In Death 20 - Survivor in Death

thought. Should’ve taken a few more days medical. But she let it pass.
    “Get any financials on the Swishers?”
    “Not yet. We detectives are not miracle workers.”
    “Slacker.” Eve stepped off, walked straight to 4215. She didn’t allow herself to think, to feel. What good would it do?
    She pressed the buzzer, held her badge up to the security peep. Waited.
    The man who answered was wrapped in a plush hotel robe. His thatch of dark brown hair stuck up in wild tufts and his square, attractive face held the sleepy, satisfied look of someone who’d just enjoyed some early morning nookie.
    “Officer?”
    “Lieutenant Dallas. Matthew Dyson?”
    “Yeah. Sorry, we’re not up yet.” He cupped his hand over a huge yawn. “What time is it?”
    “Just after seven. Mr. Dyson--”
    “Is there a problem in the hotel?”
    “Can we come in, Mr. Dyson, speak to you and your wife?”
    “Jenny’s still in bed.” The sleepy look was fading into mild irritation. “What’s the problem?”
    “We’d like to come in, Mr. Dyson.”
    “All right, all right. Hell.” He stepped back, waved at them to shut the door.
    They’d sprung for a suite--one of the dreamy, romantic ones with banks of real flowers, real candles, fireplace, deep sofas. There was a bottle of champagne upended in a silver bucket on the coffee table. Two flutes, and she noted, some lacy portion of female lingerie draped like a flag over the back of the sofa.
    “Would you get your wife, Mr. Dyson?”
    His eyes were brown like his hair. And irritation flashed into them. “Look, she’s sleeping. It’s our anniversary--or was yesterday--and we celebrated. My wife’s a doctor, and she works long hours. She never gets to sleep in. So tell me what the hell you want.”
    “I’m sorry, we need to speak with both of you.”
    “If there’s a problem with the hotel--”
    “Matt?” A woman opened the bedroom door. She was sleep-tousled and robed, and smiling as she shoved a hand through her short, disordered blonde curls. “Oh, I thought you must’ve ordered room service. I heard voices.”
    “Mrs. Dyson, I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. This is my partner, Detective Peabody.”
    “The police.” Her smile became uncertain as she walked to her husband, hooked an arm through his. “We weren’t that loud last night.”
    “I’m sorry. There was an incident at the Swishers’ early this morning.”
    “Keelie and Grant?” Matt Dyson went stiff and straight. “What kind of incident? Is everyone all right? Linnie. Did something happen to Linnie?”
    Fast, Eve knew. Like a short-armed punch to the face. “I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter was killed.”
    While Jenny’s eyes went blank and frozen, Matt’s went hot with rage. “That’s ridiculous. What is this, some sort of sick joke? I want you out of here, I want you to get out.”
    “Linnie? Linnie?” Jenny shook her head. “This can’t be true. This can’t be right. Keelie and Grant are too careful. They love her like their own. They’d never let anything happen to her. I need to call Keelie.”
    “Mrs. Swisher is dead,” Eve said flatly. “Persons unknown entered the residence last night. Mr. and Mrs. Swisher, their housekeeper, their son Coyle, your daughter were murdered. Their daughter Nixie was overlooked, and is now under protective custody.”
    “This is a mistake.”
    Jenny squeezed a hand on her husband’s arm as he began to shake. “But they have security. They have good security.”
    “It was compromised. We’re investigating. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m extremely sorry.”
    “Not my baby.” It wasn’t a cry so much as a wail as Matt Dyson crumbled, as he turned to his wife and collapsed against her. “Not our baby.”
    “She’s just a little girl.” Jenny rocked, herself, her husband, as her shattered eyes clung to Eve’s. “Who would hurt an innocent little girl?”
    “I intend to find out. Peabody.”
    On cue, Peabody stepped forward. “Why don’t we sit down? Can I get you something. Water? Tea?”
    “Nothing, nothing.” With her arm still wrapped around her husband, Jenny sank with him onto the couch. “Are you sure it was my Linnie? Maybe--”
    “She’s been identified. There’s no mistake. I’m sorry I have to intrude at this time, but I need to ask you a few questions. Did you know the Swishers well?”
    “We ... Oh God, dead?” The barrage of shock had turned skin to paste. “All?”
    “You were friends?”
    “We were,