He was listed as cooperative and unilluminating.
Antiquities turned a good profit if you knew what you were doing. Eve assumed Klok did as the property was impressive. What had originally been a pair of town houses had been merged into one large home, set back from the street by a wide courtyard.
“Pretty spruce,” Peabody commented as they approached the courtyard’s ornamental iron gate.
Eve pressed the button on the gate and was momentarily ordered by a computerized voice to state her business.
“Police. We’d like to speak with Mr. Hugh Klok.” She held up her badge for scanning.
Mr. Klok is not in residence at this time. You may leave your message at this security point or—if you choose—pass through and leave same with a member of the household staff.
“Option two. Might as well get a closer look,” she said to Peabody.
The gate chinked open. They crossed the bricked courtyard, climbed a short flight of steps to the main level. The door opened immediately. This, too, was a droid, but fashioned to represent a dignified middle-aged man.
“I’m authorized to take your message for Mr. Klok.”
“Where’s Mr. Klok?”
“Mr. Klok is away on business.”
“Where?”
“I’m not authorized to relay that information. If this is an emergency or the business you have with him of great import, I will contact Mr. Klok immediately so that he can, in turn, contact you. He is, however, expected home within the next day or two.”
Behind the dignified droid was a large, dignified entrance hall. And surrounding it Eve sensed a great deal of uninhabited space. “Tell Mr. Klok to contact Lieutenant Eve Dallas, NYPSD, Cop Central, upon his return.”
“Of course.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Mr. Klok has been out of residence these past two weeks.”
“Does Mr. Klok live alone?”
“He does.”
“Any houseguests in his absence?”
“There are no guests in residence.”
“Okay.” She’d have preferred to get inside, snoop around a little. But without warrant or cause, there was no legal way past the threshold.
She left the Klok house for a bustling section of Little Italy.
One of the victims had been a waitress in a restaurant owned by Tomas Pella. Pella had served on the Home Force during the Urbans, and in them had lost a brother, a sister, and his bride of two months. His young, doomed wife had served as a medic.
He’d never remarried, had instead opened and owned three successful restaurants before selling out eight years before.
“Reclusive, according to Newkirk’s notes,” Eve said. “Also listed as hot-tempered and angry.”
He lived in a trim whitewashed home within shouting distance of bakeries, markets, cafés.
When she was greeted for the third time by a droid—female again, but of the comfortable domestic style—Eve concluded that men of that generation preferred electronic to human.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We’d like to speak to Mr. Tomas Pella.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pella is very ill.”