“Not on my shift, and there aren’t any notes in the log on that.”
“But other deliveries, to other units?”
“Certainly several. Each would be cleared individually. No one’s sent into the residences without clearance. If a resident isn’t at home for a delivery, we hold the package at the desk. Visitors are also cleared. No one can access the elevators or stairs without their keycard or clearance.”
“A lot of visitors in a building this size.”
“Yes. But the safety, security, privacy, and comfort of our residents are our priorities.”
“Once they’re cleared, anything to stop them from accessing another floor?”
“They’d need a keycard. If I clear someone for level twenty, they’re restricted to that level.”
“But the residents aren’t restricted.”
“No.”
“In the event of fire or another emergency?”
“All elevators and exits are automatically opened. That didn’t happen. It would have been logged. So would any anomaly lasting five seconds. If the feed had a glitch, the glitch—type, time, duration, would be recorded. We’re a Five Lock building, Lieutenant, the highest security rating given.”
She linked her hands together as she looked around the bedroom. “I’m at a loss.”
“No building’s a hundred percent secure,” Eve commented. “Somebody gets their pocket picked, somebody makes a copy of their keycard for their newest lover, whatever. Do you know every person who lives here, by sight and name?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
Eve stopped, turned, interested. “Seriously?”
“It’s my job. We’re currently at ninety-three percent occupancy with six hundred and thirty-four units occupied, eighteen hundred and sixteen residents—including live-in staff. We employ more than three hundred full-and part-time staff to serve and service the building. Not including outside marketing and seasonal workers and subcontractors on our call list.”
“Huh. Who lives in the unit across the hall from this one?”
“Ms. Yuri and Mr. Simston, and Ms. Yuri’s mother, Mrs. Yuri—a widow—and Georgie, their Yorkie. They’re currently in Aruba, but are expected back by late afternoon tomorrow.”
“Unit 3100.”
The first glimmer of a smile dawned in Rhoda’s eyes. “Ms. Karlin, Mr. Howard. Newlyweds. They were married last fall. Ms. Karlin divorced Mr. Olsen shortly after I began work here four years ago. He was granted custody of their Persian cat. Yasmine. Unit 3100 hosted a dinner party last night. Catered.”
“How many guests?”
Rhoda closed her eyes a moment, nodded to herself. “Dinner for twenty. Cocktails at seven-thirty. Catered by Jacko’s, arrival at six. Florist delivery, that’s Urban Gardens . . . four-thirty. That’s approximate.”
“Roarke knows how to pick them.”
“I do,” he said from the doorway.
“Sir.” Rhoda turned to him. “I’m so sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. I’d like you to review the overnight feed, mark anyone you don’t know. The lieutenant will need a list of residents, staff, logged guests, delivery companies, and so on. You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have a copy of the feed ready for you and the police.”
“I have it. Do you need more from Rhoda at the moment?” he asked Eve.
“Just one more thing. Other than the newlyweds, any other parties here last night?”
“Six catered, and three others. And a number of drop-bys. I can have all of that for you.”