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“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?”
