happen to the children as well?”

“Yeah.” Her mind had gone there, too. Wipe out the family, rake in some easy money. “Charities. Shelters, pediatric centers. Spread it out, too. Nobody gets an overly big slice of the pie. And no individual gets much above jack.”

“The law firm?”

“Rangle, the partner, gets the shot there. His alibi is solid. And if he has the connections, or the stomach, to order a hit like this, I'll toast my badge for breakfast. This family wasn't erased for money. Not that I can see.”

He stood on the sidewalk, studying the house as she did. The old tree in front, busily shedding its leaves onto the stamp-sized courtyard, the attractive urban lines, the sturdy pot filled with what he thought were geraniums beside the door.

It looked quiet, settled, and comfortable. Until you saw the small red eyes of the police seal, the harsh yellow strip of it marring the front doors.

“If it were money,” he added, “one would think it would take a fat vat of it to push anyone to do what was done here. The erasing, as you put it, of an entire family.”

He walked with her to the main entrance. “Put my ear to the ground, as requested. There's no buzz about a contract on these people.”

Eve shook her head. “No. They weren't connected. But it's good to cross that off the list, at least the probability of it. They didn't have ties to any level of the underworld. Or government agencies. I played around with the idea that one of them had a double life going, thinking of what Reva dealt with a couple months ago.” Reva Ewing, one of Roarke's employees, had had the misfortune of being married to a double agent who'd framed her for a double murder. “Just doesn't slide. No excessive travel; not much travel at all without the kids. Nothing that sends up a flag on their 'links or comps. These people lived on schedules. Work, home, family, friends. They didn't have time to mess around. Plus…”

She stopped, shook her head. “No. I'll let you make your own impressions.”

“All right. By the way, I've arranged to have my ride picked up. That way I can have my lovely wife drive me home.”

“We're ten minutes from our own gate.”

“Every minute with you, Darling Eve, is a minute to treasure.”

She slid a glance toward him as she uncoded the seal. “You really do want sex.”

“I'm still breathing, so that would be yes.”

He stepped inside with her, scanning when she called for lights. “Homey,” he decided. “Tastefully so. Thoughtfully. Nice colors, nice space. Urban family style.”

“They came in this door.”

He nodded. “It's a damn good system. Took some skill to bypass without tripping the backups and auto alarms.”

“Is it one of yours?”

“It is, yes. How long did it take them to get in?”

“Minutes. Feeney figures about four.”

“They knew the system, possibly the codes, but certainly the system. And what they were about,” he added, studying the alarm panel. “It's a tricky one, and would take good, cool hands, and just the right equipment. You see, the backups are designed to engage almost instantly if there's any sort of tampering. They had to know they were there, and deal with them simultaneously, even before they read or input the codes.”

“Pros then.”

“Well, it certainly wasn't their first day on the job. Likely they had an identical system to work with. That would take time, money, planning.” He stepped back from the panel, trying to ignore the outrage he felt that one of his designs had failed to serve. “But you never supposed this was random.”

“No. What I put together from the scene and the witness report is that one went upstairs-or at least stayed back-while the other went through here.”

She led the way, moving directly to the kitchen. “It was dark-some glow from security and streetlights through the windows-but they had night vision. Had to. Plus the witness described blank, shiny eyes.”

“Which could be a child's imagination. Monster eyes. But,” he said with another nod, “more likely night vision. Where was she?”

“Over there, lying on the bench.” Eve gestured. “If he'd looked, taken enough time to do a sweep through the kitchen, he'd have seen her. The way she tells it, he just walked straight to the domestic's door.”

“So he knew where he was going. Knew the layout, or had been here at some time.”

“Checking on household repairs, deliveries, but that doesn't feel like it. How do you get the layout of the whole house if you, what, install a new AutoChef or fix a toilet? How do you know the layout of the domestic's quarters?”

“Someone involved with the domestic?”

“She wasn't seeing anyone, hadn't been for several months. A few friends outside the family, but they pan out. So far.”

“You don't think she was the primary target.”

“Can't rule it out, but no. He moved straight in,” she repeated, and did so. “Sealed all the way. Had to be. Sweepers didn't find a fricking skin cell that wasn't accounted for. Witness said he didn't make any noise, so I'm thinking stealth shoes. Went directly to the bed, gave the head a quick yank up by the hair, sliced down, right-handed.”

Roarke watched her mime the moves, quick and sure, cop's eyes flat.

“Combat knife from Morris's report-lab should be able to reconstruct. Then he lets her drop, turns, walks out. Witness is there, just outside the doorway, down on the floor, back to the wall. If he looks, he sees. But he doesn't.”

“Confident or careless?” Roarke asked.

“I'd go with the first. Added to it, he's not looking because he doesn't expect to see anything.” She paused a moment. “Why doesn't he expect to see anything?”

“Why would he?”

“People don't always stay tucked in through the night. They get up to whiz, or because they're worried about their work and can't sleep. Or because they want a damn Orange Fizzy. How come you're this thorough, this much a pro, but you don't sweep an area when you enter?”

Frowning, Roarke considered, studied the layout again. Yes, he thought as he pictured himself moving through the house in the dark. He would have. Yes, and he had on those occasions when he'd lifted locks and helped himself to what was behind them.

“Good question, now that you pose it. He-they-expect everything, everyone in their proper place because that's how it works in their world?”

“It's a theory. Goes out,” she continued, “goes back to the main stairs and up. Why? Why, when there are back stairs right over there.”

She gestured to a door. “That's how the witness got up to the second floor. Back stairs. Peabody 's take was that the front steps were closer to the adults' room, and it's not implausible. But you know what, it's a waste of time, steps, and effort.”

“And they wasted nothing. They didn't know there was a second set of steps.”

“Yeah. But how did they miss that detail when they knew everything else?”

Roarke walked over to the door, ran a hand over the jamb, examined the steps. “Well, they're not original.”

“How do you know?”

“The house is late nineteenth century, with considerable rehab work. But these are newer. This rail here, it's manmade material. Twenty-first century material.” He crouched down. “So are the treads. And the workmanship's a bit shoddy. I wouldn't be surprised if this was a home job-something they added themselves without all the permits and what have you. Without filing the work, so it wouldn't show on any record, any blueprint your killers might have studied.”

“How smart are you? You're right. They're not on the on-file blueprints. I checked. Still, that doesn't mean one or both of the killers wasn't in the house, wasn't even a friend or neighbor. This is the domestic's room, and her stairs.”

“That would, however, go further to eliminating the housekeeper as primary target. And it would be less likely the killers were close acquaintances of hers, or privy to her quarters.”

“She was excess. It was the family that mattered.”

“Not one of them,” he put in, “but all.”

“If it wasn't all, why kill all?”

She took him back through, following the assumed path of the known killer. “Blood trail from domestic's, through here, up the right side of the steps. More concentrated blood pattern here, see?”

“And none coming back down the stairs. Removing protective gear here, before going down.”

“Another point for the civilian.”

“I think you should have another term for me. Civilian's so ordinary, and just a bit snarky when you say it. Something like 'non police specialist on all things'.”

“Yeah, sure, my personal NPS. Focus in, ace. They'd done the adults before the witness got up to this level. She saw them walking away from this room, then split off. One in each of the other bedrooms. Two more rooms up here-one a home office, the other a playroom deal. Kids' bathroom, end of hall. But they went straight for the bedrooms. You couldn't be a hundred percent from a blueprint which room was which up here.”

“No.” To satisfy his curiosity, he walked over, glanced into one of the rooms. Home office-work station, minifriggie, shelves holding equipment, dust catchers, family photos. A small daybed, all coated now with the sweepers' residue.

“This is certainly large enough to be used as a bedroom.”

She let him wander, watched him step to the doorway of the boy's room and saw his face harden. Blood spatter on sports posters, she thought, blood staining the mattress.

“How old was the boy?” he asked.

“Twelve.”

“Where were we at that age, Eve? Not in a nice room, surrounded by our little treasures, that's for bloody sure. But Christ Jesus, what does it take to walk into a room like this and end some sleeping boy?”

“I'm going to find out.”

“You will, yes. Well.” He stepped back. He'd seen blood before, had shed it. He'd stood and studied murder when it was chilled. But this, standing in this house where a family had lived their ordinary lives, seeing a young boy's room where such a tender life had been taken, left him sickened and shaken.

So he turned away from it. “The office has as much space as this bedroom. The boy could easily have been across the hall.”

“So they had to surveil the house-or know it from the inside, enough to know who slept where. If they cased it from outside, they'd need to watch the patterns. Which lights went on, what time. Night vision and surveillance equipment, and they could see through the curtains easy enough.”

She moved to the master bedroom. “Morris tells me the same hand that did the domestic did both males. The other took the females. So they had their individual targets worked out in advance. No conversations, no chatter, no excess movements. Thought about droids, assassin droids.”

“Very costly,” Roarke told her. “And unreliable in a situation like this. And why have two-double the cost and detail of programming, when one could do it all? That's if you had the wherewithal and the skill to access an illegal droid, and program it to bypass security and terminate multiple subjects.”

“I don't think it was droids.” She walked out, into the little girl's bedroom. “I think human hands did this. And no matter how it looks on the surface, no matter how cold and efficient, it was personal. It was fucking personal. You don't slice a child's throat without it being personal.”

“Very personal.” He put a hand on her back, rubbed it gently up and down. “Sleeping children were no threat to them.” There were demons in this house now, he thought. Brutal ghosts of them with children's blood staining their hands. Lurking ones in him, and in her, that muttered, constantly muttered, of the horrors they'd survived.

“Maybe the kids were the targets. Or there's the possibility one or more of the household had some information that was a threat, so they all had to go in case that information had been shared.”

“No.”

“No.” She sighed, shook her head. “If the killers were afraid of information or knowledge, they would need to ascertain, by intimidation, threat, or torture, that the information hadn't been passed outside of the household. They would need to check the data centers, the whole fricking house, to be certain such information wasn't logged somewhere. The tight timing-entrance, murders, exit, doesn't leave room for them to have searched for anything. It's made to look like business. But it's personal.”

“Not as smart as they think,” Roarke commented.

“Because?”

“Smarter to have taken the valuables, to have torn the house up a bit. The entire horror would point more to burglary. Or to have hacked away at the victims, to make it seem like a psychopath, or a burglary gone very wrong.”

She let out a half laugh. “You know, you're right. You're damn right. And why didn't they? Pride. Pride in the work. That's good, that's good, because it's something, and I've got nothing. Fucking bupkus. I knew there was a reason I liked having you around.”

“Any little thing I can do.” He took her hand as they started downstairs. “And it's not true you have nothing. You have your instincts, your skill, your determination. And a witness.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She didn't want to think about her witness quite yet. “Why would you wipe out an entire family? Not you you, but hypothetically.”

“I appreciate the qualification. Because they'd messed with mine, had been or were a threat to what's mine.”

“Swisher was a lawyer. Family law.”

Roarke tilted his head as they went out the front door. “That's interesting, isn't it?”

“And she was a nutritionist, did a lot of families, or had clients with families. So maybe Swisher lost a case-or won one-that pissed one of his clients or opposings off. Or she pushed the wrong buttons on somebody's fat kid, or had a client die. And the kids went to private schools. Maybe one of the kids screwed with somebody else's kid.”

“A lot of avenues.”

“Just have to find the right one.”

“One of the adults might have had an affair with someone else's spouse. It's been known to annoy.”

“Looking there.” She slid behind the wheel of her vehicle. “But it's not solidifying. These two, they had what looks like a pretty solid marriage, and a lot of focus on family. Took trips together, went out together. Like a group. The picture I'm getting doesn't leave much time for extramarital. And sex takes time.”

“Done well, certainly.”

“I haven't found anything in their data, their possessions, their schedules that points to an affair. Not yet, anyway. Neighborhood canvass didn't shake out anything,” she added as she pulled away from the curb. “Nobody saw anything. I figure one of them lives in the area, or they had a bogus permit, or-Jesus-they took the goddamn subway, hailed a cab a couple of blocks away. I can't pin any of it down.”

“Eve, it's been less than twenty-four hours.”

She glanced in the rearview, thought of the quiet house on the quiet street. “Feels longer.”

It was always weird, in Eve's opinion, to have Summerset materialize in the foyer like a recurring nightmare the minute she walked in the door, but it was weirder yet to see him there, with a small blonde girl at his side.

The kid's hair was shiny, wavy blonde, as if it had been freshly washed and brushed. Who did that? Eve wondered. Did the kid deal with her own hair, or had Summerset done it? And the thought of that gave her the heebies.

But the kid looked comfortable enough with him, even had her hand in his, and the cat at her feet.

“Isn't this a fine welcome?” Roarke shrugged out of his coat. “How are you, Nixie?”

She looked at him-all blue eyes-and nearly smiled. “Okay. We made apple pie.”

“Did you now?” Roarke bent to pick up the cat when Galahad slithered over to rub against his legs. “That's a favorite of mine.”

“You can make a little one with the leftovers. That's what I did.” Then those eyes, big and blue, lasered into Eve's. “Did you catch them yet?”

“No.” Eve tossed her jacket over the newel post, and for once Summerset didn't snark or sneer at the habit. “Investigations like this take some time.”

“Why? Screen shows with cops don't take very long.”

“This isn't a vid.” She wanted to go upstairs, clear her mind for five minutes, then start back over the case, point by point. But those eyes stayed on her face, both accusing and pleading.

“I told you I'd get them, and I will.”

“When?”

She started to swear, might not have choked it back in time, but Roarke played a hand gently down her arm and spoke first. “Do you know, Nixie, that Lieutenant Dallas is the best cop in the city?”

Something, maybe it was speculation, passed over Nixie's face. “Why?”

“Because she won't stop. Because it matters so much to her that she takes care of people who've been hurt, she can't stop. If someone of mine had been hurt, I'd want her to be the one in charge.”

“Baxter says she's a major butt-kicker.”

“Well, then.” Now Roarke smiled fully. “He'd be right.”

“Where are they?” Eve asked. “Baxter and Trueheart?”

“In your office,” Summerset told her. “Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes. Nixie, we need to set the table.”

“I'm just going to-”

This time Roarke took Eve's hand, squeezed. “We'll be down.”

“I've got work,” Eve began as they went up the stairs. “I don't have time to-”

“I think we need to make time. An hour won't hurt, Eve, and I'd say that child needs as much normalcy as we can manage. Dinner, at the table, is normal.”

“I don't see what's more normal about shoveling in food off a big flat surface than shoveling it in at your desk. It's multitasking. It's efficient.”

“She scares you.”

She stopped dead, and her eyes went to lethal slits. “Just where the hell do you come off saying that?”

"Because she scares me, too."

Temper flickered over her face for a moment, then everything relaxed. "Really? Really? You're not just saying that?"

"Those big eyes, full of courage and terror and grief. What could be more frightening? There she stands, such a little thing, all that pretty hair, tidy jeans and jumper-sweater," he corrected. "And that need just radiating out of her. We're supposed to have the answers, and we don't."

Eve let out a breath as she looked back toward the stairs. "I haven't even figured out all the questions."

"So we'll have dinner with her, and do what we can to show her that there's normalcy and decency left in the world."

"Okay, okay, but I need to debrief my men."

"I'll meet you downstairs. Fifteen minutes."

She found normal in her office, where a couple of cops-who'd obviously raided her AutoChef-were chowing down while they studied murder. On her wall screens, each Swisher bedroom, each victim, was displayed while Baxter and Trueheart chomped on cow meat.

"Steak." Baxter forked up another bite. "Do you know the last time I had real cow? I'd kiss you, Dallas, but my mouth's full."

"Summerset said it was okay." Trueheart, young and fresh in his uniform, offered her a hopeful grin.

She merely shrugged, then turned so that she, too, had full view of the screens. “What's your take?”

“Big red check to everything in your report.” Baxter continued to eat, but his expression was sober now. “Slick job. And a mean one. Even without the eyewit, I'd have said two or more to pull it off, and even then it went down damn fast. The tox came in from the ME. No illegals, no drugs of any kind in any of them. No illegals on the premises. Even the pain remedies were herbal and holistic.”

“Fits with the adult female's career choice,” Eve murmured. “No defensives, no struggle, no missing valuables.”

“No trace,” she added. “Sweepers got zip. You dump your currents?”

“With pleasure.” Baxter stabbed his fork into another bite of steak. “Carmichaelnow hates me like a case of genital warts. Made my day.”

“The two of you are relieved here. Report back at oh eight hundred. Double duty. You babysit, and start running the names I pulled out of the Swishers' client lists. Anybody with so much as a parking violation gets a deeper look. We look at them, their family, their friends and associates, their next-door neighbors, and their little pets. We look until we find.”

“The housekeeper?” Baxter asked.

“I'll do her tonight. We look at them all, kids included. School, activities, neighbors, where they shopped, where they ate, where they worked, where they played. Before we're done, we'll know these people better than they knew themselves.”

“A lot of names,” Baxter commented.

“It's only going to take one.”

Though she now had steak and murder on her mind, Eve ate roasted chicken and tried to keep her conversation away from the investigation. But what the hell were you supposed to talk to a kid about over dinner?

They didn't use the dining room often-well, she didn't, she admitted. So much easier to grab something upstairs. But she couldn't call it a hardship to sit at the big, gleaming table, with a fire simmering in the grate, the scent of food and candles in the air.

“How come you eat so fancy?” Nixie wanted to know.

“Don't ask me.” Eve jabbed a fork toward Roarke. “It's his house.”

“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?”

Eve blinked twice, then realized the question was directed at her, and Roarke wasn't stepping in to field the ball.

“No.”

“When do I go back to school?”

Eve felt the back of her neck begin to ache. “I don't know.”

“But if I don't do my work, I'll get behind. If you get behind, you can't be in the band or the plays.” Tears started to shimmer.

“Oh. Well.” Shit.

“We can arrange for you to do your school work here, for now.”

Roarke spoke matter-of-factly. As if, Eve thought, he'd been born answering thorny questions. “You enjoy school?”

“Mostly. Who'll help me with my work? Dad always did.”

No, Eve thought. Absolutely not. She wasn't moving into that area if somebody planted a boomer under her ass.

“The lieutenant and I weren't the best of students. But Summerset could help you, for the time being.”

“I'll never get to go home again. Or see my mom and dad, or Coyle or Linnie. I don't want them to be dead.”

Okay, Eve decided. Maybe she was a kid, but she was still the eye wit. The case was back on the table along with the chicken.

Thank God.

“Tell me what everybody was doing. The whole day before it happened.” When Roarke started to object, Eve only shook her head. “Everything you remember.”

“Dad had to yell at Coyle because he got up late. He's always getting up late, then everybody has to rush. Mom gets mad if you rush your breakfast because it's important you eat right.”

“What did you eat?”

“We had fruit and cereal in the kitchen.” Nixie cut a spear of asparagus neatly, and ate without complaint. “Inga fixes it. And juice. Dad had coffee, 'cause he gets to have one cup. And Coyle wanted new airskids, and Mom said no, and he said that sucked, and she gave him the look because you're not supposed to say 'suck,' especially at the table. Then we got our things and went to school.”

“Did anyone use the link?”

“No.”

“Did anyone come to the door?”

She ate a bite of chicken in the same tidy way. Chewed and swallowed before she answered. “No.”

“How did you get to school?”

“Dad walked us, because it wasn't too cold. If it's too cold, we can take a cab. Then he goes to work. Mom goes downstairs to work. And Inga was going shopping because Linnie was coming after school and Mom wanted more fresh fruit.”

“Did either your mother or father seem upset by anything?”

“Coyle said 'suck' and didn't finish his juice, so Mom was down on him. Can I see them even though they're dead?” Her lips trembled. “Can I?”

It was a human need, Eve knew. Why should it be different for a child? “I'll arrange it. It may take a little while. You do okay today with Baxter and Trueheart?”

“Baxter's funny, and Trueheart's nice. He knows how to play a lot of games. When you catch the bad guys, can I see them, too?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Nixie looked back down at her plate, nodded slowly. “Okay.”

I feel like I've been in the Interview box, getting sweated by a pro. Eve rolled her shoulders when she walked into her office.

“You handled it, and very well. I thought you'd overstepped when you asked her to go over the day before the murders, but you were right. She'll need to talk about this. All of this.”

“She'll think about it anyway. She talks, maybe she'll remember something.” She sat at her desk, brooded a minute. “Now here's something I never thought would come out of my mouth-and if you ever repeat it, I'll twist your tongue into a square knot, but thank God Summerset's around.”

He grinned as he eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. “Sorry, I don't think I quite heard that.”

Her look, her voice, went dark. “I meant it about the square knot. I'm just saying the kid's easy with him, and he seems to know what to do with her.”

“Well, he raised one of his own, then took me on besides. He has a soft spot for troubled children.”

“He has no soft spots whatsoever, but he's good with the kid. So yay.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “I'll be talking with the Dysons again tomorrow. Depending on how things go, we could be moving her into a safe house with them in a day or two. Tonight, I'm going to focus on the housekeeper, see where that takes me. Need to send a memo toPeabody,” she remembered. “She's already hit the school, so she can swing by there in the morning, get the kid's work and whatever. Listen, let me ask you, why would you want, I mean, actually want to do the school thing if you had an escape hatch?”

“On that, I have absolutely no idea. Maybe it's like your work is to you, mine is to me. Somehow essential.”

“It's school. It's like prison.”

“So I always thought, too. Maybe we're wrong.” He leaned over, traced his finger down the dent in her chin. “Want some help with this?”

“Don't you have work?”

“A bit of this, a bit of that, but nothing I can't do while assistingNew York 's best cop.”

“Yeah, that was a good one. You know the security at the scene. Maybe you could tag Feeney at home, exchange data. See if you can figure out what kind of equipment these bastards needed to bypass. And where they might've come by it.”

“All right.” This time he brushed her cheek. “You've put in a long day already.”

“I've got another couple hours in me.”

“Save some for me,” he said, and walked into his own office.

Alone, she set up a second murder board, programmed a short pot of coffee, then ordered Inga's data onscreen.

She studied the ID photo. Attractive, but in a non threatening, homey sort of way. She wondered if Swisher had specified non threatening, nothing too young and pretty to tempt her husband.

Whatever the requirements, the match seemed to have worked. Inga had put plenty of years in with the Swishers. Enough, Eve noted, to see the kids grow up.

None of her own, Eve saw. One marriage, one divorce, full-time domestic since she was in her twenties. Though Eve couldn't understand why anyone would volunteer to clean up for someone else, she supposed it took all kinds.

Her financials were steady, reasonable considering her occupation, and her outlays within the normal range.

Normal, normal, normal, Eve thought. Well, Inga, let's go deeper.

An hour later she was circling her board.

Nothing, she thought. If there were hidden pockets, they were expertly concealed. Inga's life had been so utterly normal it was bordering on boring. She worked, she shopped, she took two vacations a year-one with the family she worked for, and the other, at least for the last five years, with a couple of other women to the same relaxation spa in upstateNew York.

She'd check with, and on, the other women, but nothing had popped out on them when she'd run their data.

The ex lived inChicago, had remarried, and had one offspring, male. He was a drone for a restaurant supply company, and had made no on-record trips toNew York in over seven years.

The idea that the housekeeper had heard or seen something dire while buying plums or cleaning supplies just seemed ludicrous.

But life was full of the ludicrous that ended in bloody murder.

She acknowledged Roarke when he came in. “Nothing jingles my bell on this one.” She nodded toward the screen. “Still a lot of legwork to do to cover the bases, but I think she's going down as innocent bystander.”

“Feeney and I are of the same opinion regarding the bypass equipment. It could have been homemade by someone expert in the field, with access to prime materials. If it was purchased, it had to come from military, police, or security sources. Or black market. It's not something you'd find in your local electronics store.”

“Doesn't narrow the field much, but it jibes.”

“Let's shut it down for the night.”

“Nothing much more I can do.” She ordered her machine to save, file, close. “I'm going to start here tomorrow, then leave Baxter and Trueheart on wit duty.”

“I'll take it to some of my R amp;D people tomorrow, see if anybody in my brain trust comes up with something more specific on the security system.”

“None of the vies had any military or security training-or as far as I've found, any connections thereto.” She pushed it around in her head as they walked toward their bedroom. “I can't find any link with organized crime, with paramilitary. As far as my data shows, they didn't gamble, fool around, were not overly political. The closest to an obsession I can get is the woman's devotion to nutrition.”

“Maybe something had come into their possession, even by accident, that had to be reclaimed.”

“Then if you're so damn good at B amp;E, you go in when the house is empty and you take it. You don't go in, kill everybody. The only thing taken from the house was lives. The Swishers are dead because someone wanted them dead.”

“Agreed. What do you say we have a glass of wine and relax for a bit?”

She nearly refused. She could just think, let it all wind around in her head awhile. Pace and let it play until something jiggled loose, or she was too damn fried to do anything but pass out for a few hours.

Their lives would never be like the Swishers'. She didn't want them to be, didn't think she could handle trying to navigate something quite that straightforward. But they did have a life. And lives deserved attention.

“I'd say you've got a pretty good idea. I've got to let it simmer.” She tapped the back of her head. “Since boiling it up front isn't doing the job.”

“How about this for a better idea?” He shifted so they faced each other and a dip of his head had his teeth closing lightly over her jaw.

“Getting me naked is your usual idea.”

“But with variation, and that's the key.”

It made her laugh. “Sooner or later even you have to run out of variations.”

“Now there's a challenge. Why don't we take that wine down to the pool, have a little water sport?”

“I'd say your ideas get better and-” She broke off, and sprinted when she heard Nixie scream.