“Sloppy,” she said aloud as she holstered her weapon, “but probably thorough. Get the discs. I’ll contact the sweepers.”
“The security on the building’s got to be the ult,” Peabody commented. “It’s Roarke’s.”
“Yeah, but here we are. Grab the field kits while you’re down there.”
Alone, Eve called in the sweepers, then backtracked to the kitchen and the security base directly off it. Banks had two domestic droids—both female. And the drives in both had been removed. So had the drives from the security base.
And she hadn’t seen a single comp or electronic device on her sweep to clear.
She walked back out, studied the locks on the main-level door. Pulled out her ’link.
“Lieutenant.” Roarke’s face filled her screen. “Good timing. I’m just between meetings.”
“Yeah, well, I’m at Banks’s place. Somebody beat me here. Down-and-dirty job’s how it looks, but on a quick pass they scooped up his electronics and security logs.”
Those blue eyes went hard. “Someone compromised the security?”
Eve glanced around the sleek, silvery kitchen where every drawer and cabinet door stood open, and two droids stood blank-eyed.
“Yeah, compromised is one word for it.”
/> “I’m on my way.”
“Figured,” she stated as he cut her off.
She left the kitchen, decided to start on the second level. Master, guest room, home office, linen storage. Frowning at the jumbled sheets and towels, Eve tagged Peabody on her comm.
“Find out if Banks used any outside cleaning service.”
She moved to the master. People, in her experience, often thought of their bedroom as a sanctuary, a kind of safe room. And often tucked things away in odd places.
In the master, Banks had gone for the gold. Gold posts speared up from the four corners of the bed, gold chairs stood in the sitting area, paintings framed in gold crowded the walls, gold drapes flowed at the windows.
The bedding—gold—lay in a heap on the floor while the thick gel mattress sat crookedly in the bed frame. Sculptures and busts stood on tables or pedestals. If a table had a drawer, that drawer hung open.
She found an impressive collection of sex aids and toys still in a nightstand drawer. But no electronics. The master boasted two dressing rooms. One held Banks’s equally impressive collection of clothing—suits with the pockets turned out, shoes jumbled. He’d used the second to store sports equipment. Golf clubs, skis—water and snow—tennis rackets, climbing gear, scuba gear. A shotgun, she noticed, and wondered if he’d had a collector’s license for it.
Too late to fine him now anyway.
She heard the downstairs door, walked out, looked down at Peabody and the woman from the desk. The woman—Rhoda, Eve remembered—looked around the room with wide, distressed eyes.
“Up here,” Eve said, then went back to the master to start in the primary dressing room.
“This is just awful,” Eve heard Rhoda say. “Just shocking and awful. I’ve worked here four years, and we’ve never had a break-in. Not a single break-in.”
Eve took a can of Seal-It from the field kit, sealed up, began to search, one article of clothing at a time. “I need copies of your security feed.”
“I’m having it done right now. Lieutenant, I need to contact Roarke. It’s imperative he—”
“He’s on his way. Cleaning crew?”
“He uses our in-house service, twice weekly. Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
“How do they access?”
“I clear them. They don’t have the codes, and have to be cleared by the desk and/or the resident.”
“Did anyone inquire about Mr. Banks, were there any deliveries made or attempted to this apartment in the last twenty-four hours?”