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Access.
Who could travel freely in and out of her grandfather’s house?
She wasn’t often there, but it still chilled her to be standing outside, looking up at the tall, narrow building. Her grandpapa lost his life there, in those walls. And it was on her not to toe the official line as her brother and father would, but to get to the truth. Unbury the secrets and air out the skeletons. Whatever it took—
“Do you have a key?” Daly lounged against the car he’d just freed her from. “Or is the staring part of your schtick?”
“You’re one to talk,” she said, looking him up and down. “All you need is a toothpick and you’re cliché central.” His lips reacted. “You better hope Connel never needs you to sneak up on anyone because they’ll see you coming.”
“No, Bluebell, what I do requires people to know exactly who I am and who I work for.”
And with the ink declaring their relationship still wet, the newspapers weren’t done with their scrutiny.
So even if, before her, Daly kept his identity a secret, no one would confuse him now. How many others would be allowed this close to her under Connel’s watch?
“I don’t have a key, but security should still be in there.” She started up the stairs. “Stay here.”
“Don’t think the boss will like that.”
With a hand on the stone rail, she twisted to talk. “I want as little McDade DNA around here as possible. No way I want this pinned on us.”
“You and the boss took your time leaving his bedroom this morning.” His smirk teased. “I’d say you’re packing fresh McDade DNA, right from the source.”
Now that he mentioned it…
With Connel on her mind, she ascended to press the bell. It didn’t ring inside, not that she heard. Security should be in the basement. Unless they had abandoned their posts. Wasn’t much to protect, okay, fair, but they’d still want paychecks.
Looking up and around, a small black half-sphere on the frame above her head must house some type of camera. That would get a view of more than just the door. Surely the cops would’ve checked the footage. Hmm, how did she get a copy without rousing suspicion?
The black circle a few inches from her forehead was more intrusive. Talk about in your face. A white light came on above it and, with a flash of green, the door clicked open.
Great. Her face was so recognizable, no words were needed to grant her entrance.
Whoever was on security wasn’t too vigilant. Hadn’t they heard who she associated with?
On a typical visit with her grandfather, she’d sit with him in the living room or the office. This wasn’t business as usual. This was stop and look around. The entryway and the staircase up were maybe ten feet apart. Henry’s bedroom suite was on the top floor. Someone could easily come in through the front and go straight up without hindrance. Around the walls and coving there were no obvious cameras. Made sense. Who wanted to be filmed while going about their private life in their own home? Though in his position, private meant something different to regular folks.
And the access log. Where was that? No book or scanner anywhere she could see.
Instead of going up, the shiny black door by her shoulder provided access down. Security, and other McDade staff, had their own space in the renovated basement. This was no standard home. Henry McLeod took security seriously, almost to a fault. In hindsight, the man had a point, though the efforts proved futile. Even in his own home he’d been unsafe.
Security was immediately to the left at the bottom of the stairs. The door was marked; she knocked lightly. No use putting people on the defensive with aggression. Nice. Kind. Polite. Back to playing the game.
She heard wheels on a hard floor and then the door opened to reveal a guy still in his desk chair, pushed from the bank of monitors to her position.
“Ms. McLeod.”
Easy, slow, no drama, no fear.
“And you are?”
“Horton.”
“Hey, Horton.” She spread on a wide smile. “Obviously you know who I am, which is good, because I have a few questions.”
That registered on his expression. “Cops already asked a bunch of questions.”
“I know, but these are of the unofficial variety.”
