“Clean.”
“Where’s his car?”
“Uptown.”
“Is it included in the warrant?”
“No.” Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged, relaxed. We both knew. If this search came up empty, there would not be another.
“May I look around?”
“Don’t touch nothing.”
Slidell looked so glum, I let the grating command pass without comment.
After retracing my steps, I turned left at the foyer. The hall led to a pair of bedrooms, each with an en suite bath.
I entered the one at the front of the house. Here the theme was green. The furnishings included a bed, a side table with lamp, a desk. Their boho styling screamed Restoration Hardware. Two bookshelves by the desk looked more Staples or Costco.
I believe bathrooms reveal a lot about a person. I started there.
The medicine cabinet was open, its mirror coated with fingerprint powder. Ditto the glass shower stall. Both were empty. No soap, no shampoo, no washcloth or loofah. The sink was pedestal, zero place to stash anything. The room was sterile. Not a hint of personality.
I returned to the bedroom.
The shelves held sets of professional journals. I crossed to observe them up close. Emergency Medicine Journal. The Journal of the American Medical Association. The New England Journal of Medicine. Annals of Emergency Medicine.
I shifted to the desk. Centered on it was the most recent issue of JAMA, closed, with a small plastic ruler marking a page. I wondered what Ajax had been reading. Remembered Slidell’s warning and didn’t look.
Stapler. Tape holder. Letter opener. Leather cup with pens and pencils. A small stack of envelopes that looked like bills.
Nothing in the wastebasket. Probably the work of the CSS techs.
The room was clearly Ajax’s office. Yet he went elsewhere to use the bathroom. At least for more than toilet needs. Habit? Eliminating the need to clean more than one?
I crossed the hall to the bedroom opposite. It was marginally larger and done in shades of blue. Same RH vibe but different finish and detail work on the wood. A more urban-chic style. As before, I started in the bathroom.
Unlike its counterpart, this one was used. Black flannel pajamas hung from a hook on the door. The shower stall held one bottle each of shampoo and conditioner, a bar of Ivory soap, and a long-handled brush.
The medicine cabinet contained Advil, Afrin, ChapStick, CVS-brand plastic bandages, Degree antiperspirant, a Gillette disposable razor, a can of Edge shaving gel, Oral B dental floss, and a tube of Crest.
The sink was set into a black wooden vanity. Open drawers revealed a brush and comb set, tweezers, scissors, a home barber kit, and a battery-operated nose-and ear-hair trimmer. Linens, toilet paper, and backups for all toiletries were stored in a tall slatted cupboard that matched the sink. When Ajax shopped, he bought to last months.
I thought of the array of products in my bathroom. Of the state of hygiene in my cabinets and drawers. Slidell was right. The place was extraordinarily clean. An obsession? A covering of tracks?
Back to the bedroom.
A book of crossword puzzles was propped against the lamp on the bedside table, a pen clipped to its cover. A reprint from the European Journal of Emergency Medicine. I twisted sideways to read the title. “Reducing the Potential for Tourniquet-Associated Reperfusion Injury.” Yep. That’ll get you to sleep.
Three framed photos sat equidistant from one another on the dresser. I crossed to study them.
And felt my skin goose up into tiny bumps.
CHAPTER 33
NONE OF THE photos looked recent. One was posed. A woman, seated, a baby on her lap and a toddler at her side. A red velvet band held long black hair back from her face. The woman looked straight at the camera with large brown eyes. Sad eyes.