Down the Rabbit Hole

“Go ahead, have some fun. Tell me about Henry Boyle,” she said as Roarke went to work.

“Bright, as I told you. Talented, creative. Earned a promotion about ten months ago. He’s done good work—and I have him in charge of engineering on the youth shelter. I like him quite a bit.”

So saying, Roarke opened the front door and gestured Eve in. In the dim light of the foyer, she saw the security panel blinking.

“I didn’t get his codes,” she began.

“Please.” Roarke only shook his head as he scanned the panel with some little tool, which had the light blinking off then going steady green.

“It’s a nice system,” he commented.

“One of yours.”

“It is, which made that simple.”

He glanced around the foyer, one that spilled seamlessly into a living area with cozy conversational groupings, a small glass-tiled fireplace and art of various European cities. She recognized Paris, Florence, London. Wondered a bit that she’d actually been to those places.

“Lights on full,” she ordered, and wandered into the living area. “Casually urban,” she decided.

“What does that tell you?”

“Just that it’s a comfortable space for a couple of city-dwellers. The art’s probably originals, and some of the dust-catchers are likely important. But it doesn’t come across as ‘we’re really rich.’ Then again, I guess he’s not.”

“He does well—and earns it.”

Roarke glanced around himself, noting she’d been right about the art.

“But no, he wouldn’t have her generational fortune. I met her a couple of times—before the wedding. I recall having a conversation with her about philanthropy. She was very dedicated to her work in her family foundation. And I would say she and Henry were very much in love, and nicely suited.”

“How did he get along with the brother?”

“Very well, as far as I know. Is Henry a suspect?”

“Right now I have what reads as murder/suicide. He wasn’t there—I checked his alibi on the way over. And he has no motive I can see.”

“But.”

“But both he and Louise—with Charles backing her—insist it couldn’t be what it reads. So . . .” She looked around. “Plus I found what appear to be pieces of a busted-to-shit lapel recorder beside the body. Who wears a recorder when they’re about to commit murder/suicide?”

“Some might want it documented—last words and so on—but jumping from the fifty-second floor would eliminate that.”

“Exactly. I’m going to start in the bedroom—must be upstairs. Why don’t you take the electronics?”

They started up together, then Roarke turned into a room serving as a home office. Comfortable again, Eve concluded on a quick glance. Organized without being obsessive about it. A coffee cup left on the desk, sketches pinned to a board, an ancient pair of skids—his—in a corner. A data and communication unit with an auxiliary comp. One large wall screen.

As Roarke took off his coat, she moved on.

A guest bedroom: soft, soothing colors, and the required—for reasons she couldn’t fathom—mountain range of pillows.

She found the master—a little more elaborate here. The bed, a soaring four-poster, struck her as an antique, while the set of chairs in the sitting area with their silky blue and silver print hit solid contemporary. Wood floors, a silver area rug, a sweep of blue—silky again—to frame the windows. The fireplace was a long, narrow rectangle inserted into the wall across from the bed.

Clear glass lamps vied with a painting of blue and white flowers in a thick, deeply carved silver frame. Real flowers—white lilies—speared out of a massive urn that looked as old as the bed.

She tried the closet.