Origin in Death (In Death #21)(13)

"No, sorry. This would be the type, if you understand. He enjoyed beauty, and youth. It was his profession, in a way. Beautifying people, helping them keep their youth. I mean to say, he did amazing work with accident victims. Amazing."

"Do you log in guests?" Eve asked her.

"No, I'm sorry. We clear visitors, of course, with a tenant. But we don't require sign-ins. Except for deliveries."

"He get many?"

"No more than his share."

"We could use a copy of the log, for the last sixty days, and the security discs for the last two weeks."

Donatella winced. "I could get them for you more quickly, and with less complication, if you'd make a formal request from building management. I can contact them for you now. It's Management New York."

A dim bell rang in Eve's head. "Who owns the building?"

"Actually, it's owned by Roarke Enterprises, and-"

"Never mind," she said when Peabody snorted softly behind her. "I'll take care of it. Who cleans the place?"

"Dr. Icove didn't keep domestics, droids or humans. He used the building maid service-droid model. Daily. He preferred droid in domestic areas."

"Okay. We'll need to look around. You've been given clearance for that from the next of kin."

"Yes. I'll just leave you to it."

"It's a really nice building," Peabody said when the door closed behind the concierge. "You know, maybe you can get Roarke to make like a chart or something so you'd know before you asked what he owns."

"Yeah, that would work, seeing as he's buying shit up every ten minutes, or selling it at an obscene profit. And no snorting in front of witnesses."

"Sorry."

The space, Eve thought, was what they called open living. Living, dining, recreational areas all in one big room. No doors, except on what she assumed was a bathroom. Above was another open area that would be the master bedroom, guest room, office space. Walls could be formed by drawing panels out from pockets, to add privacy.

The idea made her twitchy.

"Let's go through it, level one then two," she decided. "Check all 'links for transmissions, in or out, last seventy-two hours. Take a look at e-mail, voice mail, any personal notes. We'll let the boys in EDD dig deeper, if necessary."

Space, Eve thought as she got to work, and height. The rich seemed to prize both. She wasn't thrilled to be working on the sixty-fifth floor with a wall of windows the only thing separating her from the crowded sidewalk a very long drop down.

She turned her back on it and took a closet while Peabody took drawers. Eve found three expensive topcoats, several jackets, six scarves-silk or cashmere-three black umbrellas, and four pairs of gloves-two pairs black, one brown, one gray.

The first-floor 'link offered a call from his granddaughter asking for his support in campaigning for a puppy, and a transmission from him to his daughter-in-law, doing just that.

Upstairs, Eve found that what she had assumed to be a sitting room or second guest room behind pebbled glass walls was in actuality the master bedroom closet.

"Jeez." She and Peabody stood, staring at the huge space organized with shelves, cupboards, racks, revolving rods. "It's almost bigger than Roarke's."

"Is that a sexual euphemism?" Peabody cocked her head, and this time it was Eve who snorted. "This guy really liked clothes. I bet there are a hundred suits in here."

"And look how they're all organized. Color, material, accessories. I bet Mira'd have a field day with somebody this compulsive about wardrobe."

In fact, Eve thought, she might consult the psychiatrist and profiler on just that. Know the victim, know the killer, she decided.

She turned, saw that the back of the glass wall was mirrored, with an elegant grooming station fit into it.

"Appearance," she said. "That was a priority with him. Personal, professional. And look at his living space. Nothing out of place. Everything color coordinated."

"It's a beautiful space. Perfect urban living-upper-class urban living."

"Yeah, beauty and perfection, that's our guy." Eve walked back into the bedroom area, opened the drawer on one of the nightstands. She found a disc reader and three book discs, several unused memo cubes. The second nightstand was empty.

"No sex toys," she commented.

"Well, gee," Peabody said, and looked slightly mortified.

"Healthy male, attractive, with another forty on his average life span." She walked into the master bath. It held a large jet tub, a generous shower stall tiled in pristine white with a detached drying tube, and slate gray counters with a little garden of bright red flowers in shiny black pots.

There were two sculptures, each of tall, slender nudes, fair efface.

One entire wall was mirrored. "Guy liked to look at himself, check himself out, make sure everything was thumbs-up." She went through cupboards, drawers. "Upscale enhancements, lotions, potions, standard meds and pricey ones for youth extension. He's concerned with his own appearance. We might even say obsessed."

"You might," Peabody commented. "You figure anybody who spends more than five minutes primping's obsessed."

"The word 'primping' says it all. In any case, we'll say he was highly aware of himself-his health and his appearance. And he enjoys having naked women around-artfully. But it's not sexual, or not anymore. No  p**n  vids, no sex toys, no dirty mag discs. Kept it clean."