She turned the knob, eased the door open. Again, it was soundless. Privacy shields over the windows, she recalled, and heavy blackout drapes over that. Tommy liked to sleep in his snug cave.
Pitch-black. It would be pitch-black. Even someone knowing the room intimately couldn’t be sure how the victim would be positioned in the bed. A pin light would be enough, she mused. Just a thin beam to show the way.
Because she didn’t want to be disturbed, she closed and locked the door behind her. “Lights on,” she ordered, and took the time to arrange the room as it would have been for the killer. “Lights off,” she ordered when she stood back at the door, and flipping on a pin light, used it to cross to the bed.
Syringe first. Knock him out. Did he stir? Feel that quick little nip over the skin? Count to ten-it doesn’t take long-count to ten, slow and steady.
What are you thinking? she wondered. Excitement, fear? Not rage, can’t be rage. He’s already beyond you, you saw to that, so it’s not rage.
Turn the lights back on now. No need to work in the dark. “Lights on, fire on,” Eve ordered.
Did you bring the rope, or did he have that tucked away?
You brought it. Have to be sure, can’t screw up now. You have to have all the tools at hand.
Was he nude already, or did you strip him? If you stripped him, where did you put the sleep clothes. A trophy?
Wrists first. Do you feel his breath, his heavy, drugged breath on your skin when you bind his wrists? They’re limp, deadweight. He’s already helpless, but you have a stage to set. Wrists first.
Then the ankles.
Set out the toys.
Time for the next dose. You want him hard. Slide the rings on his cock. How do you feel, fondling him when he’s helpless? Enjoyment or disgust? Or neither. Is it all just the next step now?
Takes time, all this window dressing. Takes time, and effort. Have to get into bed with death now to finish it.
Eve hitched up, braced a knee on the bed. Not enough leverage, she decided, and climbed on until she knelt beside her mind picture of Anders, imagined tying the last rope, winding it around his neck. Heavy head. Secure the second end of the rope and the head falls forward. It practically does the work for you.
She eased off the bed again, smoothed out any depression. Study the work, she mused, go over your checklist. How’s his breathing? Is it already changing? Is his system already sending out alarm signals his mind and body can’t answer?
Pack up the light, the syringes, walk away. Leave the door open.
Unlike the killer, Eve locked and sealed it. When she walked downstairs, her mind still walking alongside the killer, she saw Greta sitting stiff-spined in a chair in the foyer.
“Mr. Forrest asked if I’d stay, in case you needed anything. He’s taken Mrs. Anders to Ms. Plowder’s home.”
“No, I’ve got all I need. You should go home.”
“Yes, I should go home.” She put on the serviceable coat draped over her arm.
“Greta, what did Mr. Anders wear in bed?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“There were pajamas in his drawer. You supervise the laundry, correct?”
“I-Yes, of course. Mr. Anders wore sensible pajamas. A fresh pair daily, pressed. No starch.”
“How many pairs did he have?”
“At last count, which would have been Monday last, Mr. Anders owned ten pairs of all-cotton pajamas.”
“Ten pairs. Did Mr. Anders routinely use sleep aids?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m sorry. I have purchased them from time to time, as I do the marketing, the shopping. I can’t say if either Mr. or Mrs. Anders used them, or if that was routine use.”
“Okay. You’ve been very helpful.”
Greta fit a gray hat over her head. “Being helpful is what I do.”
When the door closed behind Greta, Eve stood where she was and let it settle around her. The quiet, the sensation of empty. Turning, she walked through the foyer, took the left hall. Rooms, she thought, the more money somebody had the more rooms he needed to keep the stuff he spent his money on.
And the more money and more rooms and more stuff, the more security to stop somebody from coming in and robbing you blind.
Anders’s security room was off the kitchen, another locked door requiring its own keypad or code. Eve used her master, opened it. Inside were the screens for inner security, and those for outer. All ran now. Figuring security could afford a quick breach with a cop in the house, she checked the code EDD had given her, keyed it in. The current disc for the exterior front ejected.
She tapped it back in, glanced over at the empty disc file.
Load ’em up, she thought. Cover all contingencies. Go out, lock the room. Why? Just being orderly?
She strode back to the front door, took a last glance around. Stepping out, she relocked, resealed. Then looked at her wrist unit. Taking time out for the three-minute conversation with Greta, from entry to exit, the reenactment had taken just under forty minutes. Adding in time to strip the victim out of his sensible pajamas, she’d make it a comfortable forty-five minutes.
Not enough time to hunt up the security room and bypass the code, not in a house this size. Not enough to hunt up the bedroom. The killer knew the layout. Not just where the master slept, but where to find the security discs.
Closed the security room door, she thought, striding back to her car, but left the bedroom door open. Turned the lights out, but left the fire going.
In her car she ordered the heat on blast furnace, then took out her book to make some notes while they were fresh in her mind. And, only ninety minutes past the end of her shift, she bulled her way into traffic and headed home.
Speaking of a ridiculous number of rooms, she thought after driving through the big iron gates and winding up the drive. Nobody held a candle (whatever that meant) to Roarke. The house was a stunner, lording over sky and city, windows blazing hot, cold stars dripping overhead. A couple of years before, she never would have believed she could live in a place so…spectacular, much less live there comfortably.
But she did. And pulling up in front of that vast stone beauty, leaving her cop’s ride out in front where Roarke’s majordomo, Summerset, would sneer at it, rated as one of the favorite parts of her day. Any day.
She climbed out of the stuffy car, jogged through cold air, and into the light-and warmth-drenched house.
He was there, of course. Lurking. The bony beanpole in a black suit who ran the house, and kept her mildly irritated like a sand-covered pebble in a shoe.
“Lieutenant,” he said in a tone that scraped along the back of her neck like nails over a blackboard. “You’re late, as usual.”
“You’re ugly, as usual. But I’ve learned to make allowances.”
As she stripped off her coat, the fat cat Galahad gave Summerset’s skinny ankle a last body rub, then padded over to Eve. She tossed her coat over the newel post, bent to give the cat a quick scratch between the ears. Duties done, she headed upstairs, with Galahad at her heels.
In the bedroom Roarke was stripped down to trousers and holding a black sweater. “Now there’s timing,” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’t bother with this.” He wagged the sweater. “And see how fast I can get you half naked instead.”
Eyes narrowed, she pointed a finger at him. “How long have you been home?”
“About ten minutes, I’d think.”
“See that! See!” Now she pointed a finger of both hands. “Why am I late according to His Boniness, but you’re only minutes ahead of me and don’t get sneered at.”
“How do you know I wasn’t sneered at?”
“Because I know. Were you?”
“I wasn’t, no. But then I did have a message sent home that I’d be a bit late.”
She sniffed. “Suck-up.”