Delusion in Death (In Death #35)(97)

“One thing I found particularly telling,” Mira said. “He called two mass murders ‘accomplishments.’”

“Yeah, I got that. Can you use it?”

“Definitely.”

“Me, too.”

While Eve put her boards back in order, the search team combed through Callaway’s apartment.

Roarke found it too trendy, far too studied, and utterly impersonal. Black, white, and silver dominated the open living area and kitchen. Occasional blots or streaks of some bold color—a purple cushion, a red tabletop, only served to accent the starkness.

Sharp lines, he thought, cold lighting, and an array of stylish gadgets. It struck him like a photo of decor rather than a place to live.

“Do you want to start on the electronics out here?” Feeney asked him.

“Do you mind if I wander about a bit first, get a feel?”

“I got a feel.” Rumpled, Feeney looked around. “Feels like a showroom display put together by somebody who’s never taken a couch nap or watched a ballgame on screen.”

“But it doesn’t feel like somewhere you plot mass murder.”

“What else you gonna do? Sit on one of those damn chairs for five minutes, your ass’ll be numb for a week.” Feeney sniffed at them. “Might as well kill somebody.”

“I’ll be sure not to sit in one of the chairs. Just in case.”

“Yeah. You wander. I’ll start on this ’link and comp.”

Roarke moved into the master bedroom where Reineke and Jenkinson were already systematically going through the closet, the bureau.

Callaway chose gray here, Roarke thought. Every shade of gray from palest smoke to deepest slate. He supposed Callaway read gray soothed, and was this season’s hot color choice, when in reality, in this unrelieved palette, it depressed.

Might as well kill somebody, Roarke mused.

“Must be like sleeping in a fog bank,” Reineke commented. “Can’t see a guy getting lucky in here.”

“I’d say being fashionable is more important to him than getting laid,” Roarke suggested.

Reineke just shook his head. “Sick f**k.”

Amused, Roarke moved toward the closet and Jenkinson.

“Got plenty of clothes. Shoes never been worn. Everything all nice and tidy.”

“Mmm.” Roarke studied the space, the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Then moved out again to roam into the master bath.

White here, oyster, snow, cream, ecru, ivory. A huge white urn of flowers in autumn shades added some color and texture, but like the rest, the room felt done. Coldly done.

As a boy, he remembered, in his B&E days, he’d enjoyed this part of the job. The wandering, the getting a sense of who lived in the space, how they lived. He’d learned a bit about how the wealthy lived—what they ate, drank, wore.

For a street rat with nothing, it had been a world of wonders over and above the take.

He learned how Callaway lived as he went, and wasn’t surprised when Reineke announced, “No sex toys or enhancements, no skin mag discs, no  p**n .”

“Sex isn’t one of his interests.”

“Like I said, sick f**k.”

The bedroom was for sleeping, Roarke determined. For dressing, undressing. Not for entertaining, not for work. For sleep and show should he have guests. Rarely guests here, Roarke mused as he moved out, and into the office.

“Here now,” he murmured.

This was the hub. Energetic colors to stimulate the senses. Too many, and the hues too harsh, but here was a feel of movement, of activity, of living.

An important desk of glossy black facing the privacy-screened windows, an important chair of bold orange leather mated to it.

The first-rate D&C center—yes, he’d have a look at that. The long, deep sofa in hard green, deep blue tabletops, a dizzying pattern on the rug, art in those same colors, splashed and streaked and framed in black.

Except for one, he noted. A moody and rather lovely painting of Rome. The Spanish Steps on a sun-washed afternoon.

As he found it the only really tasteful item he’d seen thus far, he walked over, examined it, looked behind it, checked the frame, the backing.

Finding nothing, he put it back on the wall.

Comfortable enough, Roarke decided. A mini AC and Friggie. He could settle in here, have what he needed.

He opened a double-doored closet, smiled. Shelves of office supplies, extra discs, even a small unit for washing dishes.

“A bit shallow, aren’t you, and a fairly recent addition here?”

He crouched, studied the underside of the shelves, the sides, then patiently removed some of the supplies. Gave the back wall a few knocks.

“Ah. Yes.”

He imagined Callaway considered himself cagey and clever to have installed the false wall, the shelves. And they might have fooled a casual observer, a cleaning crew or a very sloppy search. It took him under three minutes to find and access the mechanism. Released, the shelves pivoted out, opening the small room beyond.

And here, Roarke thought, here, he’d brewed up death.

Mushrooms sealed in jars, seeds, chemicals, powders, liquids—all meticulously labeled. While tiny, the lab appeared carefully laid out and supplied. For one purpose, Roarke thought. Burners, petri dishes, mixers, a microscope, and a small, powerful computer—all fairly new, he saw, all top of the line.