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Eve swallowed more gyro. “They get paid for being a kid?”
“More or less.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
“Household like that, the way this is shaping up, the kids probably had regular chores, even with a full-time domestic. Keeping their rooms clean, clearing the table, loading the recycler. Then you got your birthday or holiday money, your school report money. Being a Free-Ager, we did bartering more than pay, but it comes to the same.”
“So if everybody stayed a kid, nobody’d have to get a job. They could have seen something at school,” she continued before Peabody could comment. “Heard something. Something off. We’ll take a look at teachers and staff. We can run the adults’ business associates and clients, fan out from there to friends, neighbors, social acquaintances. These people weren’t picked out of a hat.”
“Doesn’t feel like it, but can we discount straight urban terrorism?”
“It’s too clean.” Roarke had it right on that one, she thought. “You want to terrorize, you’re messy. Kill the family, rape and torture first, wreck the house, slice up their little dog.”
“They didn’t have a little dog, but I get you. And if it was terrorism, some whacked-out group would be taking credit by now. Did we get any reports in? EDD, sweepers, ME?”
“I talked to Feeney. He’s on it. Fill you in on the way.”
“To?”
“Morgue, then Central.” She rose, stuffing the last of the gyro in her mouth.
“Want me to let Summerset know we’re leaving?”
“Why? Oh. Hell. Yeah, do that.” She crossed to the door joining her office with Roarke’s. “Hey.”
He was rising from his desk, slipping on one of his dark suit jackets.
“I’m heading out,” she told him.
“So am I. I’ve rearranged a few things. Should be back no later than seven.”
“I don’t know when.” She leaned against the jamb, frowning at him. “I should put the kid in a safe house.”
“This house is safe, and she’s fine with Summerset. A more detailed media bulletin’s come through. It doesn’t list the names, as yet, but reports on an Upper West Side family, including two children, killed early this morning, in their home. Lists you as primary. Details to follow.”
“I’ll have to deal with that.”
“And so you will.” He came to her, cupped her face, kissed her. “You’ll do your job, and we’ll figure out the rest. Take care of my cop.”
As she’d expected, the chief medical examiner had taken charge of the Swisher homicides. It wasn’t the sort of detail Morris would pass to someone else, however qualified or skilled.
Eve found him, suited up, over the body of Linnie Dyson.
“I’ve taken them in order of death.” Behind his microgoggles his dark eyes were cool and hard.
There was music playing. Morris rarely worked without it, but this was somber, funereal. One of those composers, she imagined, who’d worn white wigs.
“I’ve ordered tox screens on all victims. Cause of death is the same in all. There are no secondary wounds or injuries, though the minor male vic had several old bruises, two fresh, with minor lacerations—long bruising scrapes on his right hip and upper thigh. His right index finger had been broken, set, and healed at some point within the last two years. All injuries look consistent to me with a young boy who played sports.”
“Softball primarily. Fresh deal sounds like he got it sliding into base.”
“Yes, that fits.”
He looked down at the little girl, at the long slice in her throat. “Both minor vics were healthy. All vics had a meal at approximately seven p.m., of white fish, brown rice, green beans, and mixed-grain bread. There was an apple dish with wheat and brown sugar topping for dessert. The adults had a glass of white wine, the children soy milk.”
“The mother, the second adult female, was a nutritionist.”
“Practiced what she preached. The boy had a cache somewhere,” Morris added with a faint smile. “He’d consumed two ounces of red licorice at about ten p.m.”
