Secrets in Death Page 6

  “Interesting,” Roarke said.

  “Not a bit surprising. You don’t own this place.”

  “Why do you assume that?”

  “The doorwoman didn’t recognize you. Lobby clerk did, but just because you’re rich and frosty. Plus, that lobby is really ugly. You wouldn’t have a really ugly lobby.”

  “I appreciate your confidence. I wouldn’t term it ugly as much as obsessively tacky.”

  “Whichever. I’ll have to run this Mitchell Day, have a chat with him.”

  “That’s Mitch L., initial L., Day.”

  “Seriously?”

  Roarke nodded as the elevator doors opened. “He hosts a late-morning talk show.”

  Mystified, Eve shook her head. “Why do people watch shows where other people sit around and talk?”

  “There are some who actually enjoy conversations. I know that’s a shock to you.”

  “If you’re watching on screen, you’re not even having a conversation. You’re more eavesdropping.” She pulled out her master, frowned in consideration. “Huh. Okay, I get that.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Aren’t eaves the things on the sides of buildings? How do you drop them, and what does that have to do with listening in on other people’s conversations?”

  He drew a blank, found himself intrigued. “I’ll be sure to look it up.”

  “Language—which conversations are made of—doesn’t make any sense half the time.”

  She keyed in with her master, opened the door.

  To pitch-dark.

  “Lights on, full,” she ordered.

  They blasted on to reveal a spacious living area, carpeted in pale rose. Furnishings hit the sharp and edgy of I’m-trendy-now with a lot of chrome and glass, splashy modern art, a pair of long, low gel benches in lieu of sofas.

  An entertainment screen dominated one wall, floor-to-ceiling floating shelves another. On the shelves dozens of photos of Mars looked out. In most, she posed with someone—the fact that Eve actually recognized some of the faces told her all if not most were celebrities or luminaries of some sort.

  The windows that would look out on Park Avenue bore heavy drapes in the same tone as the carpet with the addition of fussy, feathery trim in a deeper hue.

  “A building like this is going to have privacy screens on the windows. She not only adds those curtain things, but keeps them closed. For somebody who made a living poking holes in others’ privacy, she guarded her own.”

  “She’d know just how easily the boundaries of privacy could be breached,” Roarke commented. “It’s a space for entertaining,” he continued as he wandered. “But certainly not for relaxing. It’s tasteful, in the way a high-end ultra-contemporary furniture showroom would be, but without warmth or personality. Still, she certainly knew how to invest her gain, ill-gotten or not.”

  Eve scanned the room. “Where?”

  “Well, take that painting there. That would be a Scarboro—an original. It would go for about two hundred.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Thousands thereof.”

  “That?” Stunned, Eve walked closer, studied the splotches of crimson and orange over and around jagged lines of purple and blue. “Are you kidding me? Bella could do better.”

  “Art’s what you make of it,” he said lightly. “Certainly not my particular taste,” he added as he moved to stand with her. “Though in my time I certainly…” He trailed off, amused at himself for momentarily forgetting her lapel recorder—currently engaged. “Ah, well, days gone by.”

  She shot him a look, understanding perfectly that he’d stolen more than his share of paintings—splotchy and otherwise—in days gone by.

  “Take any electronics you come across. I’ll take the bedroom.”

  There were two, though one now served as an office with a large white workstation, a generous desk chair in leather nearly as pink as the skin suit in which its owner had died. Lots more photos, she noted, some shiny awards, and all manner of dust catchers.

  Bowls, bottles, a collection of shiny glass eggs on little stands, fancy little boxes.

  She’d leave the office to Roarke for now. Bedrooms, she thought, tended to serve as spaces people considered safe, private, off-limits. And often held the secrets.

  She hadn’t skimped on the bed, Eve mused. The headboard, white, padded, rose nearly to the ceiling, curved in at the sides. Candy pink covered the bed, along with a mountain range of fancy, fussy pillows.

  More jarring art—how did she sleep?—a gel bench at the foot of the bed, a mirrored chest with more colorful bottles arranged on it. A glance in the en suite showed her a long troth of a tub big enough for three good friends, a large glass shower with multi-jets, a long counter with double sinks shaped like full-blown roses and fed with waterfall faucets, a drying tube. A toilet and bidet stood discretely behind white sliding doors.

  The wall-spanning mirror over the counter turned into a view screen by remote or voice command.

  The ledge surrounding three sides of the tub held candles in clear glass bowls and a trio of slim, ornate pitchers.

  Cabinets under the counter opened to drawers filled with beauty products and tools.

  She’d come back to it.

  For now she went back to the bed, opened the drawer on the bedside table. She took out two tablets, one full size, one mini. Swiped, found them both passcoded.

  Deciding she’d let Roarke take a pass at them, she set them on the bed rather than bagging them, moved around to the far side of the bed.

  “Party time,” she announced after opening the drawer.

  Sex toys, enhancers, lotions, and lubes filled the drawer.

  She lifted out a two-ended vibrator, noted it offered both warm and cool. It had a self-lube feature, and a control marked Ecstacy.

  Curious, she flipped it on, brows rising when nubs popped out as it whirled in various directions and speeds.

  Roarke started in, then just leaned on the doorjamb and grinned. “Now, there’s a picture.”

  Vibrator still humming and whirling, she looked over. “There’s this port on it. I think it’s for VR, so you can hook into the program while you do yourself. Packs a lot into a small, compact package.”

  She turned it off, set it aside.

  “In addition we have a variety pack of condoms—stay safe—nipple clamps, cock rings, a couple gel vibrators, lubes, cuffs, your classic ball gag, cord restraints, blah-blah, hard-on pills, strap-ons, and a few illegals, including Rabbit.”

  “An active sex life.”

  “Solo and with friends by the look of it. Tablets over there, passcoded.”

  “I’ll look at them. She has droids—the human replica variety and a couple of small robotics. The replica has been in sleep mode since noon—that’s its standard programming. It’s also programmed for sex, which is not at all surprising. Its name is Henri, and though it has other wardrobe, at the moment it’s garbed in a loincloth.”

  “What? Like the jungle guy?”

  “Yes, like the jungle guy.”

  “Takes all kinds.” She angled her head, giving Roarke a long study.

  “You’re picturing me in a loincloth. I feel so cheap.”

  “Nothing cheap about you, pal. She’s got an office across the hall. Data and comm center.”

  “I saw it, yes, and I’ll get to it. She has a tablet in the kitchen. It reads as a social calendar. Parties, openings, premieres, lunch and dinner dates. Henri says it’s part of his programming to keep it updated. The ’link in the kitchen is also his tool. A scroll through indicates its communication with caterers, reservations, ordering supplies, that sort of thing.”

  “Okay. I’ll bag them anyway, and EDD can go through them.”

  “Then I’ll take a look at the office.”

  Eve rose to take the closet. Enormous, packed, with a vanity alcove and separate shoe closet, it boasted such perfect organization Eve decided Henri took care of this, too.

  Plenty of lingerie
and sexy underwear in the built-in drawers—and an entire section just for belts.

  Just belts—she marveled. Another for scarves. Yet another for the winter season’s hats and gloves.

  Evening wear, on-camera wear, cocktail wear, snazzy day wear, all carefully cataloged on the closet comp, with clear notations on what had been worn where.

  She worked her way through it, painstakingly, and found the safe.

  “Now maybe we’ve got something.”

  Crouching down, she studied it, wondered if she could crack it. She’d developed and honed some skills since Roarke had started teaching her. No question he could open it in a fraction of the time, but—

  She continued to study the safe as she pulled out her signaling ’link.

  “Dallas.”

  “Peabody. McNab finally got through her purse electronics. We stopped for some food, but the real time suck? Seriously shielded. Even fail-safed.”

  “What did you find?”

  “She had a jammer on the ’link, to block logging any tags, so he’s got to work on that one. The PPC’s encrypted, but we’ve been working there. We think we might have the key. Dallas, we think she was blackmailing people.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Yeah, it’s…” On screen, Peabody’s expression dropped into a pout. “You knew that already?”

  “Yeah—Bellami confirmed, and he’s low to off the list. But clearly he wasn’t her first or only mark, so let’s get more.”

  “Working on it, but even what we’ve broken down so far? It’s like code names, or pet names. Not actual names. We’ve got some dates, some amounts. She doesn’t list them as either, but that’s what rings.”

  “Get what you can, send me whatever it is. Knock off and go home when you think you’ve done all that makes sense for tonight.”

  “We’ve got some juice left.”

  “We’re at her place now. I’ve got a safe here. Let’s see what she locked away.”

  “Is Roarke cracking it?”

  Annoyance shimmered. “He’s busy. I’m on this.”

  “But … okay.”

  Only more annoyed, Eve clicked off, scowled at the safe.

  “You’ll need tools for that one,” Roarke commented.

  She sent him a steely stare. “If you keep sneaking up on people, you could get stunned.”

  He crouched down with her, kissed her cheek. “You know how it excites me when you threaten to use your weapon.”

  She ignored that and focused on the safe. “Why do I need tools? I’ve got that app you put on my ’link.”

  “This model—its mechanism is a bit more sophisticated than that.”

  “Because it wants her thumbprint?”

  “That’s one. I can work it so it won’t get what it wants and still opens. It’s a three-stage system. First a code, which can be numeric or a word, a phrase. Or a combination, which would be recommended. Then the thumbprint, then another code. It’s professional grade, in that it’s rarely for home use.”

  She stared at the safe again. “Yours?”

  “It is, yes, which is why I’ll be able to get around it. Still, if I’d known, I’d have the proper device. I’ll have to improvise, so it’ll take a bit of time.”

  He gave her a nudge. “Shove up now, and give me some room.”

  No point in letting pride get in the way of progress, she decided, and got up to continue her search of the closet.

  “She has ten zillion clothes and, according to the comp, hardly wears anything more than once. Maybe two or three times on the regular stuff. Evening stuff, one time, all of it. She’s had some of these fancy dresses for three years, only worn once. Why does she keep them?”

  He didn’t answer; she didn’t expect he would, not while he was muttering, not while whatever device he was using hummed.

  “A lot of the shoes, not worn period. Some worn once. She’s got a couple months’ worth of underwear. Who owns sixty pairs of underwear? Even you don’t have sixty.”

  “Ah, there you are, my lovely.”

  “What?”

  “Not you, though you are lovely.” He inched back, stayed cross-legged on the closet floor. “You can open it now.”

  “You said it would take time.”

  “A bit, and it did.”

  She sat beside him, opened the door.

  “Whoa.”

  Stacks of bills filled an entire section. Eve pulled one out. “Hundreds of thousand-dollar wraps. There has to be…”

  As she tried to calculate, Roarke measured the stash using his hands. “If they’re all the same wrap, you’d have about a million.”

  “She’s got a freaking million dollars in her closet safe?”

  “It’s an excellent safe.”

  “Says the man who cracked it in under ten.” She drew out a leather jewelry case from another stack, another section, opened it to the flash and fire of diamonds. “Real?” she asked Roarke.

  He took it, examined it under the light. “I don’t happen to have a loupe on me, but yes, quite real. Excellent cut and color. Somewhere around … fifteen carats. Fifty thousand, I’d say, depending on where she got it.”

  She pulled out a leather box, found diamond drop earrings.

  “Quite nice,” Roarke said. “They’d look well on you. I can estimate, Eve, but from the amount here, you’re better off with a reputable jeweler.”

  Still, curious, he slipped a larger box out of yet another section, admired the emerald-and-diamond cuff. “Lovely craftsmanship on this. If all the pieces in here come to the quality we’ve seen so far, she has well over in jewelry what she has in cash. I repeat, the woman knew how to invest.”

  She held out her hand. He closed the box, kissed her cheek again, and handed the box to her.

  And grinned when she opened it again, just to check.

  “Everything back in. I’m not going to transport all this in my damn car. Lock it back up.”

  She put the necklace case in, the earring case.

  Roarke tapped her shoulder, opened his hand. The earrings sparkled in his palm.

  She wanted to laugh, but only rolled her eyes.

  Grinning, he dropped them into her outstretched hand. “Haven’t lost my touch.”

  “I’ll give you some touch,” she parried as she stowed the earrings.

  “I’m counting on it. Give me a moment and I’ll reboot the safe.”

  “Reboot it?”

  “I’ll reprogram it so it takes your codes, your print. Another bit of time, and then when you have it transported, you’ll be able to open it without any fuss.”

  She finished up the closet while he worked.

  “First code?”

  She used her badge number, then followed instructions and pressed her right thumb to the pad.

  “Second code?”

  “Sticky fingers.”

  He laughed, programmed it in. Shut the safe.

  “And done.”

  “Office?”

  “It appears to be all business—her legitimate business. Work and work-related communications, work and work-related data—stories done or in progress, research—which could lead you somewhere, I suppose. Personal finances,” he continued, “which do not include a million in cash or purchases of this sort of jewelry. While she does well enough in her field, she couldn’t afford any of this, the art, the jewelry, the furnishings. Even the rent here’s a bit of a stretch.”

  As she’d concluded the same, Eve nodded slowly. “Which says her side business pays a lot better.”

  “I’d certainly say so.”

  “Okay, let’s go through the rest to see if there are any hidey-holes or anything of interest. Then that’s it here until I have the safe and electronics picked up.”

  They rose together.

  “And I don’t have two months’ worth of underwear.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I think the wardrobe is a matter of being seen or photographed, doing an event in a certain outfit and not w
anting to be photographed in it again.”

  “You were listening.”

  “Always. As for why she keeps things she hasn’t worn in two or three years, I think we could speculate that, in some areas, she was a bit of a hoarder.”

  “With clothes, jewelry, money, but not with, you know, stuff. Hoarders usually go for stuff.”

  “A selective hoarder?”

  Eve shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

  But she couldn’t say if it bothered her strictly because of her own sensibilities, or because of her cop instincts.

  5

  On the drive home, Eve juggled work on her PPC with communications to and from Peabody. She glanced up briefly when Roarke drove through the gates, struck by how the winterscape of trees and grounds and the blank, dark sky set off the fanciful rise of stone, the spears of turrets, and the spread of terraces in the house that had become her home.

  Like a black-and-white photograph, she thought, of some otherworldly castle.

  “Is it Irish?” she wondered.

  “Is what?”

  “The house. You know, the design. Like one of those preserved places tourists go to so they can see how people lived, or the ruins of what used to be that you see all over the place.”

  He studied the house himself as he wound down the drive. “During my education—and that would be through Summerset—I learned considerable history, whether I wanted to or not. He’s one who believes your origins, who and what you come from, matter. Even if it’s a contrast to what you choose to make of yourself.”

  He parked, sat a moment. “I already had a love of books by the time he took me in. That copy of Yeats I found in an alley in Dublin, and squirreled away so the old man wouldn’t take it, sell it. Or burn it just to spite me. The words—the sound of them once you’d figured them out, on the tongue or in the head—were just a marvel to me. So, being a canny sort, Summerset used books on me.”

  “How?” she asked as they got out of opposite sides of the car.

  “He had a collection of his own, and I was given access to them—on the provision I could discuss them after. Lessons, always, but I didn’t see them as such, but only conversations.”

  The winter wind danced through his hair as he walked to her. “And novelties,” he added, “as conversations with adults hadn’t been part of my usual. He introduced me to the concept of libraries, and how I could borrow books. Now and again, he’d buy a book for me, a kind of reward, as I wasn’t allowed to steal them.”