“She’s got the cranks,” Bingley commented to Roarke.
“Often.”
“Your deal, pally.” He cackled softly, brought up the feed.
“Rhoda?”
She swiveled over. “That’s Mr. Clarke, 5203—two-level unit—and his two children, their nanny. He’d be leaving for work, the nanny would be walking the children to schoo
l.”
At Eve’s insistence, they checked the feed, both levels, elevators and stairways, until noon, with Rhoda providing names and apartment numbers.
“Everyone,” Rhoda concluded. “Everyone who exited belonged on their level. There’s no one out of place. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll run them all,” Eve said. But it didn’t fit, just didn’t fit. “Because how the hell did he get out and down?”
“Coulda flown,” Bingley said with a grin. “Flap, flap. Hey, pally?”
Rather than respond, Eve just narrowed her eyes. Then she turned on her heel. “Peabody!”
As she strode out, Bingley’s grin widened. “Plenty cranks, pally.”
“Not this time.”
Roarke caught up with her at the elevator. “Obviously he didn’t flap his way out, but.”
“But. We’re going to check the terraces, both levels. He could’ve been an ice-for-veins son of a bitch and rappelled down, at least a few floors.”
They got on the elevator. “What’s with the ‘pally’?”
“Bingley considers me bright enough, but young and with much left to learn. He’s a bit odd, but knows what he’s about.”
She thought it through on the ride up. “He doesn’t have to live on fifty or fifty-two, or live here period—though that would be handy. He could have blended in with guests or caterers, even faked a delivery. Get to the unit, resident says this isn’t my package. Sorry, will check with my dispatch, and you’re in. Slide out anywhere. We’ll go over the feed, and we’ll find him, but it won’t be quick.”
They got off, walked back to Banks’s apartment, straight out to the main floor terrace.
“This level makes more sense. Why add another floor?”
Though it made her stomach pitch to look down, she gritted through it, examined every inch of the terrace wall before calling out a sweeper.
“I’m looking for any sign some asshole rappelled down from here.”
She went to the second level, repeated the process.
In the end, with negative results on both, she circled the bedroom. “If he didn’t go over, he went through, and if he went through, he’d show on the elevator of stairwell feed. He doesn’t. Maybe . . . Could he get down to another level through the guts of the building?”
“If anyone other than maintenance attempted to access the guts, as you say, it would generate an alarm. If anyone attempted to circumvent the alarm, it would have to be done from another area, and would require more skill than I suspect these people have, and a great deal of time and very good tools.”
“Well, he fucking didn’t go flap, flap.”
“A parachute?” Peabody suggested. “It’s crazy, but maybe he jumped, floated down.”
“It’s New York, but even so if some dude drops down out of the sky with a chute, somebody’s going to report it. He had to . . . Wait. Wait. The apartment directly across. The people there aren’t back until tomorrow. Check the locks,” she told Roarke. “Check to see if the locks have been compromised or opened in the last eighteen hours.”
Roarke checked the bedroom level, went down, checked the main. Looked back at Eve.
“You may often have the cranks, but you are my clever girl. Jammed and scanned and opened.”