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“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?”
He flushed, pink and pretty. “Well, ah, Baxter mentioned he’d seen that model before, and it was built for that particular purpose.”
“Uh-huh,” she said and walked through to a kitchen so shiny silver and glossy black her eyes wanted to twitch.
A man sat at a square table of glass on a silver pedestal, his head in his hands, a cup of something in front of him.
He looked up as she entered, showed her a ridiculously handsome face poet pale with shock and grief. And young, she noted as she gauged him as barely old enough to drink legally.
“Are you in charge?” He had a voice like a bell—deep, clear, resonant.
“Lieutenant Dallas. Yes, I’m in charge. This is Detective Trueheart. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Baker.”
“I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. Granddad—someone killed him. I don’t understand.”
Eve flicked a glance at the uniform, dismissing her, then sat across from Baker. Another glance, this one at Trueheart, had the new detective taking a seat.
“This is hard. Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re here. This isn’t your residence.”
“No, I don’t live here anymore. I did for a while, when I was just starting out. I stay sometimes. He’s mostly alone here, so I stay sometimes.”
“When did you get here tonight?”
“It was late—early, I mean. Three-thirty or something.”
“Do you usually come over so early in the morning?”
“No. No. He didn’t come to opening night, and he always . . . I thought maybe he forgot or just got busy, and I was even a little upset because it was my first . . .” He paused, pressed his fingers to his eyes, tawny gold, rimmed with red.
“Whatever Works.”
Baker dropped his hands at Trueheart’s words. “It’s been getting a lot of buzz,” Trueheart continued. “I just put it together. Jonas W. Baker, you’re the lead. I was going to try to take my girl to see it sometime. You opened last night?”
“Yeah. Opening night. Musical comedy,” he said to Eve. “I’m the male lead. It’s my first time headlining. My mother’s in Australia, and my father—well, even if he was in the country, he probably wouldn’t have come. But my grandparents never missed.”
“Your grandparents?” Eve repeated.
“Yeah, they’re not married anymore—not for years—but they do the united front for my plays. But she’s stuck in Chicago. Her flight got canceled—they’re snowed under good. What I mean is whenever I got a part, they’d be there opening night. Front row center, every time. And my grandfather was the one who backed me when I wanted to go into theater instead of law or medicine or politics—whatever would’ve been suitable for my parents. He backed me, and he helped me, and let me live here while I was getting my start.”
He picked up the cup in front of him, set it down again, pushed it away.
“He never missed, so when he didn’t show, I thought he was running late or something. I had to put it away, you know, and do the job, do the show. We rocked the house, too, yeah, we did.”
“You must’ve been upset not to have him there. Big night for you,” Trueheart added.
