Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

“Rhoda has your copy,” Roarke said. “We’re going through the feed of your time frame with Rhoda noting down residents, guests, staff, and so on for you.”

“That’s helpful.”

“Our man Bingley here is combing through for abnormalities in the system that might have gone undetected.”

“Elevators and stairwells are priority.”

“I got that. I got that. Got that.” Bingley murmured it like a chant as he jiggled in his chair.

Eve judged he topped out at about five-five, maybe a buck and a quarter. His straggly hair and wispy beard were as gray as his clothes. His knobby-knuckled fingers worked keyboard and swipe screens with an agility that would have made Feeney beam.

She shifted her attention to the monitors, noted the time stamp. Twenty-two-forty. Scanned the people coming, going. Spotted some of Jacko’s crew leaving. She’d met the caterer and his team on another investigation. Those she could eliminate. Also low on the list, the couple coming in—both wrapped in furs with twin looks in their eyes that said: Next stop, sex.

Then the teenager, boots, trendy flak jacket, earflap hat, with a mop-haired dog on a leash.

She studied the solo male—late thirties, grim-faced, flapping top coat, rolling overnighter. Maybe.

“Who—”

“Look here, look here, pally!”

Roarke leaned over Bingley’s sloped shoulder at the man’s exclamation. And said: “Ah.”

“Ah what?” Eve demanded.

“Blip, blip, lights out, smooth ride.”

“What does that mean?”

“Reset,” Roarke ordered. “Roll. Pause. And yes, very bloody clever.”

“Got juice,” Bingley said. “No dope.”

“Yes, indeed. It wouldn’t register as a glitch or disruption.”

Eve resisted, barely, tearing at her hair or punching something. Maybe someone. “What wouldn’t, for fuck’s sake?”

“The blip. Just under three seconds.”

“Two-point-six,” Bingley said.

“Exactly. A shutdown of the elevator cam—elevator four. Then he shut the lights off in the car, unjammed the cam. Under three seconds isn’t long enough to register. The light? What have we there, Bingley?”

“Goes dark for nine-point-eight seconds.”

Roarke turned, worked another comp. “Short, singular event, logged twenty-two-nineteen. The system flagged it, but as it was short duration, cited as on watch.”

“What floor? What floor did he get on?”

“Fifty, rode two floors up to Banks’s bedroom level. He had to turn the cams back, you see, or the system would alert. But the lights? That’s building maintenance, and as they resolved so quickly, it’s simply on watch.”

“What about getting back down? What time, what floor? He could have exited from the main level. Watch for both levels.”

“No blip. See, pally?” Bingley said to Roarke. “No blip, lights on.”

“I see, yes. We don’t have the same routine for an exit. In fact, what I’m seeing is no one accessed an elevator on that floor until eight sharp this morning.”

“Who? Where’s the feed?”