“That is my immediate priority. The dead guy over there? He’s an afterthought.”
“It’s just that—” Peabody broke off, focusing on the body and finding her inner cop. “He won’t have to worry about having that suit cleaned. He was a doctor, right? No physician healing himself this round. Any update on the wife’s status?”
“No. We’ll get to that. I’ve notified the sweepers and the morgue. I’ve got TOD, and the obvious on-scene COD. Seal up, start on the room. I’m using the bathroom to change.”
Shutting herself in the elaborate white-and-gold bathroom, Eve stripped out of the dress. Relief was immediate.
In the bag she found everything she needed. She tried not to think of Summerset selecting and packing her underwear—that way lay madness—but pulled it on, dragged on soft wool trousers, blissfully black, a pale gray sweater, her weapon harness and main police issue, sturdy black boots, a black jacket with needle-thin gray stripes.
He’d included the cases for the jewelry she wore, so she took it off, piece by piece, puzzled out the coordinating cases. He’d also included her ankle holster—she had to give him props for that as she strapped it on.
That left her coat, the snowflake hat she’d grown fond of, a scarf with black, gray, and red stripes—she could live with the red—and a pair of surely insanely expensive fur-lined gloves she’d lose in no time.
Feeling like herself again, she rolled her shoulders, glanced at the ornately framed mirror over the long vanity. Said, “Shit!”
Real clothes (even if they were embarrassingly fashionable) aside, she still had on her fancy party face. And had no way to take it down to cop.
She grabbed the garment bag, stepped out. “Peabody!”
“Sir!” Snapping to it, Peabody stuck her head out of Anthony Strazza’s closet.
“Do you have any gunk? You know, the gunk that takes off the gunk?” To illustrate, Eve circled a finger in front of her face.
“Cleanser? Enhancement remover? No, not with me.”
“Crap, crap, crap.”
“You look good.”
“Another of my top priorities.”
“No, really. You still look like a hard-ass. In fact, the lip dye only boosts the hard-assery.”
“Bullshit.” But since previous experience had taught her that soap and water simply smeared everything so the skin looked like one livid bruise, she opted to forget her face.
But when she walked over, started to shove the shoes into the bag, Peabody leaped toward her.
“No! You can’t just shove them in there. Aren’t there shoe bags? Let me do it. Let me! Dr. Strazza strikes as more than a little OCD.”
“Because?”
“His closet. It’s obsessively organized. He has about sixty white dress shirts—same shirt like sixty times. White shirts, black shirts, a smaller amount in gray. Black pants, black suits, gray suits. No color. Everything’s in order,” she continued as she bagged the shoes. “Everything’s precisely hung. He’s got some casual wear in drawers—a built-in—and workout gear same deal, though he loosened up there enough for a little navy blue. Even his casual clothes are precisely folded and coordinated. Same with underwear and socks. Oh, and every shirt—even the casual—has his monogram on the cuffs.
“He has two pair of white athletic shoes,” Peabody went on, “two pair of black—all four the same brand and style, all pristine. All the rest are black dress shoes. About fifty pair. His closet comp not only lists each article of clothing, when he last wore it, and where, but when and where it was purchased. Nothing is more than a year old.”
“So he was fussy.”
“And then some.”
“Check out the other closet.”
Eve moved to a bedside table, opened the drawer. She took out a tablet, and at her swipe saw it was passcoded. She tagged and bagged it for McNab to take into the Electronic Detectives Division. She bagged a bottle of prescription sleep aids, another bottle for male sexual enhancement, a white silk blindfold, and a long white silk cord.
Considering all, she walked around the bed to the other night table. Another tablet—no passcode. On it she found a number of books on entertaining, hostessing, menus.
Peabody stepped out as Eve sniffed a small bottle with a gold lily as a topper. “Perfume. And her bedside tablet’s filled with domestic stuff. No photos, no personal data, no music, no novels.”
“Her closet’s nearly the female version of his, organizationally. Not quite as precise, but close. Nearly everything’s white, but there are some prints, some color—but it’s either gold or silver over white. And the underwear runs from virginal to deep slut city. Same with her nightwear.”
“Interesting. No sex toys. He’s got his performance enhancer candy and that’s it.” She circled the room. “Could be a kind of theme, right? Bedroom’s all white and gold. Like a church or temple. Anyway…”
They went back to it. By the time Eve finished the bathroom—a lot of bath oil and female products in the same scent as the perfume—the morgue team and the sweepers were at work.