Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(50)

“Exactly. Nothing to make it feel like home. She must have liked being in a hotel. The service, again, the lack of the personal. Comfortable, spacious, well-appointed, and anonymous.”

Eve opened a closet. “Plenty of clothes. Stylish, designer—even the casual stuff. Laundry hamper—it’s empty. She must have used their valet service. Let’s find out when they picked up her laundry, get a list. Get it back.”

“You got it.”

Eve stepped into the master bath. Oversized jet tub, separate multi-head shower, drying tube—pounds of thick white towels for those who preferred them.

The long gold counter boasted wide double sinks, a tray of full-sized hotel amenities.

“Kept her face and hair gunk in drawers,” Eve said after opening a few. “Your basic stuff, too. Tooth stuff, deodorant, blockers, mild tranq—prescription. Most people tend to leave something out on the counter, right? Hairbrush, toothbrush, something. But she keeps it all closed up in drawers. Don’t look at my stuff. Mine, mine, mine.”

“Maybe she was just really tidy and organized.”

“It’s not put away tidy and organized. It’s jumbled some. Put it away, shut the drawer. It’s all anonymous again. Start on the drawers,” Eve decided. “I’ll take the closet. Full-out search.”

Valet service, definitely, Eve thought. Everything was hung perfectly, and in order by type, by color within type. Shoes, and plenty of them, stood on the shelves running along the side wall. Handbags nestled in cubbies, with one hanging on a hook.

Current day bag, Eve concluded, and from the weight, the vic liked to carry half her life with her. Eve hauled it out, dumped it on the bed.

“Jesus, who needs all this stuff? And this is what she carried in addition to what she had in her evening bag last night.”

“Some people like to be prepared for anything.”

“Like famine, pestilence, alien invasion?”

“Any of that could happen.”

“So a loaded handbag is a sign of paranoia. Good to know.”

Eve sorted through the electronics, the snack food, the breath mints, the enhancers, the case of pills—blockers, she noted—and a couple of those tranqs.

She sniffed at the contents of a go-cup. “Vodka,” she announced. “Pretty sure. We’ll have it checked. Looks like she also wanted to be prepared for drought and a return of Prohibition.”

“Either of which could happen.”

Amused, Eve shook her head. “No recorder. Also no money, no plastic, and she wasn’t carrying enough of either on her at TOD for it to be all. She must be using the safe.”

“I’ve got nothing so far but really beautifully folded underwear. The valet must be top-notch here. It’s sexy heading toward slutty underwear, by the way.”

Interesting, Eve thought, and contacted management for the hotel bypass code for the safe.

Perhaps in retaliation for the door in the face, the manager refused to relay the code. Instead she insisted on sending up someone from Security.

While she waited, Eve continued the search.

“She’s got a tell on the safe,” she called out. “A single hair loosely taped to the lower corner.”

“That is paranoid,” Peabody decided. “She had a framed picture of Matthew buried under all that underwear. That’s kind of sad.”

“Take it out of the frame.”

Loose credits and coins, Eve noted, checking pockets. More breath fresheners. A mini-flask. Had to be vodka, Eve decided after a sniff.

“How did you know!” Peabody hustled to the closet waving a key.

“Because she’s paranoid, so she hides things. And she’s obsessed. Matthew’s the current obsession. Safe box key.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Bag it and keep going,” Eve ordered at the sharp ding of the doorbell. “That’s Security for the safe.”

Security was big and burly with a hard handshake and little to say. He had the safe open quickly, gave her a nod, then strode out again.

“Safe’s loaded,” she told Peabody. “Cash, plastic, jewelry, notebook. Oops, tsk-tsk. This looks to be most of a dime bag of zoner. Envelope here of photos—probably the PI shots—of Matthew, Matthew and Marlo. Some in disguise, some not. Matthew and Julian, Matthew and Roundtree, and so on. And a small lockbox. Safe in a safe. Paranoia.”

“I’ve got script pages, notes on the script, what are they—call sheets—in this desk.”

Eve carried the lockbox out, studied it, considered. Roarke could have it opened in two seconds—maybe less—and probably just with the power of his mind.

“Hell with it.” Eve dug out her pocketknife. “What local bank did she use for business in New York?”

“Liberty Mutual, down by Chelsea Piers. McNab’s on those financials.”

“She wouldn’t have used that bank, that branch for whatever’s in the safe box. She’s the ‘spread the chickens in many coops’ type.”

“I think that’s eggs and baskets.”

“Chickens, eggs. Same thing.” Once she’d removed the code plate, Eve tried prying, poking, jimmying.

No one was more surprised than Eve when the lockbox popped open. “It’s not so hard,” she murmured.