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While she waited, Eve continued the search.
“She’s got a tell on the safe,” she called out. “A single hair loosely taped to the lower corner.”
“That is paranoid,” Peabody decided. “She had a framed picture of Matthew buried under all that underwear. That’s kind of sad.”
“Take it out
of the frame.”
Loose credits and coins, Eve noted, checking pockets. More breath fresheners. A mini-flask. Had to be vodka, Eve decided after a sniff.
“How did you know!” Peabody hustled to the closet waving a key.
“Because she’s paranoid, so she hides things. And she’s obsessed. Matthew’s the current obsession. Safe box key.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Bag it and keep going,” Eve ordered at the sharp ding of the doorbell. “That’s Security for the safe.”
Security was big and burly with a hard handshake and little to say. He had the safe open quickly, gave her a nod, then strode out again.
“Safe’s loaded,” she told Peabody. “Cash, plastic, jewelry, notebook. Oops, tsk-tsk. This looks to be most of a dime bag of zoner. Envelope here of photos—probably the PI shots—of Matthew, Matthew and Marlo. Some in disguise, some not. Matthew and Julian, Matthew and Roundtree, and so on. And a small lockbox. Safe in a safe. Paranoia.”
“I’ve got script pages, notes on the script, what are they—call sheets—in this desk.”
Eve carried the lockbox out, studied it, considered. Roarke could have it opened in two seconds—maybe less—and probably just with the power of his mind.
“Hell with it.” Eve dug out her pocketknife. “What local bank did she use for business in New York?”
“Liberty Mutual, down by Chelsea Piers. McNab’s on those financials.”
“She wouldn’t have used that bank, that branch for whatever’s in the safe box. She’s the ‘spread the chickens in many coops’ type.”
“I think that’s eggs and baskets.”
“Chickens, eggs. Same thing.” Once she’d removed the code plate, Eve tried prying, poking, jimmying.
No one was more surprised than Eve when the lockbox popped open. “It’s not so hard,” she murmured.
“Another notebook, a business card for A. A. Asner, Private Investigations and Security. Stone Street address. And a sealed recording. I’m betting it’s a copy. If she got the original, it’s in that safe box.”
Eve picked up the notebook, tried to open it. “Pass coded.” She thought a moment, then keyed in MATTHEW. The screen flickered on.
“Paranoid, but obvious.” She began flipping through, working from the latest entry back. “She’s got the dinner party in here—time and date, a few pithy comments.
Expect elaborate by Overboard Connie to impress Skinny Bitch and Pleasebody.
“Pleasebody! What the hell.”
“I’m Skinny Bitch, and I barely met her.”
Had enough from Asshole Andi. She’ll shut the fuck up after tonight. And it’s time for Foolian to fall in line. Harlo’s over, and Matthew’s going to come back where he belongs and like it.
Tonight’s the night.
“I guess it was,” Eve said. “Just not the way she figured.”
She flipped back. “I’ve got a note of a cash payment of a hundred grand to Triple A. That would be the PI. Two half payments. First a week from the last entry, second and last three days ago. And there’s a code. 45128. #1337.”
