Promises in Death (In Death 28)
“Fine by me. Captain Feeney.”
It wasn’t usual for the head of EDD to assist in the execution of a warrant. But Eve wanted no mistakes—and Feeney had wanted in. She nodded to her former partner, her trainer.
His basset-hound face remained sober. She wondered if she were the only one in the room who knew how much he was enjoying himself. Any slap at a Ricker gave the day a little shine.
“Okay, boys and girls, you know the drill.” He stepped forward, a contrast to the slick and polished in his rumpled suit and worn-in shoes. “Receipts will be issued for any equipment and devices removed.”
“An estimated time of return would be appreciated. This causes considerable inconvenience.”
Feeney scratched his head through his wiry thatch of ginger and silver hair. “Depends, don’t it?”
“Detective Baxter, you and your team will begin the search on the third floor. Officer Carmichael, take this level. Peabody,” Eve added, “we’ll take the second floor.”
She wanted the bedrooms, the private spaces, the areas of intimacy. Even people who knew better generally felt safest in the place they slept, had sex, dressed, undressed. It was, in Eve’s mind, the most likely spot for Alex to have made a mistake, to have forgotten something that could tie him to Coltraine’s murder.
They didn’t speak. She’d already informed the team, down to the lowest uniformed drone, that everything they said, everything they did, every expression, gesture, and sneeze could and would be on record. And could and would be used by the lawyers to question both the procedure and the intent of the search and seize.
“We’ll start with Mr. Ricker’s bedroom,” she told Rod Sandy.
He stood behind them, disapproval in every line of his face and body. He turned out of the airy, second-floor parlor and into the spacious master suite.
Alex knew how to live, Eve mused. The parlor spilled into a tidy office/sitting room with a black glass work counter holding mini-units. A matching wet bar, a couple of club chairs, and an entertainment screen filled in the blanks. Knowing Roarke’s fondness for panels, she ran her fingers over the walls.
“This is what you’re looking for.” Sandy stepped behind the wet bar, opened a panel. Inside, a cabinet held wine and liquor. “We’ll cooperate, Lieutenant,” he said, disdain dripping, “so you’ll finish this invasion and get out.”
“So noted.” Eve mirrored Sandy’s tone, and with her eyes on his, added to the team, “Check for others.”
She moved on with Peabody.
The man liked space, she decided. The bedroom sprawled, one wall fully glassed to open to the terrace and the city beyond. Alex could enjoy his morning coffee or evening brandy while sitting at the bistro table or reclining on the gel-sofa. An antique desk held another mini d and c. Mirrors reflected back the watered silk walls, and the enormous four-poster bed.
In silence, Sandy moved around the room, opening panels for another bar, an AutoChef, screens. Eve wandered, scanned the dressing area with its racks and drawers and counter—and thought she might, finally, have hit on someone with as many clothes as Roarke. And into the luxury of the marble and stone bath.
This was going to take a while.
“Roll up your sleeves, Peabody. Let’s get started.”
It took a man with brains and some experience to carefully, even meticulously remove anything remotely incriminating from his domain and leave the personal.
She found condoms and sex toys, various lotions billed to enhance the sexual experience. Nothing that crossed the legal lines. She found an army of grooming and hygiene products that told her Alex gave a great deal of thought and time to his appearance.
But vanity wasn’t a crime.
His wardrobe told her he preferred and could afford natural fibers and personal tailoring, that even his casual dress was meticulous in style. She found he liked soothing colors and comfort, preferred boxers over briefs—and unless his bedtime reading was a plant for her benefit, he liked spy novels.
What she didn’t find in his bedroom was a personal pocket computer.
“I’m not finding a PPC, Rod.”
He stood, soldier-straight, arms folded. “I’d assume Mr. Ricker would have his on his person.”
“And not have one at his bedside? Strikes me as odd. Doesn’t it strike you as odd, Peabody, that Mr. Ricker wouldn’t have a handy PPC at his bedside, where he could work in bed when the mood struck, check the box scores, send an e-mail, whatever?”
“It does strike the odd note, Lieutenant.”
“Would it be against the laws of this state not to own two personal computers?” Sandy said coolly.
“Nope, just that odd note.”