The busy on-scene unit took no notice of her as she wandered through. A wide archway led her to a formal dining area with a multitiered crystal chandelier and heavy, somehow masculine furniture.
More flowers here, a low spill of color and shape in the center of the dining table. Candlesticks of silver with long white tapers.
The kitchen was directly off to the right, and polished to a gleam. She pursed her lips as she poked into the tank-sized refrigerator and found it fully stocked, as was the AutoChef. Both ran to expensive food, heavy on the red meat.
There were cooking utensils in the drawers, neatly filed in slots. Jars and bottles of oils and spices and the various ingredients needed if someone made a habit of actually cooking.
Interesting, she thought, and imagined Yost standing over the huge stove, delicately sautéing something. Listening to music, classical music or opera, as he worked. Wearing the snow-white butcher’s apron she found hanging, pressed and pristine, in a narrow closet.
He’d cook for himself, an efficient and self-sufficient man. Or order up one of his choices on the AutoChef. He’d set his table with the fancy china in his cupboard, light his candles, and savor his solitary meal.
A man of refined tastes, who liked to kill.
She backtracked, moved into the room he’d remodeled into a high-tech gym. The walls were mirrored, the ceiling high, the floor a gleaming solid wood.
Here was a treadmill with VR capabilities, a personal aqua tank, a resistance center, gravity bench and boots, and a wall of mirrors with a viewer to record workout. Roarke’s at-home gym was better equipped, she thought, but what was here was top of the line.
Yost kept himself in shape, and liked to watch himself doing so.
She found his bedroom next, and here he’d indulged himself. Slick materials, sensual colors, a gel bed the size of a lake flowing under a canopy of blue satin. A mirrored canopy, she noted, another viewer.
Yost liked to watch himself doing more than working out.
The master bath followed the scheme of efficient indulgence, and there she found his horde of soaps and lotions and oils from exclusive hotels around the world and off it. Travel-size, she mused. Tuck them into your job bag, do you, Yost, so you can clean up after work?
Rape and murder were a messy business. But with these handy containers of the best hygiene products around, you can be fresh as a daisy in no time.
The containers were arranged in a tall cupboard, according to purpose. The gaps between told her he’d taken some with him.
Waste not, want not.
The walk-in closet, if a room that size and complex could be called a closet, was sheer genius.
She imagined he’d left in somewhat of a hurry. And yet there was no untidiness. Several slots were empty in the revolving cabinet, a number of the stone gray wig stands were now bald, but every inch was ruthlessly organized.
There were a lot of inches.
Forests of suits ranging from blue to gray to black, a parade of shirts in tones of white or the most delicate pastels, hung in precise order on a two-level set of bars.
More casual wear. Skinsuits, workout apparel, lounging robes, were meticulously arranged across the wide room.
A waterfall of ties, scarves, belts hung ruler-straight in their individual areas. Shoes, mountains of them, were displayed in clear boxes that were not only stacked but numbered.
She counted six missing pairs.
A long and spotless white counter was nestled between the wardrobe bars and build-ins. Over it spread a wide triple mirror ringed by fancy round lights. There was a padded seat, and kneehole room in the cabinet below. It boasted two dozen drawers. She opened them at random and saw enhancements that would have made her friend Mavis’s heart swell with joy.
She scanned labels even as she recorded. She knew less about enhancements than she did about paintings.
She walked out, over carpet, through archways, and found what she was looking for. The hub of activity, Yost’s workspace, where Karen Stowe and two other Feebs were currently running discs on Yost’s desk unit.
“He was in a hurry,” Stowe said as she stood, hands on hips, staring at the scrolling data. “He couldn’t have gotten everything.”
“He got everything he wanted to get,” Eve said from the doorway, and Stowe’s head snapped up as if she’d taken an uppercut to the jaw. Her mouth thinned.
“Let me know if anything clicks,” she ordered, then moved to the doorway, through. She gave a come-with-me signal to Eve. And was ignored.
“He packed his bags,” Eve continued, “tucked in whatever he felt most necessary, went through his data discs, his files. Wouldn’t take a lot of time if you’re as anal and organized as he is. He’d have a notebook, a portable, a number of nice, convenient, travel-sized units. They’d have gone with him, too. All in all, I’d say he was out the door in thirty minutes, on the outside, after his source tipped him about your operation.”