Alone, Eve called in the sweepers, then backtracked to the kitchen and the security base directly off it. Banks had two domestic droids—both female. And the drives in both had been removed. So had the drives from the security base.
And she hadn’t seen a single comp or electronic device on her sweep to clear.
She walked back out, studied the locks on the main-level door. Pulled out her ’link.
“Lieutenant.” Roarke’s face filled her screen. “Good timing. I’m just between meetings.”
“Yeah, well, I’m at Banks’s place. Somebody beat me here. Down-and-dirty job’s how it looks, but on a quick pass they scooped up his electronics and security logs.”
Those blue eyes went hard. “Someone compromised the security?”
Eve glanced around the sleek, silvery kitchen where every drawer and cabinet door stood open, and two droids stood blank-eyed.
“Yeah, compromised is one word for it.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Figured,” she stated as he cut her off.
She left the kitchen, decided to start on the second level. Master, guest room, home office, linen storage. Frowning at the jumbled sheets and towels, Eve tagged Peabody on her comm.
“Find out if Banks used any outside cleaning service.”
She moved to the master. People, in her experience, often thought of their bedroom as a sanctuary, a kind of safe room. And often tucked things away in odd places.
In the master, Banks had gone for the gold. Gold posts speared up from the four corners of the bed, gold chairs stood in the sitting area, paintings framed in gold crowded the walls, gold drapes flowed at the windows.
The bedding—gold—lay in a heap on the floor while the thick gel mattress sat crookedly in the bed frame. Sculptures and busts stood on tables or pedestals. If a table had a drawer, that drawer hung open.
She found an impressive collection of sex aids and toys still in a nightstand drawer. But no electronics. The master boasted two dressing rooms. One held Banks’s equally impressive collection of clothing—suits with the pockets turned out, shoes jumbled. He’d used the second to store sports equipment. Golf clubs, skis—water and snow—tennis rackets, climbing gear, scuba gear. A shotgun, she noticed, and wondered if he’d had a collector’s license for it.
Too late to fine him now anyway.
She heard the downstairs door, walked out, looked down at Peabody and the woman from the desk. The woman—Rhoda, Eve remembered—looked around the room with wide, distressed eyes.
“Up here,” Eve said, then went back to the master to start in the primary dressing room.
“This is just awful,” Eve heard Rhoda say. “Just shocking and awful. I’ve worked here four years, and we’ve never had a break-in. Not a single break-in.”
Eve took a can of Seal-It from the field kit, sealed up, began to search, one article of clothing at a time. “I need copies of your security feed.”
“I’m having it done right now. Lieutenant, I need to contact Roarke. It’s imperative he—”
“He’s on his way. Cleaning crew?”
“He uses our in-house service, twice weekly. Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
“How do they access?”
“I clear them. They don’t have the codes, and have to be cleared by the desk and/or the resident.”
“Did anyone inquire about Mr. Banks, were there any deliveries made or attempted to this apartment in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Not on my shift, and there aren’t any notes in the log on that.”
“But other deliveries, to other units?”
“Certainly several. Each would be cleared individually. No one’s sent into the residences without clearance. If a resident isn’t at home for a delivery, we hold the package at the desk. Visitors are also cleared. No one can access the elevators or stairs without their keycard or clearance.”
“A lot of visitors in a building this size.”
“Yes. But the safety, security, privacy, and comfort of our residents are our priorities.”
“Once they’re cleared, anything to stop them from accessing another floor?”
“They’d need a keycard. If I clear someone for level twenty, they’re restricted to that level.”
“But the residents aren’t restricted.”
“No.”
“In the event of fire or another emergency?”
“All elevators and exits are automatically opened. That didn’t happen. It would have been logged. So would any anomaly lasting five seconds. If the feed had a glitch, the glitch—type, time, duration, would be recorded. We’re a Five Lock building, Lieutenant, the highest security rating given.”
She linked her hands together as she looked around the bedroom. “I’m at a loss.”
“No building’s a hundred percent secure,” Eve commented. “Somebody gets their pocket picked, somebody makes a copy of their keycard for their newest lover, whatever. Do you know every person who lives here, by sight and name?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
Eve stopped, turned, interested. “Seriously?”
“It’s my job. We’re currently at ninety-three percent occupancy with six hundred and thirty-four units occupied, eighteen hundred and sixteen residents—including live-in staff. We employ more than three hundred full-and part-time staff to serve and service the building. Not including outside marketing and seasonal workers and subcontractors on our call list.”
“Huh. Who lives in the unit across the hall from this one?”
“Ms. Yuri and Mr. Simston, and Ms. Yuri’s mother, Mrs. Yuri—a widow—and Georgie, their Yorkie. They’re currently in Aruba, but are expected back by late afternoon tomorrow.”
“Unit 3100.”
The first glimmer of a smile dawned in Rhoda’s eyes. “Ms. Karlin, Mr. Howard. Newlyweds. They were married last fall. Ms. Karlin divorced Mr. Olsen shortly after I began work here four years ago. He was granted custody of their Persian cat. Yasmine. Unit 3100 hosted a dinner party last night. Catered.”
“How many guests?”
Rhoda closed her eyes a moment, nodded to herself. “Dinner for twenty. Cocktails at seven-thirty. Catered by Jacko’s, arrival at six. Florist delivery, that’s Urban Gardens . . . four-thirty. That’s approximate.”
“Roarke knows how to pick them.”
“I do,” he said from the doorway.
“Sir.” Rhoda turned to him. “I’m so sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. I’d like you to review the overnight feed, mark anyone you don’t know. The lieutenant will need a list of residents, staff, logged guests, delivery companies, and so on. You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have a copy of the feed ready for you and the police.”
“I have it. Do you need more from Rhoda at the moment?” he asked Eve.
“Just one more thing. Other than the newlyweds, any other parties here last night?”
“Six catered, and three others. And a number of drop-bys. I can have all of that for you.”
“Okay. I’ll let you get to it.”
“Sir. We could lose a lock on our rating.”
“One thing at a time,” Roarke told Rhoda, giving her shoulder a pat to move her along.
When she left, Roarke watched Eve continue to search.
“I think he had almost as many clothes as you do,” she commented. “Just the one safe, in here, I came across on my sweep. It’s open. I can’t tell if they had the code or broke in.”
Roarke slipped inside, crouched down to examine the safe. He took out one of his toys, ran some sort of scan.
“Scan,” he told her. “Eight-digit code, and it was opened with a reader. It’s a simple lock. I expect someone like Banks would have had the code tucked somewhere so he wouldn’t have to remember it, but this was scanned. The bulletins haven’t disclosed cause of death.”
“Broken neck—manually. Dumped in the water. Made to look like a mugging—took his coat, shoes, valuables. No ’link on the body.”
“They didn’t bother to make this look like a burglary,” Roarke said. “He has jewelry in here, his passport which is always worth a bit of something on the black market. And there’s art and other easily liquidated things throughout the place. Likely he had some cash in here, and that’s gone. But cash can’t be traced, so why not?”
“You’re pissed. Me, too. But it’s not that challenging to get into an apartment, even in a secure building, when you know the occupant’s dead or going to be. Can you take that toy, see if the locks were compromised, or if that’s a straight entry, too?”