Small, neat, decent street view, decent furniture. Black, fake leather sofa, wall screen twice as big as anyone needed one to be. Framed posters—mostly sports—for art.
Gaming consoles, two-person table for eating, closet-sized kitchen alcove. Hall bath, small, surprisingly shiny.
The bedroom doubled as an office with the workstation and bed taking up about the same amount of space. With a high-end comp system on the desk.
She tried that first, found it locked, passcoded.
He’d made his bed that morning, she noted, even fluffed the pillows. No kicked-off shoes, no tossed-off shirt.
He’d been a careful guy.
She moved to the closet. All-male wardrobe, so he lived alone. Sportswear, trendy guy gear, a couple of higher-end suits.
And every pocket empty.
Nothing in the shoes—good kicks, good boots, good dress shoes.
She tried the dresser, found his underwear neatly folded, his socks the same. T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweaters.
And the bottom drawer was locked.
“Now, that’s interesting.”
She went back to the car, got the set of lockpicks she kept in the glove box. Back upstairs, she sat on the floor and got to work.
She didn’t have Roarke’s skill and never hoped to, but he’d taught her well. When she pulled the drawer open, she decided it deserved anAha.
“Lookie here, would you? We got more switchblades, hunting and combat knives, three stilettos, a couple of garrotes, two stunners, a handgun—I bet that cost you, Tim—I think it’s a 9mm, which would jibe with the ammo box. We’ve got a silencer in case you want to kill quietly. And I’m pretty sure this is a bone saw for dismembering your kill.”
Shaking her head, she made sure to get it all on record. “You were a very bad boy, or you sure as hell wanted to be. Plenty of Seal-It in here, a couple of clone ’links, and a case full of vials. Handily labeled. We’ve got your poisons, knock-out drugs, hallucinogens.
“And I’ve got a feeling, when I toss this place, I’ll find more of your tools. I don’t believe you were in business consulting, Tim, but I bet you could be bought. So who paid you to do me?”
She did find more—two more stunners, a ghost gun. More knives, and five thousand in cash. Crisp, fresh bills, banded together.
He’d have more than five, she thought. Anyone that well supplied would charge more than that to take out a cop, to take one out right on the street in broad daylight.
She tagged Feeney. He said, “Yo.”
“I need someone to sweep up the electronics at 512 West Twenty-Sixth, apartment 203.”
“You’ve got blood on your shirt.”
“It’s not mine. Some asshole, from the looks of it a hire, tried to put a hole in me. He’s dead. I’m not.”
“Okay then. You figure it’s connected.”
“Yeah, I figure.”
“We’re getting more chatter, no names yet, but we’re closer. They’re calling it the Royal Event, and keeping the doors shut tight. We’re picking at the locks. I’ll send somebody for the e’s.”
“Appreciate it.”
“How’d he get dead?”
“Run over by a cab.”
“Tough way to go. We’ll get back to you.”
