As Eve drove uptown again through the drip, drip, drip, Peabody did the run.
“Jeez! She’s seriously smart as they come. Yale grad, top of her class. I do mean top as in number one. She speaks four languages including Mandarin. Only child, no marriages or cohabs. Dallas, she’s only twenty-five, and she speaks four languages. No criminal.”
Peabody looked wistfully into the rain. “I wish I spoke four languages.”
“You speak two. Civilian and cop. That’s enough for anybody. She half fits. She’s focused, detail and goal oriented, and being in finance, a gambler. Not strong or tall enough to break Banks’s neck. No military in the family?”
“No. Her mother was ambassador to Italy when she was a kid, so they lived there for three years—Italian’s one of her languages. Father’s a political consultant. They’re based in East Washington, but have a place in New York. No military service there. Grandparents still living, both sides, but none there, either. Wait, wait, she has a cousin who served four years in the Army—but he was a corpsman. And now he’s a doctor—based in Atlanta.”
Eve let the angle go for now, and pulled up in front of Banks’s building. A different doorman strolled over, but with the same deference as the night before.
“Can I help you, Lieutenant? Detective?”
“Access to Jordan Banks’s apartment.”
“Of course. I heard the bulletin. It’s shocking.”
“Has anyone inquired about Mr. Banks this morning?”
“Not to me.”
He let them inside. A different security clerk, a black-suited, sharp-eyed woman—manned the desk.
“Rhoda, Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody need access to the Banks unit.”
“I’ll clear that immediately. We’re all stunned by what happened.”
“Have you cleared anyone else into that unit?”
“No. I did check the log and I see that the night security recorded Mr. Banks requesting a cab at eight-fifty-three. One was ordered, and he departed the building at nine. He wasn’t logged back in. I can contact the cab company and ask for his destination, if it’s helpful.”
“I’ve got it.”
She moved to the elevator, got in with Peabody.
“Roarke’s building?”
Eve scowled, just a little. “Yeah.”
“It’s nice.”
Eve only shrugged, shoved her hands in her pockets.
They got out, walked the same fragrant hallway to Banks’s main door. Eve mastered in.
One glance had her weapon in her hand as she did a low sweep and Peabody did the same high.
“Shit,” she muttered. “Shit, shit.” Knowing the weapons wouldn’t be necessary.
Whoever had searched and trashed the luxury apartment was already long gone.
11
“Let’s clear it,” Eve said, “then go down, get copies of the security discs from nineteen hundred to oh-nine hundred. And I want to talk to whoever was on duty—door and desk during that time frame.”
In a hurry, Eve thought as they cleared the two levels, a room at a time. Rushed work, sloppy work with drawers upended, art pulled from walls on the main level.
“Sloppy,” she said aloud as she holstered her weapon, “but probably thorough. Get the discs. I’ll contact the sweepers.”
“The security on the building’s got to be the ult,” Peabody commented. “It’s Roarke’s.”
“Yeah, but here we are. Grab the field kits while you’re down there.”
Alone, Eve called in the sweepers, then backtracked to the kitchen and the security base directly off it. Banks had two domestic droids—both female. And the drives in both had been removed. So had the drives from the security base.
And she hadn’t seen a single comp or electronic device on her sweep to clear.
She walked back out, studied the locks on the main-level door. Pulled out her ’link.
“Lieutenant.” Roarke’s face filled her screen. “Good timing. I’m just between meetings.”
“Yeah, well, I’m at Banks’s place. Somebody beat me here. Down-and-dirty job’s how it looks, but on a quick pass they scooped up his electronics and security logs.”
Those blue eyes went hard. “Someone compromised the security?”
Eve glanced around the sleek, silvery kitchen where every drawer and cabinet door stood open, and two droids stood blank-eyed.
“Yeah, compromised is one word for it.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Figured,” she stated as he cut her off.
She left the kitchen, decided to start on the second level. Master, guest room, home office, linen storage. Frowning at the jumbled sheets and towels, Eve tagged Peabody on her comm.
“Find out if Banks used any outside cleaning service.”
She moved to the master. People, in her experience, often thought of their bedroom as a sanctuary, a kind of safe room. And often tucked things away in odd places.
In the master, Banks had gone for the gold. Gold posts speared up from the four corners of the bed, gold chairs stood in the sitting area, paintings framed in gold crowded the walls, gold drapes flowed at the windows.
The bedding—gold—lay in a heap on the floor while the thick gel mattress sat crookedly in the bed frame. Sculptures and busts stood on tables or pedestals. If a table had a drawer, that drawer hung open.
She found an impressive collection of sex aids and toys still in a nightstand drawer. But no electronics. The master boasted two dressing rooms. One held Banks’s equally impressive collection of clothing—suits with the pockets turned out, shoes jumbled. He’d used the second to store sports equipment. Golf clubs, skis—water and snow—tennis rackets, climbing gear, scuba gear. A shotgun, she noticed, and wondered if he’d had a collector’s license for it.
Too late to fine him now anyway.
She heard the downstairs door, walked out, looked down at Peabody and the woman from the desk. The woman—Rhoda, Eve remembered—looked around the room with wide, distressed eyes.
“Up here,” Eve said, then went back to the master to start in the primary dressing room.
“This is just awful,” Eve heard Rhoda say. “Just shocking and awful. I’ve worked here four years, and we’ve never had a break-in. Not a single break-in.”
Eve took a can of Seal-It from the field kit, sealed up, began to search, one article of clothing at a time. “I need copies of your security feed.”
“I’m having it done right now. Lieutenant, I need to contact Roarke. It’s imperative he—”
“He’s on his way. Cleaning crew?”
“He uses our in-house service, twice weekly. Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
“How do they access?”
“I clear them. They don’t have the codes, and have to be cleared by the desk and/or the resident.”
“Did anyone inquire about Mr. Banks, were there any deliveries made or attempted to this apartment in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Not on my shift, and there aren’t any notes in the log on that.”
“But other deliveries, to other units?”
“Certainly several. Each would be cleared individually. No one’s sent into the residences without clearance. If a resident isn’t at home for a delivery, we hold the package at the desk. Visitors are also cleared. No one can access the elevators or stairs without their keycard or clearance.”
“A lot of visitors in a building this size.”
“Yes. But the safety, security, privacy, and comfort of our residents are our priorities.”
“Once they’re cleared, anything to stop them from accessing another floor?”
“They’d need a keycard. If I clear someone for level twenty, they’re restricted to that level.”
“But the residents aren’t restricted.”
“No.”
“In the event of fire or another emergency?”
“All elevators and exits are automatically opened. That didn’t happen. It would have been logged. So would any anomaly lasting five seconds. If the feed had a glitch, the glitch—type, time, duration, would be recorded. We’re a Five Lock building, Lieutenant, the highest security rating given.”
She linked her hands together as she looked around the bedroom. “I’m at a loss.”
“No building’s a hundred percent secure,” Eve commented. “Somebody gets their pocket picked, somebody makes a copy of their keycard for their newest lover, whatever. Do you know every person who lives here, by sight and name?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
Eve stopped, turned, interested. “Seriously?”
“It’s my job. We’re currently at ninety-three percent occupancy with six hundred and thirty-four units occupied, eighteen hundred and sixteen residents—including live-in staff. We employ more than three hundred full-and part-time staff to serve and service the building. Not including outside marketing and seasonal workers and subcontractors on our call list.”
“Huh. Who lives in the unit across the hall from this one?”
“Ms. Yuri and Mr. Simston, and Ms. Yuri’s mother, Mrs. Yuri—a widow—and Georgie, their Yorkie. They’re currently in Aruba, but are expected back by late afternoon tomorrow.”
“Unit 3100.”
The first glimmer of a smile dawned in Rhoda’s eyes. “Ms. Karlin, Mr. Howard. Newlyweds. They were married last fall. Ms. Karlin divorced Mr. Olsen shortly after I began work here four years ago. He was granted custody of their Persian cat. Yasmine. Unit 3100 hosted a dinner party last night. Catered.”
“How many guests?”
Rhoda closed her eyes a moment, nodded to herself. “Dinner for twenty. Cocktails at seven-thirty. Catered by Jacko’s, arrival at six. Florist delivery, that’s Urban Gardens . . . four-thirty. That’s approximate.”
“Roarke knows how to pick them.”