“I suppose it’s wait and see again. But not for long.”
He turned toward a gate.
“Gated. Should’ve figured.”
“I know this place—the history, in any case.”
Eve leaned past him to hold up her badge to the security cam. “NYPSD. Lieutenant Dallas and expert consultant Roarke.”
She watched the red light scan her badge, then a human voice responded.
“Officer McNee, Lieutenant. Passing you through.”
And silent as the grave, the gates opened.
The three-story house of faded, rosy brick stood tall and square. A detached garage connected to the main house with a glass-enclosed breezeway. Shrubs and leafy trees scattered artistically over the manicured lawn.
“Big place,” Eve said, “but there’s that candle thing again.”
Roarke laughed.
“It was built during New York’s Gilded Age for what you’d call a tycoon. Unfortunately for him, his son, who inherited, lost the bulk of the wealth gambling. At the tables, on the horses, in the market. And so the house sold and was for a time a museum. It was ransacked and damaged during the Urban Wars, after which, it seems, Henry Barristerbought it for a song. Likely it cost him more to have it repaired, refurbished.”
“How do you know all this? You know the Barristers?”
“I don’t, no.” He shot her a glance. “I know all this because it’s my business to know, and in fact, when I’d made up my mind to base in New York, I looked at homes like this, buildings like this.”
“Then built yourself something completely different.”
“Built what suited me, and what I’d built in my head as a child. Again, I don’t know the Barristers personally. But I do know Zip as a solid, successful, well-run company.”
They got out of the car, and while Roarke went around to the trunk for a field kit, Eve approached the uniform standing in the wide, covered portico.
Both the double doors behind him had lion’s heads with rings clutched in their jaws. To her eye, they looked pissed off.
“Officer McNee.”
“Lieutenant.”
He stood as straight as a poker. Young and green, Eve thought, and his polished shoes, spotless uniform, and squared-on cap reminded her of her first look at the then–Officer Peabody.
“Give me the rundown.”
“Sir. My partner, Officer Lawrence, and I responded to the nine-one-one at one hundred hours, two minutes. We arrived on scene at one hundred hours, eight minutes, approximately two minutes after the arrival of the medical techs.”
When Roarke joined her, McNee stopped, swallowed.
“And?” Eve prompted.
“Sir. A woman identifying herself as Uma Acker, the housekeeper, gave us entry and took us back through to where the MTs attempted to treat the victim, a male the housekeeper identified as Nathan Barrister. They pronounced him as deceased at one hundred hours, nine minutes.”
“Were others on scene?”
“Sir, yes, sir. Two women. Aileen Carville, the victim’s spouse. The MTs administered a mild sedative, as she was very distressed. Um… Joy Barrister, the victim’s sister, who placed the nine-one-one. Two more individuals arrived from another section of the house and were held back by my partner and myself. Staff members, Lieutenant, who live on the premises.
“Sir, my partner, Officer Lawrence, has all the individuals in the kitchen area, and posted me here when you announced your arrival.”
“All right. Stand by, Officer. My partner should be on her way. Inform your partner I’m taking the body first. Where’s the body?”
