In Death 06 - Vengeance in Death

"I missed you, Feeney. Damned if I didn't."
    He grinned wickedly. "The wife took six hours of video. She wants you and Roarke to come over for dinner next week, and the show." Wiggling his brows, he turned to Peabody. "You come too."
    "Oh, well, Captain, I wouldn't want to horn in on -- "
    "Stow it, Peabody. If I have to suffer, you have to suffer too. That's chain of command."
    "Another incentive," Peabody decided, "for increasing my rank. Thank you, Lieutenant."
    "No problem. Recorder on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve; Feeney, Captain Ryan; Peabody, Officer Delia entering quarters of Summerset, Lawrence Charles, standard search for evidence."
    She'd never been inside Summerset's private domain. It was just one more surprise. Where she'd expected the stark and utilitarian, straight edges and minimal style, was a lovely living area with soft, blending tones of blue and green, pretty trinkets on tables of honey-hued wood, generous, giving cushions, and an air of welcome.
    "Who'd have figured it?" Eve shook her head. "You look at this and picture a guy who enjoys life, even has friends. Feeney, take the communications center, will you. Peabody -- That'll be McNab," she said when the buzz sounded from the recessed house monitor on the south wall. "Clear him through, Peabody, then I want you to start in here. I'll take the bedroom."
    Four rooms spread out from the living area like ribs of a fan. The first was an efficient office and control center where Feeney rubbed his hands together and dived into the equipment. Opposite that was an equally efficient kitchen that Eve ignored for now.
    Two bedrooms faced each other, but one was doubling now as an artist's studio. Eve pursed her lips, studied the watercolor still life in progress on the easel. She knew it was fruit because she saw the huge bowl with overflowing grapes and glossy apples on the table under the window. On the canvas, however, the fruit was having a very bad season.
    "Don't quit your day job," she murmured and turned in to his bedroom.
    The bed was big, with an elaborate pewter headboard that twisted into vines and silvery leaves. The duvet was thick and spread neatly over the mattress without a wrinkle. The closet held two dozen suits, all black, all so similar in style they might have been cloned. Shoes, again black, were housed in clear protective boxes and ruthlessly polished.
    That's where she started, checking pockets, searching for anything that would signal a false wall.
    When she came out fifteen minutes later, she could hear Feeney and McNab happily chirping about mainframes and signal capacitors. She went through the bureau drawer by drawer and shut down any threatening shudder that she was pawing through Summerset's underwear.
    She'd been at it an hour, and was just about to call Peabody in to help her flip the mattress when she looked at the single watercolor over a table decked with hothouse roses.
    Odd, she thought, all the other paintings -- and the man had an art house supply of them -- were in groupings on the walls. This one stood alone. It was a good piece of work, she supposed, moving closer to study the soft strokes, the dreamy colors. A young boy was the centerpiece, his face angelic and wreathed with smiles, his arms loaded with flowers. Wild flowers that spilled over and onto the ground.
    Why should the kid in the painting look familiar? she wondered. Something about the eyes. She moved closer yet, peering into that softly painted face. Who the hell are you? she asked silently. And what are you doing on Summerset's wall?
    It couldn't be Summerset's work, not after the canvas she'd seen in his studio. This artist had talent and style. And knew the child. Eve was almost certain of that.
    For a better look, she lifted it from the wall and carried it to the window. Down in the corner she could see a sweep of writing. Audrey.
    The girlfriend, she mused. She supposed that's why he'd hung it separately, underplanting it with fresh roses. Christ, the man was actually love struck.
    She nearly re-hung the painting, then laid it on the bed instead. Something about the boy, she thought again, and her heart picked up in pace. Where have I seen him? Why would I have seen him? The eyes. Damn it.
    Frustrated, she turned the painting over and began to pry it from its gilded frame.
    "Find something, Dallas?" Peabody asked from the doorway.
    "No -- I don't know. Something about this painting. This kid. Audrey. I want to see if there's a title -- a name on