We raided his closet and took every JP Ashcroft suit he had that even remotely looked like Imperial Navy. Each cost more than the average car. He had several from the bespoke atelier—three in some shade of navy blue. We bagged and labeled each item.
Bryce hovered in the doorway, watching us root through his private stuff. "You can't take all of my clothes. What will I wear?”
"I think you’ll survive.”
He huffed and shook his head. "This is ridiculous. What do you think I've done?”
I smiled at him. "I think you strangled Sydney Hollister. And I'm going to prove it.”
"That's ridiculous. I loved Sydney. She was like family.”
We collected all the garments and lugged them down to the lobby. A white county van waited under the carport. We loaded the garments in and hung everything on racks. The items were taken to the station and logged into evidence. One by one, they would all be tested.
51
Brenda called the next morning. "I’ve got more bad news for you. None of those suits matched the fiber we found on Sydney Hollister."
"What!?" I exclaimed in disbelief.
"I don't know what to tell you. They're not even remotely the same."
I frowned with disappointment and thanked her for the effort.
It didn't make sense. I was convinced Bryce was responsible.
Then I decided to check the credit card receipts that Isabella had sent me.
I missed it the first time around. The Trident had a number of in-house services for residents—dog walking, laundry, dry cleaning. Billed separately from rent, incidentals were charged to tenants’ credit cards that were on file. Bryce had numerous incidental charges from the Trident. I didn't even consider it at first.
I pulled myself out of bed, hustled down to the main deck, and banged on the hatch to JD’s stateroom. "Get up. We've got one more shot at pinning this on Bryce."
I called the cute concierge at the Trident and asked her who they contracted with for dry cleaning. She told me the name of the facility.
"If any dry cleaning comes back for Bryce, hold it for me. I have a warrant."
“You got it.”
I ended the call, then used the online portal to submit an application for a warrant to extend the scope of our search. The county had switched over to an E-warrant system. Now everything would be signed electronically.
I had the expanded warrant in no time.
After we stuffed microwaved breakfast tacos in our mouths and pulled ourselves together, we hopped in the Porsche and headed across town to the dry cleaner. The sharp smell of perchloroethylene hit my nose as we stepped inside. Stiff shirts and suits hung on moving racks.
I flashed my badge and asked to see any suits that belonged to Bryce Van Allen. The clerk didn't even care about the warrant. He left the counter and went rummaging through the racks of clothing and returned with a single suit. I was willing to wager a large fortune that the color was Imperial Navy.
I took the suit, bagged it as evidence, and we hurried back to the station to log it in. The lab would be able to look at it under a high-powered microscope and determine if the quality of thefiber was similar to the mohair we found. It would take a little longer to confirm it was from the same dye lot.
When they did, we caught up with Bryce at his office—this time with an arrest warrant.
We stormed the lobby, decked out in full tactical gear with AR-15s. Erickson and Faulkner backed us up.
The receptionist looked mortified.
"Looking for Bryce Van Allen," I said
She stammered. "In his office. Do you want me to…?”
I shook my head and continued down the hallway to find the scumbag.
