Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(55)

“Right. So there’s no way for us to tell where this stuff was hung, if it’s all still here.”

“His insurance would have records.”

“Not the way he worked it. He’d take stuff from the gallery, use it until he got tired of looking at it, switch it out. And sold some of it under the table. Straight profit in his pocket.”

She crouched down for a better look at the figure studies dumped on the floor. “Did they take a painting or two? Why? He’s got expensive wrist units and cuff links in the safe they opened, but they left them. Did they take any paintings? Did they take one because they thought: Hey, that would look frosty over my mantel? Maybe. It’s worth finding out.”

Eve took one last look around. “Greed,” she said. “It’s all about greed. Let’s go see what Roarke and Ms. Memory Bank have for us.”

She found Roarke and Rhoda in the security hub. It was—no surprise—not just state of the art, but likely the state the art aspired to. A little mouse-faced man worked with them. Though he dressed all in gray, she recognized the jiggle-bop of an e-geek.

“Rhoda has your copy,” Roarke said. “We’re going through the feed of your time frame with Rhoda noting down residents, guests, staff, and so on for you.”

“That’s helpful.”

“Our man Bingley here is combing through for abnormalities in the system that might have gone undetected.”

“Elevators and stairwells are priority.”

“I got that. I got that. Got that.” Bingley murmured it like a chant as he jiggled in his chair.

Eve judged he topped out at about five-five, maybe a buck and a quarter. His straggly hair and wispy beard were as gray as his clothes. His knobby-knuckled fingers worked keyboard and swipe screens with an agility that would have made Feeney beam.

She shifted her attention to the monitors, noted the time stamp. Twenty-two-forty. Scanned the people coming, going. Spotted some of Jacko’s crew leaving. She’d met the caterer and his team on another investigation. Those she could eliminate. Also low on the list, the couple coming in—both wrapped in furs with twin looks in their eyes that said: Next stop, sex.

Then the teenager, boots, trendy flak jacket, earflap hat, with a mop-haired dog on a leash.

She studied the solo male—late thirties, grim-faced, flapping top coat, rolling overnighter. Maybe.

“Who—”

“Look here, look here, pally!”

Roarke leaned over Bingley’s sloped shoulder at the man’s exclamation. And said: “Ah.”

“Ah what?” Eve demanded.

“Blip, blip, lights out, smooth ride.”

“What does that mean?”

“Reset,” Roarke ordered. “Roll. Pause. And yes, very bloody clever.”

“Got juice,” Bingley said. “No dope.”

“Yes, indeed. It wouldn’t register as a glitch or disruption.”

Eve resisted, barely, tearing at her hair or punching something. Maybe someone. “What wouldn’t, for fuck’s sake?”

“The blip. Just under three seconds.”

“Two-point-six,” Bingley said.

“Exactly. A shutdown of the elevator cam—elevator four. Then he shut the lights off in the car, unjammed the cam. Under three seconds isn’t long enough to register. The light? What have we there, Bingley?”

“Goes dark for nine-point-eight seconds.”

Roarke turned, worked another comp. “Short, singular event, logged twenty-two-nineteen. The system flagged it, but as it was short duration, cited as on watch.”

“What floor? What floor did he get on?”

“Fifty, rode two floors up to Banks’s bedroom level. He had to turn the cams back, you see, or the system would alert. But the lights? That’s building maintenance, and as they resolved so quickly, it’s simply on watch.”

“What about getting back down? What time, what floor? He could have exited from the main level. Watch for both levels.”

“No blip. See, pally?” Bingley said to Roarke. “No blip, lights on.”

“I see, yes. We don’t have the same routine for an exit. In fact, what I’m seeing is no one accessed an elevator on that floor until eight sharp this morning.”

“Who? Where’s the feed?”

“She’s got the cranks,” Bingley commented to Roarke.

“Often.”

“Your deal, pally.” He cackled softly, brought up the feed.

“Rhoda?”

She swiveled over. “That’s Mr. Clarke, 5203—two-level unit—and his two children, their nanny. He’d be leaving for work, the nanny would be walking the children to school.”

At Eve’s insistence, they checked the feed, both levels, elevators and stairways, until noon, with Rhoda providing names and apartment numbers.

“Everyone,” Rhoda concluded. “Everyone who exited belonged on their level. There’s no one out of place. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll run them all,” Eve said. But it didn’t fit, just didn’t fit. “Because how the hell did he get out and down?”

“Coulda flown,” Bingley said with a grin. “Flap, flap. Hey, pally?”

Rather than respond, Eve just narrowed her eyes. Then she turned on her heel. “Peabody!”