He bolted, then spun around, grinned at her again. “Hey! You’re not a total asshole, for a cop.”
And that, she figured, was a better thanks than the suit had managed. Feeling marginally better, she hailed a cab of her own.
She gave the driver Reva Ewing’s home address. He turned around, gave her a pained stare.
“You want I should drive you to fricking Queens?”
“Yes. I want you should drive me to fricking Queens.”
“Lady, I gotta make a living here. Whyn’t you take a bus or the subway or an airtram?”
“Because I’m taking a cab.” She yanked out her badge, pressed it to the safety shield that caged in the driver. “And I gotta make a living here, too.”
“Oh jeez, lady, now you’re gonna want the cop rate. Now I’m going to be driving you to fricking Queens at ten percent off. You know how long that’s going to tie me up?”
“I’ll give you the standard fare, but get this bucket of shit moving.” She shoved her badge away. “And don’t call me lady.”
She ruined the driver’s evening when she told him to wait, then recorded his name and license number to ensure he did. He drooped behind the wheel as she got out to unseal and unlock the gates.
“How long am I supposed to wait?”
“Let’s see. Oh yeah. Until I get back.”
EDD had removed the statuary, and it was an improvement. Still, she imagined Reva would sell the place. She wouldn’t want to live where she’d lived with the man who used and betrayed her.
She unsealed and unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
It had the feel of an empty house, an abandoned one. A home that was finished, she supposed, being a home.
She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she wandered the house much as she’d wandered the streets. Just to see what popped out at her.
The sweepers and EDD had both combed the place. The faint, metallic smell of chemicals lingered.
To satisfy herself she browsed through Bissel’s closet. Large wardrobe, expensive clothes. She knew how to recognize expensive material and cuts now.
He’d indulged himself in the two-level space with its revolving racks, automatic drawers, computerized menu of contents, and their location.
Jesus, even Roarke didn’t computerize his wardrobe. Of course, his brain was a damn computer so he probably knew just where the specific black shirt he wanted would be, when he’d last worn it, for what occasion, and with what pants and jacket. Shoes. Fricking underwear.
She blew out a breath and scowled at the little wall screen.
Bissel hadn’t fried his closet unit. Because there was nothing on there worth bothering with, or because there was something on there he wanted to retrieve?
Curious, she engaged it. “List last wardrobe selection, and date.”
Working . . . Last selection on September 16, at twenty-one sixteen, by Bissel, Blair. Contents removed as follows . . .
She listened to the list, mentally matching it with the contents taken from Bissel’s bags and Kade’s closet after the murders. They seemed to jibe.
“Okay, let’s try this. Last use of this unit by Bissel, Blair, for any purpose.”
Last usage September 23, at oh six hundred twelve hours.
“This morning, the son of a bitch was here this morning? What was the purpose of usage?”
Purpose blocked. Privacy engaged.
“Yeah, screw that.” She keyed in her police code, her badge number, and spent several annoying minutes trying to override the system. The fourth time the computer spat PRIVACY ENGAGED at her, she kicked the wall.