Every surface had been meticulously wiped, including the murder weapon.
Most telling of all, in Eve’s judgment, were the security discs. Once again, she slipped the elevator surveillance into her desk monitor.
The discs were initialed.
Gorham Complex. Elevator A. 2-12-2058. 06:00.
Eve zipped through, watching the hours fly by. The elevator doors opened for the first time at noon. She slowed the speed, giving her unit a quick smack with the heel of her hand when the image bobbled, then studied the nervous little man who entered and asked for the fifth floor.
A jumpy john, she decided, amused when he tugged at his collar and slipped a breath mint between his lips. Probably had a wife and two kids and a steady white-collar job that allowed him to slip away for an hour once a week for his nooner.
He got off the elevator at five.
Activity was light for several hours, the occasional prostitute riding down to the lobby, some returning with shopping bags and bored expressions. A few clients came and went. The action picked up about eight. Some residents went out, snazzily dressed for dinner, others came in to keep their appointments.
At ten, an elegant-looking couple entered the car together. The woman allowed the man to open her fur coat, under which she wore nothing but stiletto heels and a tattoo of a rosebud with the stem starting at the crotch and the flower artistically teasing the left nipple. He fondled her, a technically illegal act in a secured area. When the elevator stopped on eighteen, the woman drew her coat together, and they exited, chatting about the play they’d just seen.
Eve made a note to interview the man the following day. It was he who was the victim’s neighbor and associate.
The glitch happened at precisely 12:05. The image shifted almost seamlessly, with only the faintest blip, and returned to surveillance at 02:46.
Two hours and forty-one minutes lost.
The hallway disc of the eighteenth floor was the same. Nearly three hours wiped. Eve picked up her cooling coffee as she thought it through. The man understood security, she mused, was familiar enough with the building to know where and how to doctor the discs. And he’d taken his time, she thought. The autopsy put the victim’s death at two A.M.
He’d spent nearly two hours with her before he’d killed her, and nearly an hour more after she’d been dead. Yet he hadn’t left a trace.
Clever boy.
If Sharon DeBlass had recorded an appointment, personal or professional, for midnight, that, too, had been wiped.
So he’d known her intimately enough to be sure where she kept her files and how to access them.
On a hunch, Eve leaned forward again. “Gorham Complex, Broadway, New York. Owner.”
Her eyes narrowed as the date flashed onto her screen.
Gorham Complex, owned by Roarke Industries, headquarters 500 Fifth Avenue. Roarke, president and CEO. New York residence, 222 Central Park West.
“Roarke,” Eve murmured. “You just keep turning up, don’t you. Roarke?” she repeated. “All data, view and print.”
Ignoring the incoming call on the ’link beside her, Eve sipped her coffee and read.
Roarke—no known given name—born 10-06-2023, Dublin, Ireland. ID number 33492-ABR-50. Parents unknown. Marital status, single. President and CEO of Roarke Industries, established 2042. Main branches New York, Chicago, New Los Angeles, Dublin, London, Bonn, Paris, Frankfurt, Tokyo, Milan, Sydney. Off-planet branches, Station 45, Bridgestone Colony, Vegas II, FreeStar One. Interests in real estate, import-export, shipping, entertainment, manufacturing, pharmaceuticals, transportation. Estimated gross worth, three billion, eight hundred million.
Busy boy, Eve thought, lifting a brow as a list of his companies clicked on-screen.
“Education,” she demanded.
Unknown.
“Criminal record?”
No data.
“Access Roarke, Dublin.”
No additional data.