Then the teenager, boots, trendy flak jacket, earflap hat, with a mop-haired dog on a leash.
She studied the solo male—late thirties, grim-faced, flapping top coat, rolling overnighter. Maybe.
“Who—”
“Look here, look here, pally!”
Roarke leaned over Bingley’s sloped shoulder at the man’s exclamation. And said: “Ah.”
“Ah what?” Eve demanded.
“Blip, blip, lights out, smooth ride.”
“What does that mean?”
“Reset,” Roarke ordered. “Roll. Pause. And yes, very bloody clever.”
“Got juice,” Bingley said. “No dope.”
“Yes, indeed. It wouldn’t register as a glitch or disruption.”
Eve resisted, barely, tearing at her hair or punching something. Maybe someone. “What wouldn’t, for fuck’s sake?”
“The blip. Just under three seconds.”
“Two-point-six,” Bingley said.
“Exactly. A shutdown of the elevator cam—elevator four. Then he shut the lights off in the car, unjammed the cam. Under three seconds isn’t long enough to register. The light? What have we there, Bingley?”
“Goes dark for nine-point-eight seconds.”
Roarke turned, worked another comp. “Short, singular event, logged twenty-two-nineteen. The system flagged it, but as it was short duration, cited as on watch.”
“What floor? What floor did he get on?”
“Fifty, rode two floors up to Banks’s bedroom level. He had to turn the cams back, you see, or the system would alert. But the lights? That’s building maintenance, and as they resolved so quickly, it’s simply on watch.”
“What about getting back down? What time, what floor? He could have exited from the main level. Watch for both levels.”
“No blip. See, pally?” Bingley said to Roarke. “No blip, lights on.”
“I see, yes. We don’t have the same routine for an exit. In fact, what I’m seeing is no one accessed an elevator on that floor until eight sharp this morning.”
“Who? Where’s the feed?”
“She’s got the cranks,” Bingley commented to Roarke.
“Often.”
“Your deal, pally.” He cackled softly, brought up the feed.
“Rhoda?”
She swiveled over. “That’s Mr. Clarke, 5203—two-level unit—and his two children, their nanny. He’d be leaving for work, the nanny would be walking the children to school.”
At Eve’s insistence, they checked the feed, both levels, elevators and stairways, until noon, with Rhoda providing names and apartment numbers.
“Everyone,” Rhoda concluded. “Everyone who exited belonged on their level. There’s no one out of place. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll run them all,” Eve said. But it didn’t fit, just didn’t fit. “Because how the hell did he get out and down?”
“Coulda flown,” Bingley said with a grin. “Flap, flap. Hey, pally?”
Rather than respond, Eve just narrowed her eyes. Then she turned on her heel. “Peabody!”
As she strode out, Bingley’s grin widened. “Plenty cranks, pally.”
“Not this time.”
Roarke caught up with her at the elevator. “Obviously he didn’t flap his way out, but.”
“But. We’re going to check the terraces, both levels. He could’ve been an ice-for-veins son of a bitch and rappelled down, at least a few floors.”
They got on the elevator. “What’s with the ‘pally’?”
“Bingley considers me bright enough, but young and with much left to learn. He’s a bit odd, but knows what he’s about.”
She thought it through on the ride up. “He doesn’t have to live on fifty or fifty-two, or live here period—though that would be handy. He could have blended in with guests or caterers, even faked a delivery. Get to the unit, resident says this isn’t my package. Sorry, will check with my dispatch, and you’re in. Slide out anywhere. We’ll go over the feed, and we’ll find him, but it won’t be quick.”
They got off, walked back to Banks’s apartment, straight out to the main floor terrace.
“This level makes more sense. Why add another floor?”
Though it made her stomach pitch to look down, she gritted through it, examined every inch of the terrace wall before calling out a sweeper.
“I’m looking for any sign some asshole rappelled down from here.”
She went to the second level, repeated the process.
In the end, with negative results on both, she circled the bedroom. “If he didn’t go over, he went through, and if he went through, he’d show on the elevator of stairwell feed. He doesn’t. Maybe . . . Could he get down to another level through the guts of the building?”
“If anyone other than maintenance attempted to access the guts, as you say, it would generate an alarm. If anyone attempted to circumvent the alarm, it would have to be done from another area, and would require more skill than I suspect these people have, and a great deal of time and very good tools.”
“Well, he fucking didn’t go flap, flap.”
“A parachute?” Peabody suggested. “It’s crazy, but maybe he jumped, floated down.”
“It’s New York, but even so if some dude drops down out of the sky with a chute, somebody’s going to report it. He had to . . . Wait. Wait. The apartment directly across. The people there aren’t back until tomorrow. Check the locks,” she told Roarke. “Check to see if the locks have been compromised or opened in the last eighteen hours.”
Roarke checked the bedroom level, went down, checked the main. Looked back at Eve.
“You may often have the cranks, but you are my clever girl. Jammed and scanned and opened.”
“Which constitutes a crime. Gives me probable cause to enter. Open it up, pally.”
On a half laugh, he bypassed the alarm, the locks, nudged the door open for her.
The wall of glass stood unframed, letting in the gloomy March light.
“That’s an odd place for an empty frame.” Eve gestured to the frame—like the others in Banks’s main level—lying on a multicolored rug. “Terrace doors are open just a crack.”
She stepped to them, eased them open, stepped out into the incessant drip of rain.
“He has to know the apartment’s empty. He knows the building. Lives or works here, or he knows Banks well enough to have spent time in his place, spent time here. He does what he needs to do across the hall, brings the painting over here, takes it out of the frame, rolls it up. Easier to carry that way.”
She crouched down by the wall. She didn’t need the sweepers, not when she could clearly see the digs and scrapes on the decorative stone.
“Got balls,” she stated. “Fifty-one floors up, but over he goes.” Gearing herself up for it, she stood, leaned out and over.
“He goes off near the end of the wall. Maybe straight down, or if he’s done climbing, has good equipment—and I’m betting—he can swing over. To his apartment, an accomplice, another empty one.”
“He retracted the hook, so yes, good equipment,” Roarke put in. “You’d go down between terraces, you see. Wouldn’t do to have someone spot you, would it? With the right equipment, you could retract, move horizontally or down as your needs demanded. You might slip into another unit, one unoccupied, and walk straight out that way.”
Eve glanced back. “Sounds like the voice of experience.”
He only smiled. “Does it?”
“I need to get back to Central, check in with my team, brief Baxter and Trueheart. I need everything Rhoda can give me.”
“You’ll have that.”
“Appreciate the assist. Peabody, get the sweepers out here while I get what we need. I’m going to take it all home as soon as I clear the decks at the cop shop. You’re going to start running guests, visitors, outside vendors from last night. I’ll take the residents.”
Eve blew out a breath. “Let’s get to work.”
12
Baxter gave Eve a list of artwork the hot artist chick knew Banks had taken from the gallery. Though incomplete, it gave Eve a start.