Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(91)

“She put in a cop-proof lock here. Bad girl.” Puffing out a breath, Eve dug in her kit. “Let’s see how much I’ve learned.”

Peabody frowned as Eve took out a set of lock picks. “We could call for EDD, or a battering ram.”

“I can do this.”

Eventually, Eve thought. Probably.

Ten minutes later, with Peabody shivering and stomping her feet in the biting wind, Eve felt something give.

“Nearly got it.”

“Sing hallelujah.”

When the last tooth snicked, Eve did an internal happy dance. Peabody did an actual one right on the stoop.

“Let there be heat.”

“Record on.” Eve drew her weapon, waited for Peabody to do the same. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, entering residence under the name of Terra, Angela. We are duly authorized.”

She booted the door open, went in smooth, fast, and low.

A dim light eased on at the movement, showing a narrow foyer crammed with furniture. Eve gestured Peabody to the right.

“Let’s clear it. This is the police,” Eve called out. “We have entered the premises. We are armed,” she continued as she swept and moved forward.

Things, she thought, lots of things. Tables, lamps, vases, paintings. But no sign of life.

She worked her way back to the kitchen and found the dust of disuse. She called out, “Clear!” as Peabody did the same.

They backtracked, started up the stairs.

“Nobody lives here,” Peabody said. “There isn’t room with all the stuff.”

“It’s her warehouse.”

They cleared two bedrooms—jammed, a closet loaded with furs, some with the tags still attached. A room loaded with shoes, boots, handbags.

Then the master.

“Here’s where she worked.”

Satisfied, Eve holstered her weapon. “A lot of fussy stuff, but actually arranged, the sofa—pillows and one of those throw things—the desk, the d and c.

“Adjoining bath’s got fresh towels—fresh-ish,” Peabody said. “And soaps and bath oils, lotions. Enough of them for a department store, but she used at least some of them.”

Eve didn’t care about the lotions and oils. She went straight to the desk. She sat, tried to engage the computer.

Passcode required.

“Yeah, figured. Pull in EDD, and see who we have in the bullpen who isn’t on something hot. Add a couple of uniforms. It’s going to be a bitch to search and inventory.”

“You want sweepers?”

“Let’s see what we find first.”

With a nod, Peabody opened the double closet doors. “Holy shit. Look at this, Dallas.” Peabody stepped back. “It’s a freaking vault.”

Rising, Eve walked over to study the sheer steel. She pulled out her ’link. When Roarke came on, she said, “Want a challenge?” and angled the ’link to show him the vault.

“Well now, that’s a Podark, and a fine, big girl she is, as well. Would you be in the Terra residence?”

“Terra’s bogus, but yeah.”

“I believe I’d enjoy a challenge. Let me clear a thing or two up. I should be there in thirty minutes. Forty at the outside.”

“Works for me.”

“A Podark,” he said, with what Eve could only think of as a happy sigh. “It’s been some time.”

Eve went back to the desk. “Start checking drawers,” she told Peabody, opening one in the desk.

She pulled out a thick leather binder, opened it. “Well, you just don’t expect to hit pay dirt. That’s another one: Why does dirt pay? But you don’t expect it right off the jump.”

“Whatcha got?”

“A research file, I’d say. There are several in here. Marks, potential marks, maybe. Clippings. She printed stuff out, made her little scrapbooks. Photos, too. And some of them she must’ve taken herself, maybe using a long-range lens. Portable this way. She could pull one out, lounge on the sofa, hit the AC. I bet it’s fully stocked. Weave her webs. The suspect list is going to…”

Peabody glanced back, then turned completely when she saw the fury lighting Eve’s eyes.

“What?”

“She has Mavis in here.” Eve flipped a page. “Mavis, Leonardo, the baby. Goddamn it. Some data, just basic shit. Some question marks, Roman numerals, but just your basic shit from a standard run or from interviews, articles.”

She slapped at the computer as she rose. She wanted in. If there was anything more, it would be in the comp.

She pulled out her ’link.

Mavis, sleepy eyes, tousled Carribean-blue hair, smiled. “Hey.”

“Where are you?”

“Huh? Oh, Aruba, remember? We buzzed down for a couple weeks. I’ve got a gig, and it’s maxi-mag-lush down here. You should completely come. We could—”

“Mavis, did Larinda Mars ever put the arm on you, or Leonardo?”

“Larinda?” Mavis yawned and stretched. “Sure. Interviews, photos, exclusives, the dish. It’s part of the life. Why?”

“She’s dead, and she has a file on you.”

“Dead? Like dead? How? When?”

“A couple days ago. The kind of dead that has me looking for who made her that way. She has a file on you, Mavis.”