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beds.”
    “Plenty of layers to pick through. A lot of families might look happy on the surface, even to friends and coworkers. And they hate each other like poison in private.”
    “Cheery thought.” Peabody pursed her lips. “That makes you the cynical cop, and me the naive one.”
    “That’s about right.”

    3

    She felt squeezed for time, but going back to the scene, moving through it, feeling it was essential.
    A nice three-story single-family, she thought, bumped up against other nice two- or three-story single- or multiple families in a tony Upper West Side neighborhood.
    More solid than flashy.
    Kids went to private schools, one live-in domestic. Two full-time careers, one outside the home, one based in it. Two front entrances, one rear.
    Security, she noted, on all doors and windows, with the addition of decorative—but efficient—riot bars on the below street level where Keelie Swisher based her office.
    “They didn’t come in from below,” Eve noted as she scoped out the house from the sidewalk. “Security was active on the office entrance, and on the rear.” She turned, scanned the street, the curbs. “Parking’s a bitch in neighborhoods like this. You need a permit, curb scanners verify. If you park at the curb without one, it’s an automatic ticket. We’ll check, but I can’t see these guys making it that easy for us. Either they walked from another point, or had a permit. Or they live right around here.
    “Walked, more likely walked. Block or two anyway,” she said as she crossed, opened the useless little iron gate and stepped up to the door. “Walked to the front door. Jammed the security, the alarms, the cameras, the ID pads by remote before they moved into scanning distance. Had the codes, or knew how to bypass locks quickly.”
    She used her police master to deactivate the seal, open the locks. “Not a lot of people on the street around here that time of night, but some. You could have some. Walking a dog, taking a stroll, coming home from a night out. People watch people in this kind of area. Had to be slick, move fast, and casual.”
    She stepped inside the narrow hall that separated living from dining areas. “Whatcha got? A couple of bags, likely. Nothing big or bold. Soft black bags, probably, to carry the weapons, the jammers, protective gear. Couldn’t gear up outside, too risky. Right here, I’d wager, right here just inside the door. Pull on the gear, split up. One upstairs, one straight back to the housekeeper. No talking, just business.”
    “Hand signals maybe,” Peabody suggested. “Night vision equipment.”
    “Yeah. Tools in the pouch, but you know the route, the routine. You’ve done sims. Bet your ass you’ve done sims.” She walked back toward the kitchen, imagining the dark, the utter quiet. Straight back, she thought. Been here before or had a blueprint. She flicked a glance toward the table and benches where Nixie had been.
    “Wouldn’t see the kid, wouldn’t be looking.”
    She went into a crouch, and had to angle her body to see the police marker where Nixie’s soda had been found. “And even if you glanced around, you wouldn’t see a little girl lying on the bench. Attention’s this way, toward the housekeeper’s rooms.”
    Inga had been neat, as she’d expect of someone who made her living cleaning up other people’s debris. She could see the order under the disorder caused by the sweepers. Catch the fresh scents, and the death scents, under the smear of chemicals. And she imagined Nixie creeping in, the excitement of a child hoping to catch adults in a forbidden act.
    In the bedroom, blood patterned the walls, the bedside table and lamp, pooled on the sheets, had dripped to the floor.
    “She liked the right side of the bed, probably a side sleeper. See?” Eve moved into the murder zone, gestured to the spatter pattern.
    “He walks up to this side, has to—or wants to—lift her head up. The spatter shows that her head was turned a