Tall, padded headboard on a bed with a simple white duvet and a stack of sleeping pillows cased in navy blue.
And books, she noted. Again the real deal. Novels, easily a hundred of them on built-in shelves or stacked on the nightstand.
No sex toys, not in the nightstand, and no indication in the closet of a woman who stayed over and left a robe or any clothes behind for convenience. Nor a man, as a quick survey lead her to think all the clothes were Michaelson’s.
Suits, scrubs, casual clothes, gym clothes. And skates. He’d had two pair other than the ones he’d worn on his last day.
She found male sex booster pills and condoms in his bathroom—so he’d had sex, or at least had prepared for the possibility. No illegals, nothing out of the ordinary.
She finished up in a well-appointed guest room and a shining-clean powder room.
When she left, her picture of Michaelson was of a solid, dedicated doctor who had a genuine love of babies, kids, women in general. One who took care of himself, lived quietly, liked to skate, liked to read, and valued his circle of friends.
Nowhere in that picture was a motive for murder.
Back in the car, she headed east, and considered Peabody’s points.
Ellissa Wyman. Young, very attractive, graceful, apparently happy, well-adjusted. Not particularly interested in men or relationships—at least on the surface. But yeah, somebody might have been interested in her. Rebuffed or simply not noticed.
Or, they might find, digging deeper, there were relationships or a lifestyle her fam
ily, her friends didn’t know about.
It had to be considered, just as Michaelson had to be considered.
The worst case had to be considered, too. Straight random. It hadn’t mattered who. It wouldn’t matter who the next time.
It might have been a crappy day to hike the streets, but Eve pulled into an annoyingly overpriced lot, dumped the car, and hoofed it to the first building on her list. Street-level French restaurant, men’s boutique, and a fancy-looking shop with lots of fancy-looking dust catchers. Three floors of apartments above, all topped by a dance studio and a yoga studio, and those were capped by a rooftop that could be accessed by the residents and the studios.
Roarke’s program gave the roof the highest probability, with the yoga studio next in line. So Eve started at the top.
The wind bit; the ice stung. But when Eve pulled field glasses out of her pocket, adjusted her position, she found an excellent view of the rink. A hell of a long way off, but a stronger scope? Yeah, she could see how it could be done.
No sleet and ice the day before, she remembered. Not so much wind. Maybe part of the reason for the timing.
Standing there she put herself into the mind of the shooter. Might have to wait awhile. A stool, some sort of lightweight, retractable seat. Rest the weapon on the ledge that way. Keep everything steady.
She crouched down, mimed sitting on a stool, her hands on an imaginary weapon, her eye on the scope. From that position she took stock of neighboring buildings.
No cover, she considered, and too many windows, too much risk of someone looking out. Lunatic or not, why take that kind of chance?
Still, she took out microgoggles, went carefully over the wall, the concrete, looking for marks. Finding nothing, she went back inside, tried the yoga studio.
She found a group in session with people—mostly female—in colorful skin suits twisting into weird positions on colorful mats. All while facing a slim and stunning woman with a perfect body, impossibly perfect form, and a wall of mirrors.
She had to give the group props just for showing up.
Soft, tinkling music played under the instructors soft, tinkling voice. Eve decided she’d probably want to wrap the woman’s legs around her neck, tie her ankles in a knot, before the end of a single session.
But that was just her.
Eve stepped back, tried the adjoining dance studio.
Another wall of mirrors, more music played low. But this time, the music had a fierce, hard beat, and the lone woman in the room covered the floor to it—feet flying, legs flashing, hips rocking.
She executed three whipping spins, bounced into a one-handed handspring. And ended, right on that beat, with her arms thrown up, head back.
She said, panting but enthusiastically: “Shit!”