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“You were wrapped up with the kid awhile. We detectives do what we can.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw Peabody shift her stance, wince just a bit. Ribs still bothering her, she thought. Should’ve taken a few more days medical. But she let it pass.
“Get any financials on the Swishers?”
“Not yet. We detectives are not miracle workers.”
“Slacker.” Eve stepped off, walked straight to 4215. She didn’t allow herself to think, to feel. What good would it do?
She pressed the buzzer, held her badge up to the security peep. Waited.
The man who answered was wrapped in a plush hotel robe. His thatch of dark brown hair stuck up in wild tufts and his square, attractive face held the sleepy, satisfied look of someone who’d just enjoyed some early morning nookie.
“Officer?”
“Lieutenant Dallas. Matthew Dyson?”
“Yeah. Sorry, we’re not up yet.” He cupped his hand over a huge yawn. “What time is it?”
“Just after seven. Mr. Dyson—”
“Is there a problem in the hotel?”
“Can we come in, Mr. Dyson, speak to you and your wife?”
“Jenny’s still in bed.” The sleepy look was fading into mild irritation. “What’s the problem?”
“We’d like to come in, Mr. Dyson.”
“All right, all right. Hell.” He stepped back, waved at them to shut the door.
They’d sprung for a suite—one of the dreamy, romantic ones with banks of real flowers, real candles, fireplace, deep sofas. There was a bottle of champagne upended in a silver bucket on the coffee table. Two flutes, and she noted, some lacy portion of female lingerie draped like a flag over the back of the sofa.
“Would you get your wife, Mr. Dyson?”
His eyes were brown like his hair. And irritation flashed into them. “Look, she’s sleeping. It’s our anniversary—or was yesterday—and we celebrated. My wife’s a doctor, and she works long hours. She never gets to sleep in. So tell me what the hell you want.”
“I’m sorry, we need to speak with both of you.”
“If there’s a problem with the hotel—”
“Matt?” A woman opened the bedroom door. She was sleep-tousled and robed, and smiling as she shoved a hand through her short, disordered blonde curls. “Oh, I thought you must’ve ordered room service. I heard voices.”
“Mrs. Dyson, I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. This is my partner, Detective Peabody.”
“The police.” Her smile became uncertain as she walked
to her husband, hooked an arm through his. “We weren’t that loud last night.”
“I’m sorry. There was an incident at the Swishers’ early this morning.”
“Keelie and Grant?” Matt Dyson went stiff and straight. “What kind of incident? Is everyone all right? Linnie. Did something happen to Linnie?”
Fast, Eve knew. Like a short-armed punch to the face. “I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter was killed.”
While Jenny’s eyes went blank and frozen, Matt’s went hot with rage. “That’s ridiculous. What is this, some sort of sick joke? I want you out of here, I want you to get out.”
“Linnie? Linnie?” Jenny shook her head. “This can’t be true. This can’t be right. Keelie and Grant are too careful. They love her like their own. They’d never let anything happen to her. I need to call Keelie.”
