Morning traffic thickened with loaded maxibuses lumbering, cabs and cars inching along the black ribbons of roads, and pedestrians pouring onto sidewalks.
Ad blimps blasted their relentless hype. Their current focus beat the retail drum for Valentine’s Day.
Eve didn’t get it, just didn’t get it. Who the hell decided everyone was supposed to go mad with romance and gift buying on some random day in February? Hadn’t everybody just gone mad with good cheer and gift buying in December?
When would it end?
When she said as much, snarling her way through the next vehicular tangle, Peabody sent her a sad, sad look.
“But it’s for sweethearts.”
“Oh, bollocks. It’s just another scam designed so restaurants and shops can con people into spending money on expensive dinners, bunches of flowers, and the sparkly things some poor schnook buys on credit thinking he’ll get lucky. You want to be sweethearts, stay home and bang your brains out.”
“It’s kind of nice doing that after a special night out.”
“Eat in bed, bang more. I caught this case a few years back. Couple’s doing the V-Day deal, big-time, retro, dinner and dancing at the Rainbow Room.”
“Romantic, classic.”
“Yeah, and while the guy’s dropping about two grand on overpriced pork medallions, the wife goes off to the john. While she’s in there, her ’link signals—left it or forgot it on the seat of the booth—and he takes a look. Turns out it’s a text from the guy she had a romantic room-service lunch and hotel sex with that same afternoon. So the husband takes a closer look, finds lots of sexy texts between his wife and hotel-sex guy where they have a couple of good chuckles about her clueless husband and his substandard banging.”
“Ouch.”
“So—” Eve spotted her chance, zipped to the curb in front of a massive delivery truck, which expressed its annoyance with a barking horn. “This caterer place should be about a block and a half west.”
She got out and, after judging the traffic, Peabody managed to nip out of the passenger side and squeeze between bumpers to the curb.
“What did the husband do?”
“He asked for the bill, signed for it. When the wife got back, he gave her the ’link, said ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, bitch,’ and stabbed her in the neck with his dinner knife.”
“Holy shit. He killed her, right in the Rainbow Room?”
“They had a candlelit corner booth. Nobody noticed this woman bleeding out while her husband polished off the rest of the champagne. Let that be a lesson to you.”
“To me?”
“Stay home and bang.”
Peabody, muffled in her scarf, aimed a suspicious look. “You made all that up.”
“Elina and Roberto Salvador, 2055 or ’56—not quite sure. You can look it up.”
The minute they stepped into Jacko’s, the siren scent of yeast and sugar assailed them. Peabody audibly moaned.
“I didn’t know it was a bakery.” Peabody closed her eyes, drawing in the scent. “I didn’t know.”
Not just a bakery, Eve noted. Through a side opening, tables and chairs, a bar, and a hostess podium stood in the dark. But here, in this section, the lights were on and sparkling on glass displays of muffins and pastries, coffee cakes and breads with drizzles of white icing.
Staff in white smocks bagged, boxed, and rang up purchases briskly. Customers waited while others carried out those fragrant bags and glossy boxes.
“Wipe the drool off your chin,” Eve advised, walking to the far end of the counter where a pretty girl of about twenty constructed more boxes.
“Need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, if there’s a problem, I…” She trailed off, big blue eyes going bigger as Eve palmed her badge, held it up. “Oh. Oh, gosh. Just a minute, okay? Just a minute.”
She bolted, down the counter and through a swinging door.
“I know you personally can go days without actual food—which makes no sense as you have no body fat stored—but I need to eat.” Peabody huffed out a breath. “I was going to settle for a yogurt bar and egg pocket from a cart or Vending, but jeez.”
“Get something when we’ve finished the interview.”
“They have cinnamon buns,” Peabody said reverently. “Cinnamon sticky buns.”
“Don’t bitch about your own sticky bun after you scarf one down.”
“They are not to be scarfed, the cinnamon sticky bun, but savored.”
The pretty young thing hurried back. “Ma’am,” she began in a stage whisper, “Jacko can’t come out of the kitchen right now, so if you could go back?”
“Sure. We’ll go back.”
At the girl’s direction, they moved down the counter. On the other side of the swinging doors, the baking smells nearly had Eve’s reputedly zero body fat moaning out loud.
Besides a wall of busy ovens, she spotted some sort of mixer nearly as big as the woman running it, a line of stainless-steel cabinets, what she took to be a mammoth refrigerator, and racks full of trays and supplies.
At one counter, a man in a skullcap used some sort of tool to add tiny petals and leaves to a towering cake. At another, a girl used a different tool to squeeze batter into a tray filled with pleated cups.
At the center of it all, at an island counter, a big, broad-shouldered man wearing a white trailing cap and smock rolled out dough while he sang about getting down to live it up. He had a voice like a foghorn.
“Uncle Jacko? Here’s the police.”
“Huh? Oh, okay, okay. You’re a good girl, Brooksie. Go on back out.” Still rolling, he gestured at Eve and Peabody with his chin. “Come on over. We got a run on the buns like always. Gotta see the badges.”
He worked as he studied them, nodded. “Okeydoke, what can I do for you?”
“You catered a dinner party last night.”
“Had four events last night—two dinner parties. Which one?”
“Anthony and Daphne Strazza.”
“Ah, Mrs. Strazza. Sweet thing, knows her party planning. Yeah, we catered that. Party of fifty. Appetizer course, served in the living area, lobster medallions in a piquant sauce. Main dining room, warm salad—seared scallops, haricots verts, and bell peppers in a walnut vinaigrette with a main of roast prime rib—”
“Got it. Don’t need the menu.”
“It sounds amazing,” Peabody put in, making him smile as he spread butter over the rolled-out dough.
“You gonna eat, you should eat good.” From a bowl he sprinkled a mixture—Eve could smell the cinnamon and sugar—over the butter. “What’s the problem?”
“The Strazzas were attacked by an intruder after the party.”
His hand stopped mid-sprinkle, and all the easy levity died out of his face. “Is she okay? Mrs. Strazza? I mean, are they okay?”
“Mrs. Strazza’s in the hospital, and she’s stable.”
“What hospital? Gula!”
The woman at the mixer looked over with a scowl. “In a minute, Jacko.”
“Gula, little Mrs. Strazza got hurt. She in the hospital.”
“Oh no!” She hurried over, and stood beside him. Her head barely reached his breastbone. “What happened?”
“These are cops here, and they’re saying she got attacked. They, I mean to say. Mr. Strazza, too?”
“Yes. He’s dead.” Eve said it flatly, watching reactions.
She saw shock in both as the woman gripped Jacko’s thick arm. “Oh, well, God! When? They were both fine last night.”
“You worked the party?” Eve asked Gula.
“We both did. Mrs. Strazza, she always asks for us to be there. Jacko heads the kitchen, I head the servers.”
“After the party,” she said. “An intruder.”
“That place is like a vault.” Gula shook her head. “Nothing’s ever safe, is it? Oh, that poor girl. How bad is she hurt?”
“She’ll be all right” was all Eve would say. “Can you both tell us what time you left the Strazza residence, and where you went? We need to establish a timeline.”
“We served the croquembouche just about ten, ten-fifteen, wasn’t it?” Gula rubbed her temple. “With the fancy mints, coffee, and liqueur. Jacko and I left about ten-thirty and went on home.”
“Together?”
“We’ve been married twenty-six years, so we go home together,” Jacko told Eve. “We left Xena, our daughter, and Hugh, he’s our nephew, in charge. She’s out front, you can talk to her, but she said this morning she and Hugh left about eleven—more like eleven-fifteen—turned it over to the house droids. Still guests there when they left, she said.”
“We’re going to need a list of your employees who worked that party.”
“Sure, sure.” Shaking his head, Jacko began to roll the sheet of covered dough into a tight roll. “But I can tell you nobody who works for us would hurt anybody.”
“That’s the truth.” Gula patted his arm. “But I’ll get you a list.”
“We work in a lot of high-end homes and event areas,” Jacko continued and, taking a lethal-looking knife, cut the roll into slices.
The girl who’d been filling paper cups brought him a saucepan. “Perfect timing,” she said.
“Thanks, sweetie. She didn’t work the party,” he added when she had walked away, then he poured something that smelled obscenely delicious into a pan. “I have to trust who works for me, so I have to know them. A lot who do are family. And nobody works an event for Jacko’s until they’re trained. I’ve been doing this for better than fifteen years. Never had an employee so much as take a napkin from a client. Nobody who works for me and Gula is going to hurt somebody.”
“They might have impressions, might have seen something, someone. You might have,” Eve added.
“I stick to the kitchen mostly.” He covered the pan with a cloth.
“And you know everyone who worked the event? Every server, every cook, every valet.”
“Every one. Know a lot on the guest list, too. Not all, but more than a few. Professionally. Dr. Hannity snuck back into the kitchen. We did his daughter’s wedding a couple years back. He had a beer and some samples. And Mrs. Wyndel came back for a bit. We do all her catering. She wanted to talk to me about a party next month—baby shower for her niece. Like that,” he said with a shrug. “Otherwise, I don’t much mingle. Hate parties.”
Eve laughed before she could stop herself. “Me, too. But I figured you’d love them.”
“Like cooking and baking.” He wiped a big hand on his apron. “Might as well make a living doing what you like.”
“I hear that.”
He walked over to another counter, picked up a rack of cooling cinnamon buns. “Have a sample.”
“We’ll buy some on the way out,” Eve told him. “We’re not allowed to … take samples.”
He lowered his brows, jabbed a finger at two of the buns. “These two aren’t for sale. I’m not sure they meet my standards. I’d like an opinion.”
“Dallas, I’m dying here.” Flanked by Jacko’s beetled brows and Peabody’s pleading eyes—and assaulted by the scents—Eve surrendered.
“Fine. Okay.” She picked up a roll, took a bite. And wanted to weep.
“Terrible,” she said over another bite. “I don’t know how you stay in business serving something like this. I ought to confiscate the whole bunch.”
“Batch,” he said, grinning. “I’m going to box these up. You take them with you.”
“Really, we can’t—”
“You can, too.” He said it fiercely, and Eve caught the faint glitter of tears as he grabbed a box. “You do your job, I do mine. I like that girl. I’ve got a girl of my own about the same age. Don’t know what I’d do if somebody put her in the hospital.”
Eve waited a moment. “But you didn’t like him. Anthony Strazza.”
“Didn’t really know him. I worked with her.” Then he shrugged. “Didn’t like him much. He’d give you the cold eye. Some people figure if you feed them or do for them, you’re less. He was like that. She’s not. She was afraid of him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You wanted impressions, right? Back a year or so ago, we were working out the details, the menu for a party. Sitting in the dining room of their place with charts and lists and the samples of desserts I’d brought. Having some coffee. Having some fun with it, and she was laughing. He came in, and I saw it. Just for a second. I saw fear in her eyes. She covered it, jumped up, reminding him who I was, what we were doing. All bright and shiny. But her fingers were trembling when she reached for one of the charts we’d worked on.”
Jacko’s mouth tightened. “We never met like that again. Mostly worked things out via ’link or e-mail.”
The woman who’d been ringing up sales came in through the swinging doors, studied Eve, Peabody. “Mom said to give the police this disc.” She pulled it out of her pocket. “It’s got the names, contact numbers, addresses of everybody who worked the Strazza event. And how long they’ve worked for us, if they’re family.”
She looked at her father. “Mom’s taken over for me on the counter. I’m supposed to talk to the police.”
Leaning down, Jacko gave her a smacking kiss on the top of her head. “Nothing to worry about, baby.”
“Dr. Strazza was killed? And Mrs. Strazza’s hurt?”
Xena had the same big blue eyes as her cousin, and a bundle of gold-streaked chestnut hair under a white cap. She took a bright red water bottle out of her apron pocket, guzzled. “I just can’t believe it. But it couldn’t have been any of us. I mean, none of us would ever … Plus, everybody left before me and Hugh. All of us, I mean.”
“You’re sure of that.”
“I know everybody on that list. My brother’s on that list. He worked as bartender, and he left before dessert. Nat and I served that, then I sent her home. All the kitchen staff but Elroy left during dessert. And he left with Nat. We had Bryar, Zach, and Hugh on valet—Hugh served as runner. What I mean is, he worked wherever he was needed. Hugh told me Zach and Bryar left together, walking to the subway. Even in a good neighborhood, Dad doesn’t like any of the girls to walk by themselves after an event. Lacy served as bartender with Noah, my brother, and she left with Rachel, Trevor, and Marty—kitchen staff. Rachel, Trevor, Marty, and I live together. They were still up when I got home.”
“Okay. Did you notice anything, looking back, anything that seemed off?”
“Honestly, no. You’ve really got to be on your toes when you’re doing a multicourse, sit-down dinner for fifty. We served the first course in the living area, and set up the dining room table while that was being served. Cleared the first course while the main was going on, made sure the right wine was offered, glasses were filled. Mrs. Strazza had a playlist, so there was that. Then it was back to the living room—but without the tables and chairs—for dessert.”
“What do you mean ‘without the tables and chairs’?”
“Well, not her tables and chairs. The rentals, for the fancy first course.”
“What company?”
“Loan Star,” father and daughter said together.
“We’ve done events with them for years,” Jacko continued. “They’re solid.”
“When do they bring in the rentals, take them away?”
“They brought them about five,” Xena told her. “I was there to supervise the setup. Nat and I did the table decor—with Mrs. Strazza. She likes to have a hand in. They picked them up at eight-thirty. We cleared, they came in. In and out in about ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Did you know the crew?”
“Ah … mostly. I mean … I’m not sure. We were so busy.” She looked at her father. “Oh, Dad.”
“You don’t worry.” He came around the island, pulled her to him. “You don’t worry about this.”
“He’s right,” Eve said. “Do you remember how many in the rental crew?”
“Four—no, five. Five. I do know a couple of them. But I was busy, just didn’t have time to think about it.”
“If you remember anything more, contact me or Detective Peabody. We appreciate your time, the help. And everything else.”
Rubbing his daughter’s back, Jacko looked over her head. “Can Mrs. Strazza have visitors?”
“I wouldn’t say right now.”
“Can we check with her doctor, see if we can send her some soup?”
“Delroy Nobel at St. Andrew’s. You do what you do, Jacko,” Eve said. “We’ll do what we do.”
* * *
On the street, Peabody hunched inside her coat. “If I could afford to have something catered, I know who I’d use.” She tapped the top of the box she carried. “Those were seriously amazing sticky buns. Are you taking these into Central?”
She considered it. “Cull one out.”
“You’re going to eat another one?”
“No. Cull one out. Roarke’s earned one.”
“Aw. See, for you, every day is Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m a romantic fool 24/7. Just cull one—hell, cull two, one for McNab. Seal them in evidence bags. And find out where Loan Star Rentals is.”
“Next stop?”
“I tend to think Jacko’s got a firm hand on his people. Not that one couldn’t go nuts. But with the similar attacks, it’s more likely this is a serial offender. I don’t see Jacko and Gula fooled for long. So, the rental company’s next. We’ll talk to the rest of the catering staff, but let’s pull them to us, after the rental company and the morgue.”
“Right. Wait. It’s Sunday.”
“So what?”
“Rental company might be closed. I’ll check.”
“If it is, find the owner, the manager, whoever can get us the names of who worked this job.”
“On that.” But first, she got two evidence bags from the field kit in the trunk. Once the buns were all secure, Peabody started on her PPC.
“Open by appointment only on Sundays. I’ll dig up the manager.”
“Do that. So, morgue first.”
“Oh, joy. Got her.” Peabody settled in for the drive. “Want me to contact her—the manager?”
“Start there. Get the names.”
As Peabody went to work, Eve let her mind play with what she’d gathered.
Daphne liked. Strazza disliked. Daphne interacted—liked her hand in, had coffee with the caterer, briefly volunteered at the hospital. Strazza was cold, arrogant. So an older, wealthier husband, a demanding and domineering one.
If Jacko was right about the flash of fear, would they add abusive to that list?
She used her in-dash to do some digging of her own while Peabody talked with the rental manager.
No reports of domestic abuse, no nine-one-ones from Daphne or from the house itself. No visits to the ER or hospital.
“Five guys,” Peabody reported. “I’ve got names and contacts.”
“Run them.”
“Running them.”
Still, he was a doctor, Eve thought. He’d know how to hurt her without letting it show, if he was the physically abusive type. And where, if so, would that play in this?
A cold, abusive, jealous husband. A young, beautiful wife. Maybe a fling there, or someone who wanted a fling. Someone she’d discarded or rejected outright. A kind of payback.
If it turned out to be a single attack, maybe.
She went back to the dash ’link.
“We have the case files from Olsen and Tredway. And a request for a sit-down asap. We’ll work it in.”
“I’ll schedule it. Got one here with some bumps. Two assault charges, a couple drunk and disorderlies, an indecent exposure. Did three months on one assault, other one charges dropped. Community service and mandatory counseling on the D and Ds. Time served on the indecent exposure.”
“No B and Es, muggings, theft, sexual assaults?”
“Nope. Got another one with vandalism, but it’s small change. Got caught tagging a building when he was eighteen. Ten years ago. Nothing shaky since.”
“Let’s pull them all in, have a chat. I need to talk to Mira.”
“I sent her the details with a request she contact Nobel for a possible consult.” Peabody yawned hugely. “Man, sugar rush, now sugar crash.”
“Okay.” Eve scanned for a spot to park. “Contact the five guys from the rental place, set up interviews at Central. If any of them balk, we’ll send uniforms to convince them. That doesn’t do it, we go to them. And see what we’ve got from the other party guests.”
As they entered the white tunnel, Eve kept walking. “Find a place to work this out. I’ll take the body.”
The tunnel echoed, smelled of harsh lemon, maybe something like vinegar. But under it lingered the smear of death. Nothing much touched that.
Bodies in, bodies out, she thought. Bodies opened, bodies closed. And somewhere in that process, the bodies talked to the ME.
No one she knew understood the language of the dead as fluently as Morris.
She pushed through the swinging doors into his work area. He had music on low, something with a lot of bass and a charging drum beat. Over his snappy midnight-blue pin-striped suit he wore a clear protective coat. No tie today, she noted, but a turtleneck the same hue as the thin gray stripes. He’d twisted his long, dark hair into some sort of complicated knot where a single thin braid spilled from the center.
His exotic, clever eyes met Eve’s. “An early morning for you.”
“Actually we’ll call it a long night. Roarke and I ran into his wife”—she gestured to the body on the slab—“almost literally, about two this morning on the way home from a fancy deal.”
“I see. As she hasn’t joined him here, she survived.”
“In the hospital. Beaten, raped, naked when we spotted her wandering the streets. Memory’s spotty, so far,” Eve added.
Eve stepped closer. Morris had Strazza opened with his precise Y-cut. She didn’t flinch at such things. Couldn’t remember if she ever had.
“The way it looks,” she continued, “somebody accessed their house during a dinner party, laid in wait in the bedroom. Party’s over, they’re attacked. Husband is restrained, she’s restrained and raped, both are knocked around. A couple of safes in the house open and empty. A few other valuables appear to be missing.”
“A straight burglary doesn’t do this.”
“Nope. Could be that part of it is more of a bonus. We’ll see.”
“I can tell you the victim fought. He struggled enough to abrade his wrists and ankles. There are, as you see, numerous cuts—none life-threatening—inflicted with a thin, sharp blade. I’d vote for a scalpel.”
“Vic’s a doctor, a surgeon. That may play.”
“Most of the blows were to the face. Fists—gloved, likely smooth leather—and a sap of some sort. I’d say leather there as well. The body blows are well placed to inflict damage and pain. Kidneys, abdomen, kneecaps.”
He handed Eve microgoggles, put on his own. “The zip ties bit into the flesh, and we have splinters of wood, and what I expect the lab will verify as adhesive from duct or strapping tape.”
“Yeah, zipped him, taped over that. Wood from the chair he broke out of.”
“This blow here.” Morris moved up to the head. “A sweeping strike with a blunt instrument. I would time this as at least an hour after the other injuries, certainly not what incapacitated him before he was restrained.”
“Likely the first blow, to put him out so he could restrain him. After the assault, the vic broke the chair he was tied to. Managed to bust it, and I’m seeing him gain his feet enough to try to charge the attacker.”
“That fits, as the angle of this wound indicates they were facing each other, with the assailant slightly to the left side.”
“Big, heavy crystal vase. Had to put him down, right?”
“Even considering adrenaline, a hit like this would have flattened him.”
“Medical term.”
“Of course. He’d go down, certainly lose consciousness.”
“The assailant gave him two more whacks for good measure.”
“Not right away.”
Eve’s eyes sharpened. “How much of a gap?”
“I’m going to tell you the initial head wound bled for at least fifteen minutes. Fifteen to twenty. The blood had time to begin to coagulate. The killing blow—and either of these to the back of the head would have done it—was delivered after the heart continued to pump blood for a good fifteen minutes. And this one? The angle suggested the victim was moving, getting to his feet. The last, he was prone.”
“Okay. Okay.” Eve closed her eyes a moment, pulled off the goggles, paced. “Vic breaks loose enough to go after the assailant. Assailant grabs the vase, bashes him from the front. Vic’s down and out, but he doesn’t finish him. Maybe he’s getting his tools and loot, maybe he rapes the wife again, maybe he starts cleaning himself up. Vic starts to come out of it, tries to get up. Then he finishes him.”
She shook her head. “Stupid. If you’re going to kill the guy, do it and get it done. If you’re not especially interested in killing him, get your stuff and get the hell out. Wouldn’t take fifteen minutes, unless you’re stupid enough to have left everything scattered around in the first place.”
“People are often stupid,” Morris pointed out.
“They sure as hell are. Smart enough to get in there, slip right in the house during a dinner party for fifty with about a dozen staff. Unless he was a guest or staff. Vicious enough to beat and rape—made the wife strip, raped her in front of the husband—but not vicious enough to kill when the husband comes at him. Stupid or cocky enough to hang around for fifteen after—and he could have thought the guy was dead or dying—then finish him off. The way it looks, almost certainly took the time to cut the wife loose before he heads out.”
“He released the wife?”
“She’s got lacerations—she struggled against the restraints. Not as hard as the dead guy here, but she struggled. The shape she was in, I don’t see her getting loose on her own, and there was no rope or tape left behind. Killer bagged it up, took it with him. Had to.”
“Not only left her alive, but cut her loose. Can she identify him?”
“The devil, she says. She’s a mess, but I figure that’s how he looked. Mask or makeup. You go to that much trouble to disguise yourself, you probably don’t intend to kill the targets. But now he has.”
Eve studied Strazza again. “And they hardly ever stop at one.”