“Mmm.” Roarke studied the space, the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Then moved out again to roam into the master bath.
White here, oyster, snow, cream, ecru, ivory. A huge white urn of flowers in autumn shades added some color and texture, but like the rest, the room felt done. Coldly done.
As a boy, he remembered, in his B&E days, he’d enjoyed this part of the job. The wandering, the getting a sense of who lived in the space, how they lived. He’d learned a bit about how the wealthy lived—what they ate, drank, wore.
For a street rat with nothing, it had been a world of wonders over and above the take.
He learned how Callaway lived as he went, and wasn’t surprised when Reineke announced, “No sex toys or enhancements, no skin mag discs, no porn.”
“Sex isn’t one of his interests.”
“Like I said, sick fuck.”
The bedroom was for sleeping, Roarke determined. For dressing, undressing. Not for entertaining, not for work. For sleep and show should he have guests. Rarely guests here, Roarke mused as he moved out, and into the office.
“Here now,” he murmured.
This was the hub. Energetic colors to stimulate the senses. Too many, and the hues too harsh, but here was a feel of movement, of activity, of living.
An important desk of glossy black facing the privacy-screened windows, an important chair of bold orange leather mated to it.
The first-rate D&C center—yes, he’d have a look at that. The long, deep sofa in hard green, deep blue tabletops, a dizzying pattern on the rug, art in those same colors, splashed and streaked and framed in black.
Except for one, he noted. A moody and rather lovely painting of Rome. The Spanish Steps on a sun-washed afternoon.
As he found it the only really tasteful item he’d seen thus far, he walked over, examined it, looked behind it, checked the frame, the backing.
Finding nothing, he put it back on the wall.
Comfortable enough, Roarke decided. A mini AC and Friggie. He could settle in here, have what he needed.
He opened a double-doored closet, smiled. Shelves of office supplies, extra discs, even a small unit for washing dishes.
“A bit shallow, aren’t you, and a fairly recent addition here?”
He crouched, studied the underside of the shelves, the sides, then patiently removed some of the supplies. Gave the back wall a few knocks.
“Ah. Yes.”
He imagined Callaway considered himself cagey and clever to have installed the false wall, the shelves. And they might have fooled a casual observer, a cleaning crew or a very sloppy search. It took him under three minutes to find and access the mechanism. Released, the shelves pivoted out, opening the small room beyond.
And here, Roarke thought, here, he’d brewed up death.
Mushrooms sealed in jars, seeds, chemicals, powders, liquids—all meticulously labeled. While tiny, the lab appeared carefully laid out and supplied. For one purpose, Roarke thought. Burners, petri dishes, mixers, a microscope, and a small, powerful computer—all fairly new, he saw, all top of the line.
He found the old journal, its cover cracked and faded, paged through it. Crouched again, he opened the lid of a storage box, nudged through photos, more journals, clippings, a tattered Bible, and what he recognized as a manifesto—handwritten, and signed by Menzini.
He stepped out, walked across the hall. “I think I’ve found what you’re looking for.”
He got out of their way, went back into the living area.
“Nothing on this unit,” Feeney said. “Bastard barely used it.”
“This area’s for show. There’s a small laboratory behind a false wall in the office closet.”
As Roarke spoke, Feeney’s head came up like a wolf scenting a bloodied sheep. “If I remember the formula correctly, all the necessaries are there, as well as journals, the formula itself clearly written in one, and what appear to be more recent, handmade notes. There are photographs, and Menzini’s personal manifesto. And a computer which will likely prove more interesting than that one.”
“Got the fucker.”