The Silence That Speaks (Forensic Instincts 4)

“Don’t know. The service doesn’t tell me anything. I just make the deliveries.” Ryan’s right hand slipped into his coat pocket and extracted a vial of liquid. With one twist of his fingers, he opened it, then quickly poured it into the guard’s coffee before stuffing the empty vial back in his pocket.

“Anyway,” he continued without missing a beat. “I do know that it was from a bunch of tenants. I guess they like you.”

“I guess so.” The guard was grinning as he helped himself to a powdered jelly doughnut. “I’m here every night, all night long. It’s good to know someone appreciates it.”

“Well, they do.” Ryan held up a palm, declining the dollar bill the guard offered him. “Nah. We working guys have to stick together.” He snapped off a salute. “Enjoy.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the lobby and into the windy autumn night.

* * *

Two hours later, Ryan strolled by the building, glancing briefly inside. As expected, the guard was slumped in his chair at the front desk.

“You’re cool,” he told Marc through the mike of his specially designed bike helmet.

“Good.” Marc turned on the lights of his LED mask, feeling like one of the character’s walking in Disney’s Main Street Electrical Parade. He then pulled down the mask and yanked on his gloves. “Going in the service entrance.”

“Going to the coffee shop down the street,” Ryan responded. “Check in when you need me.” He kept walking, jacket collar turned up.

Marc glanced around briefly before tackling his job. He’d had a bad feeling about a young guy who was hanging around on the street corner. The kid appeared to be harmless enough—early twenties, fleece jacket, dark green backpack, talking on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette. He shouldn’t be raising any red flags—but he was.

Marc made a mental note to check him out once he’d done what he came here to do.

Turning to the task at hand, Marc made quick work of the back door lock. Three minutes later, he was in. He veered to the staircase door directly on the right. Conrad’s duplex was twenty floors up.

Marc loped up the steps, rounded landings and continued ascending the stairs. He saw a video camera positioned in the upper corner of every landing, but Ryan’s LEDs would blind the cameras to anything except a moving figure in black. No one would have reason to review the footage, anyway. Why would they when there’d be no intrusion reported? And the security guy, who was snoozing at his desk, certainly wouldn’t be sharing news of his catnap without provocation.

Marc reached the twentieth floor, and turned off the LEDs. Pulling up the mask, he angled his head and looked through the glass pane on the door, checking up and down the short hall several times.

It was deserted.

Marc slipped out and walked swiftly to Conrad’s apartment.

A standard lock. Dead bolt not thrown. Piece of cake.

Again, just a few tools needed from his tool kit, and Marc was inside the apartment, door shut behind him.

He flipped on the light in the foyer, and almost tripped over an overturned decorative urn.

Talk about trashed.

The entire duplex looked as if an army squad had raided the room and cleared it of terrorists, leaving nothing unturned in their wake. There were items everywhere—lamps, books, papers, shattered glass—and that was only the part of the duplex that was visible from the foyer.

Too bad, Marc thought, taking in the scene so he could decide where to begin. It was a hell of a nice place. Polished oak floors. A glass-enclosed winding staircase leading up to the second floor. An open floor plan, making it easy for Marc to scan level one. It consisted of a living room, dining room, state-of-the-art kitchen, art gallery lined with expensive paintings, study and master bedroom suite.

Interesting, Marc noted, his gaze fixing on the art gallery. The paintings, all pricey and by noted artists, had been shoved aside so the intruder could see what was behind them. But none of those authentic paintings had been taken. And back in the kitchen, the floor was strewn with expensive sterling silverware and fine china—that latter of which was now smashed into pieces. Again, broken but not taken. So whoever had bulldozed their way through the place wasn’t there to burglarize it. They were clearly looking for something—just like they had been in Madeline’s apartment. With the blatant disregard for what they broke, it seemed not only intentional but malicious.

That thought in mind, Marc went straight for the study. The cabinet drawers were all pulled open, and loose papers and empty file folders were strewn around the room—under the desk, chairs, sofa and coffee table.

The first thing Marc did was squat down and sort through everything, using his iPhone to snap pictures as he went. Both the file folders and the loose papers appeared to be personal. Then again, very few professionals kept records in paper format anymore. Conrad probably stored anything of importance on his computer.

Marc rose and scrutinized every inch of the room. No computer, only a rectangular mark on the desk where a laptop had been. But the laptop hadn’t been stolen. Marc remembered seeing it in Conrad’s room at Crest Haven.

This study was way too generic.

Frowning, Marc considered the options, then headed into the master bedroom suite to see if Conrad had a workstation set up there.

The damned suite could easily house a small family, Marc thought, taking stock of his surroundings. His chest tightened as he saw little touches that he knew were Maddy’s—the soft lavender walls, the cream-and-lavender drapes and matching bedspread. For