Divided in Death (In Death #18)(18)

Her eyes flickered, narrowed. "No mistake?"

"None. He could hardly have done this himself."

"Hardly."

"Nor could his equally dead mistress, or his wife. Or, for that matter, his killer."

"But I'll bet you whoever locked this up knew he was dead, or dying. Knew his wife was in the frame. This has to be another stage of the whole bloody mess. Get me inside."

4

It didn't take him long. Such things rarely did. He had thief's hands-quick, agile, and sneaky-but since he used them for her, and on her, with cheerful regularity, it was tough to criticize.

And when he was done, the heavy doors slid back with barely a sound into wall pockets to reveal Blair Bissel's studio.

He'd given himself a lot of space here, too. And it looked like he needed it. There was metal everywhere, in long beams, short stacks, in piles of cubes and balls. The floor and the walls were covered in some sort of fireproof, reflective material that did double duty and mirrored back vague ghosts of the equipment and works-in-progress.

Tools that made Eve think of medieval torture devices lay on a long metal table. Tools that cut and snipped and bent, she assumed. And three large tanks fixed into rolling stands were in various positions around the room. From the attachments and hoses on each, she deduced they were filled with some sort of flammable gas and provided the heat used to weld or melt or whatever the hell people who made weird things out of metal did with fire.

Another wall was covered with sketches. Some looked to have been done by hand, others computer generated. Since one matched the strange twists and spikes of a piece in the center of the room, she decided they were ideas or blueprints for his art.

He may have spent his off time diddling anything female, but it appeared he took his vocation seriously.

She skirted around the centered sculpture, and only then noted that there was a form of a hand, fingers spread as if desperately reaching, plunged out of the twist of metal.

She glanced back at the sketch, read the notation at the bottom.

ESCAPE FROM HELL

"Who buys this shit?" she wondered.

"Collectors," Roarke supplied, eyeing a tall, obviously female form that was, apparently, giving birth to something not completely human. "Corporations and businesses that want to be seen as patrons of the arts."

"Don't tell me you have some of this?"

"Actually, I don't. His work doesn't... speak to me."

"That's something, anyway." Turning her back on the sculpture, she walked to the data station set up at the far end of the room.

She glanced at the stack of beams. "How does he get the stuff in and out? No way some of this fits on the elevator."

"There's another lift to the roof. There." He gestured to the east wall. "Installed at his own expense. "It's triple the size of the standard freight elevator. There's a copter pad on the roof, and he has pieces and equipment airlifted."

She just looked at him. "Don't tell me you own this place."

"Partially." He spoke absently as he wandered, studying metal forms. "It's a conglomerate sort of thing."

"You know, it gets embarrassing after a point."

He lifted his eyebrows, all innocence. "Really? I can't imagine why."

"You wouldn't. Which reminds me." She shoved back her jacket sleeve and held out her arm so the bracelet glittered. "Take this thing, will you? I forgot I was wearing it when we headed out to the scene. Peabody keeps staring at it, and pretends she's not staring at it. It's freaking me out, and if I stuff it in my pocket or something, I'll probably lose it."

"You know," he began as she unclasped it, "people tend to wear jewelry so other people will notice it. Admire it, even covet it."

"Which is why people who hang baubles all over themselves end up getting mugged."

"That's a downside," he agreed and slipped the bracelet into his pocket. "But life's full of risks. I'll consider holding this for you my little way of saving some poor, foolish street thief from ending up with your boot stomped on his throat."

"Birds of a feather," she murmured and made him grin.

She went to work on the computer, with the same results she'd gotten from Bissel's home unit. "Why is an artist so damn careful and paranoid about his data?"

"Let me have a go at it, and let's find out."

She stepped back, did a walk through the studio to get a sense of Bissel's style, and to give those magic hands of Roarke's time to work.

There was a red-and-white bath off the main floor, complete with jet tub, drying tube, and the same sort of fancy towels Roarke favored. A bedroom had been set up as well. Small, she noted, but with all the comforts. Bissel had liked his comforts.

The gel mattress was thick and cushy, the cover slick and black and sexy. One wall was mirrored, and she thought of the entrance to his house, the master bed and bath.

Liked to look at himself, and to watch himself with women. Egoist, narcissist. Pampered and confident. There was a mini data and communication center near the bed, as blocked as the others.

Chewing it over, she moved to a narrow three-drawer chest and began riffling. Spare underwear, extra work clothes.

And ah, a locked bottom drawer. Roarke wasn't the only one who could handle such things, she thought as she pulled out a pocketknife.