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."
"I don't want to discuss this here."
"Too bad. My team ran him down while yours was racing in circles. You wouldn't be standing this close to him if it hadn't been for the work my team put into this."
"If you'd cooperated – "
"Like you did?" Eve shot back. "Yeah, you're full of cooperation. Who'd you pay off to get the information on my warrant? What favors did you call in to get yours bumped in front of it so you could screw this up?"
"Federal takes precedence."
"Bullshit, Stowe. Justice takes precedence, and if I'd gotten my warrant in a timely fashion Sylvester Yost would be in a cage now instead of setting up shop somewhere else."
She knew it. Goddamn it, she knew it. "You can't be sure of that."
"I can be sure of one thing, and so can you: He's gone. You fucked up and he's gone. How's that going to sit with you when we stand over the next body?"
Stowe closed her eyes a moment, drew in a breath. "Can we go somewhere private and discuss – "
"No."
"Fine." On a snap of temper, Stowe pulled the door closed so the agents inside were deprived of the gossip. "Look, you're steamed, and you've got a right to be. But I did my job. Jacoby came to me with the data on the warrant, and he'd already done the dance. I had a chance to bring Yost down, to bring him in, and I took it. You'd have done the same."
"You don't know me, pal. I don't play games and I don't try to rack up points on someone else's work. You wanted a big bust, and you didn't care how you got it. Now we're both empty, and odds are someone else is going to die."
Eve paused, seeing the quick wince in Stowe's eyes. "Yeah, you've figured that much out, haven't you? As much as I'll enjoy seeing you and your partner's butts fry over this foul up, it doesn't make up for another hit. Nothing does."
"All right," Stowe said as Eve turned away. She reached out, grabbed Eve's arm. Her voice was low, her eyes miserable. "You're right. You're right, straight down the line."
"Being right doesn't mean shit just now, does it? Keep away from me, Stowe. You and that moron you work with keep away from me, my team, and my investigation. Otherwise, neither of you will have enough ass left to fry when I'm finished with you."
She strode, out, heading for the door. Before she could pass through, Jacoby stepped in front of her. "Did you have that recorder on?" he demanded.
"Get out of my way."
"You aren't authorized to record this scene," he began and made a grab for her lapel unit. Fast and vicious as a snake, she snatched his wrist, pushing her thumb into the pulse point and twisting.
"Keep your hand off me. You don't, I'll snap it off at the wrist and make you eat it."
Pain radiated up his arm, paralyzing him. But his other hand bunched into a fist, lifted. "You're assaulting and threatening a federal officer."
"Funny, I thought I was assaulting and threatening a federal asshole. You want to take a shot at me, Jacoby" – she tilted her chin up in invitation – "go ahead, right here in front of all your friends and associates. Let's see which one of us walks out on two feet."
"Lieutenant."
"Sir." She acknowledged Whitney, but kept her eyes on Jacoby's. His were starting to water.
"Your presence is required at Central to finalize the formal complaint against Agents Jacoby and Stowe. Let that idiot go," he said mildly. "He's not worth it."
"Affirmative," Eve murmured, then released Jacoby's wrist and stepped back.
Perhaps it was embarrassment, or perhaps he was simply a moron. But he lunged at her. She didn't think; she didn't hesitate. With a half-pivot, she shot her elbow up, caught him just under the chin. She heard his teeth snap together an instant before he went down.
She had a moment to hope he'd bitten off a chunk of his tongue before he scrambled to his feet, eyes dazed. She finished the pivot, planted her feet. And supposed it was probably for the best when Whitney stepped between them.