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“That’s right.”
“So cheat with me, cheat on me. That’s my thinking. I figure she probably gets into his stuff now and then, just checking. Or even if she doesn’t maybe he’d figure she might. So where’s she going to look?”
“His personal spaces,” Eve agreed, and frowning, studied the room-sized closet. “False wall, false drawer, hidden floor access.”
“If it’s here, I haven’t found it yet, but I’m going through with that in mind.”
“Good thinking.”
“I’m not checking in that creepy doll room.” Face set, Peabody swiped a hand through the air. “I draw the line.”
“He doesn’t strike me as a guy who plays with dolls. That’s her space.”
“Just so we’re clear.”
“I’m on the third floor. If we need more hands and eyes, I’ll pull in Baxter and Trueheart.”
“Maybe you could tap Roarke—if he has some free time. If there’s any hidey-hole, he’d find it.”
“I’ll keep that in my back pocket.”
If there was a secret panel, drawer, safe, hole, Eve thought as she climbed to the third floor, Roarke would find it, and quicker than any cop.
But she couldn’t tap him, ask him to toss off whatever world-shaking meeting he might be in to follow her partner’s hunch. A good hunch, Eve thought, but still only that.
But like Peabody, she’d look with that in mind.
Betz’s office space proved as ornate as the rest. The desk must’ve been custom-made, as it had the frisky cherubs carved into its heavy, dark wood. The top was a marble slab with a lot of silver squiggles and flecks running through the black. Behind it sat a throne-like leather chair in bright gold. The combination put her teeth on edge.
If this decorator Roarke hired suggested anything remotely close to this scheme, Eve decided she’d deserve a boot out the window. She’d just keep that in mind, too.
Feeney sat on the throne, looking rumpled, wrinkled, and normal.
“This butt-ugly desk has two locking drawers. Neither locked now.”
“Is that so?”
“It looks to me like somebody riffled through them pretty good.”
She crossed to him over red carpet so thick she wondered it didn’t suck the boots off her feet. Both bottom drawers were fitted with keypad locks. Feeney had them both open.
“Paper files?”
“Looks like house and personal stuff in one, work stuff in the other. Finances, insurance, repairs, like that. Lot of people don’t trust digital, keep paper backups. You’re one of them.”
“Yeah.” She fingered through. “Either he’s disorganized and messy, or someone went through these, at least superficially. Looking for what?”
“Can’t say, but the desk comp was riffled with, too. Full scan and search executed at nineteen-twelve.”
“He changed clothes about an hour before that—closet comp—getting ready for his date. Date comes in, with a friend because there’s two of them, and likely three. Stuns him, maybe roughs him up a little. We didn’t see anything like this at Wymann’s, but I’m going back, looking again. What did they want here?”
She circled the office with its hard colors, elaborate space.
“Nothing to find in the Spring Street house, and they can’t get into the Mira penthouse.”
“Tortured him.”
She turned back, nodded. “Yeah, and maybe he gave them something on Betz. Betz has this or that. Maybe, like you said, that roster, those rules, something on this brotherhood of theirs. But what’s the difference if they’re going to kill them anyway? It’s not like they’re looking for evidence. They’ve already tried and convicted.”
