Park gently took the box back. “I wasn’t, no. I meant every word, Jack.”
Gavin cleared his throat. “Not to intrude on a personal moment, but I don’t have all day.”
Jackson wiped at his eyes and put the photos back in the box. Park put it back on the shelf, along with a few mementosfrom his time in the New York Assembly and a framed photo of himself and his parents.
“Everything’s here,” Park said.
“Okay,” said Gavin. “We have to go into the bedroom now. I’ll warn you, it hasn’t really been cleaned.”
“I’m right here,” Jackson said quietly enough that Gavin probably didn’t hear.
Park took a deep breath and followed Gavin into the bedroom.
The first thinghe noticed was the smell, which hit him like a slap in the face when he entered the room. There’d been hints of it in the rest of the apartment, something metallic and grimy hanging over the proceedings, but it smelled truly horrific here in the bedroom.
“God,” he said, putting his hand over his nose.
Park’s bedroom was also the room that had been ransacked the most. Drawers had been thrownopen and clothes were spilling out of them. The covers had been yanked off the bed, which he remembered had been made when he’d come here to change before the fund-raiser. The closet doors had been thrown open.
And there, on the floor in front of the bathroom door, was a dark stain.
Park started to feel faint, but he pressed forward, quickly trying to inventory the contents of his bedroom.He walked over to the dresser. “If something were missing from the drawers, I’m not sure I’d know what it is,” he said.
“See if anything expensive is missing,” said Gavin.
Park swallowed and held his breath. He opened the box on the dresser where he kept some of his more expensive trinkets. This had also clearly been dusted for prints.
“Is your theory that the killer took souvenirs?”Jackson asked.
“Not necessarily. Well, maybe, but I also wondered if theft could be a component of the crime. Unlikely, since nothing obvious is missing so far, but it’s standard procedure to determine if anything was stolen.”
Park broke out in a cold sweat as he peered into the box. “Two sets of cuff links are gone.”
“Are you sure?” Jackson asked.
“Yeah. I own eight pairs. I woreone set Sunday night, and they’re back at the hotel. There are only five here.”
Gavin whipped out a pad of paper. “Can you describe the missing ones?”
“Yes. I know exactly which ones aren’t here. I’ve got a pair of silver ones shaped like elephants. They were a gag gift from one of my colleagues in the Assembly. Because elephants, GOP, you know. Those weren’t worth much.”
Gavin wroteas he said, “And the other?”
“Opals. They were opals in a gold setting, maybe the same diameter as a dime. Those...” Park felt dizzy. “God, those are irreplaceable. Been in the family for a hundred some years. One of a kind, designed by Tiffany—the actual Tiffany, not just the company—for my great-great-grandfather.”
“Park comes from some money,” Jackson said, clearly trying for a joke.
“I picked up on that,” said Gavin, not looking particularly amused. “Anything else missing?”
The smell was really getting to Park, and he felt the loss of the opal cuff links in his gut. The elephants he could take or leave; he rarely wore them. But the opals were among his favorites and he’d always loved the story behind them.
He steeled himself as he walked across the room and lookedat the closet. His other tux and a row of suits were there, same as always. Martha and Sam had been through here already the night of the murder, when they’d agreed to get some things for Park to wear. Martha had volunteered to do it while police questioned Park at the precinct house. He made a mental note to give her a raise for going through here when the crime had happened mere hours before,because he could barely stomach it now, over a week later.
He tried to focus on his task, which was tricky when his nausea kicked up. He fingered each of his suits, counting them. All accounted for. His shoes all seemed to be there. Shirts, trousers, a kilt in his mother’s family’s tartan. He had two hanging tie racks displaying all of his ties, but they all seemed to be there, too. He wasn’tsure how many he owned, so counting was futile, but only two slots were empty, and the ties he had back at the hotel belonged in them. His belts were all folded and neatly put away in their organizer, as were his scarves...
There was an empty slot.
Park tried to remember what belonged there. “My Saint Laurent scarf. The red silk-cashmere blend. It’s gone, too.”
