Portrait in Death (In Death #16)(108)

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant." But her eyes never left Roarke, and her mouth formed a silent "wow" as she watched his fingers move, and okay, wondered if they were just that skilled in other, more personal activities.

Imagining they were, she felt her heart give a quick, hard knock against her ribs.

"Officer!" Eve repeated. "We're going to try the master again momentarily. Contact Dispatch and request a unit with battering ram."

"Uh-huh. I mean, yes, sir."

"Perhaps you should try your master again, Lieutenant." Expression bland, Roarke stepped away from the door. "Before your aide fulfills that order. Sometimes these things jam a bit."

"Affirmative. Belay that order, Peabody. Retrying master."

He'd done whatever magic he could do, and this time her code had the security flashing to green.

"Locks are disengaged. Must've just been a jam," she said, turning to Peabody.

"Yes, sir." Peabody gave her a sober nod. "Happens all the time."

"Entering Stevenson apartment."

Though she believed it to be empty, she drew her weapon. "This is the police," she called out as she opened the door, swept the room. "We are duly authorized to enter. Stay where you are, with your hands above your head and in clear sight. Lights on."

Like the Fryburn apartment across the hall, it was spacious. It was clean, ruthlessly so, and appointed in such a way that made Eve think: female.

Color, texture, thriving, live plants, pretty dust-catchers set around. The windows were privacy screened, and through them she could see a new storm boiling in the dark sky.

The lights, on bright and full, illuminated the framed photographs lining the walls.

Gotcha, Eve thought, but her face was set and cold as she gestured Peabody to the left, Roarke to the right.

They'd check the entire apartment for Stevenson, or anyone else, before beginning the search.

"This is an official NYPSD operation," she said clearly, though she knew the place was empty. She closed the door at her back. If she was wrong, she didn't want to give him an escape route.

She moved through the living area with its homey floral sofa and deep, welcoming chairs. She checked closets-noted that a woman's coat, a woman's jacket, winter boots, a bright pink umbrella were still mixed in with a man's outer gear.

She moved into the kitchen, saw a bowl of glossy red apples on the counter and a quartet of oversized coffee mugs in the same flashy color.

"Dallas?" Peabody stepped to the doorway. "Nobody home."

"He plans to come back." She picked up an apple, tossed it lightly. "This is still home. Let's get started."

She called Feeney, wanting him and McNab on the apartment's 'links and electronics as soon as possible. But with Roarke already there, she didn't see the point in waiting for them to arrive.

"I want all incoming, all outgoings. Any communications that give us a line on his whereabouts, his place of employment, where he hangs, what he does. I want to know if he made any contact with any of the victims from this location."

"I know what to do."

"Yeah, you usually do. Peabody, start in his mother's bedroom. We want anything that ties him to the vics, but we're also looking for anything that points to his location. I'll take his room."

But first she walked along his gallery, studying faces, images, trying to see him in them.

There were several of his mother. An attractive woman, soft eyes, soft hair, soft smile. There was always a light around her. Had he done that deliberately, or was it just chance?

He left nothing to chance.

There were other faces, other themes. Children at play, a man in a ball cap hoisting a loaded soy dog. A young woman stretched out on a blanket by a pool of flowers.

But none of the images that played in her head, none of the dead, graced these walls.

Did he? she wondered. Were any of these faces his?

She'd have Feeney run an image check for ID. It would take time, more precious time, but they might get lucky.

She moved into his bedroom.

It was neat and orderly, like the rest of the apartment. The bed tidily made, pillows fluffed. In his closet, the clothes were arranged by type, and by color.

Obsessive/compulsive, she decided, though it ran through her mind that Roarke's department store of a closet was similarly arranged.

Young. She studied the wardrobe choices. Trendy shirts, airboots, gel sandals, plenty of jeans, lots of styling pants. Nothing too cheap, nothing too pricey. Lived within his means, but liked his clothes. Liked to look good.

Image.

She started on his desk first.

In his organized files she found an orientation disc for Columbia University, another marked class notes from a course titled Exploring the Image, Professor Leeanne Browning, from the previous year.

Piling up on you, Ger, she thought as she labeled them and sealed them into evidence.

She moved to his dresser, began to search through the neatly folded socks and underwear. Tucked among them was a small, cloth-covered box, and inside some of his treasures.

A dried rosebud, a shiny rock, an old ticket stub from Yankee Stadium, a scrap of cloth that might have been from a blanket.

One of the toss-away coasters often found in clubs. This one had Make The Scene scrolled across it in electric blue letters. She sealed that and a business card for Portography into her evidence bag.