Eve stopped, waiting for her racing mind to slow. Damn chemicals, she thought. She deliberately closed her eyes. "She'd come in here, probably sneer at all the little trinkets. False front. Society's trappings. She hates it. Uses it. She goes for the bold, but this is part of the stage. She's been acting for years. This room is to show people how soft and female she is, but it isn't where she works."
"The rest of the house is guest rooms, baths, living and kitchen area." Peabody sat where she was, watching Eve, watching her work. Watching her mind. "If she didn't work here, then where?"
"Close." Eve opened her eyes, studied the little closet. "Master bedroom's on the other side of that wall, right?"
"Yeah. Big he and she walk-in closet takes up the facing wall."
"All the closets are big. Except this one. Why would she settle for this little corner here?" She squeezed herself in, started running fingers over the wall. "Go around the other side, into the closet. Knock on the wall. Give it three good raps, and come back."
While she waited, Eve crouched, dug her mini-goggles out of her field kit.
"Why did I do that?" Peabody asked when she came back.
"You knock hard?"
"Yes, sir. Rap, rap, rap. Stung my knuckles."
"I didn't hear a thing. There's got to be a mechanism, a control."
"Hidden room?" Peabody tried to angle it. "That's so iced."
"Back up, you're in my light. It's got to be here. Wait. Hell. Give me something to pry with."
"I've got something." Peabody dug in her bag for her Swiss Army knife, selected the slim opener, and offered it.
"Were you a Girl Scout?"
"All the way to Eagle level, sir."
Eve grunted, slid the opener into the minute crack in the glossy ivory wall. It slipped out twice before she got some leverage, and hissing out an oath, she shoved it hard. The little door swung open to reveal a control panel.
"Okay, let's bypass this sucker." She worked for five cramped minutes, shifted her weight on her knees, wiped sweat off her face, and started again.
"Why don't you let me have a go at it, Dallas?"
"You don't know any more about electronics than I do. Hell with it. Step back." She rose, her shoulder bumping solidly into Peabody's nose. Peabody had a minute to yelp, check for blood, then Eve had her weapon out.
"Oh, sir, you don't need to – "
Eve blasted the control lock. Circuits sizzled, chips flew, and the panel of ivory slid smoothly apart.
"What's that fairy tale code? Open sesame." Eve stepped inside a small, pie-slice room, eyed the sleek control panel, the snazzy equipment that reminded her, a bit uncomfortably, of what Roarke had behind a locked door. "This," Eve said, "is where Cassandra worked."
She ran her fingers over controls, tried manual and verbal commands. The machines stayed silent.
"They'll be passcoded," she murmured, "and unregistered, and likely have a couple of traps laid in."
"Should I send for Captain Feeney?"
"No." Eve rubbed her cheek. "I've got an expert only minutes from this location." She dug out her 'link and called Roarke.
– =O=-***-=O=-
He took one look at the fried control panel and shook his head. "You'd only to call."
"I got in, didn't I?"
"Yes, but there's something to be said for finesse, Lieutenant."
"There's something to be said for speed. I don't mean to rush you – "
"Then don't." He moved into the room, let his eyes adjust to the dim light. "Set up your night flash until I can get the room controls working."
He took a slim penlight out of his pocket and, sitting at the controls, clamped it between his teeth in a technique favored by burglars.
Eve saw Peabody's eyes register appreciation and speculation, and moved between them. "Take the vehicle and get to my home office. Get ready to receive data. We'll send through what we find here. Put the rest of the team on alert."
"Yes, sir." But she craned her neck to see over Eve's shoulder. Roarke had removed his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt. The man had fabulous definition in his arms. "Are you sure you don't want me to assist here?"
"Beat it." Eve bent to dig a light out of her field kit. "I still see your shoes," she said mildly. "Which means the rest of you has yet to follow orders."
Her shoes pivoted smartly and marched away.
"Do you have to look so sexy when you do that?" Eve demanded. "You distract my aide."
"Just one of life's little hurdles. Ah, I won't need that flash after all. Lights," he ordered and the room brightened.
"Good. See if you can find the controls that open this paper file over here." She turned to a cabinet. "I'd blast it, but I might damage the data inside."
"Try a little patience. I'll get to it. She had excellent taste in equipment. These are my units. Locks, yes, here we are." He keystroked and Eve heard the click.
"That was easy."
"The rest won't be. Give me some quiet here."
She pulled out a drawer, hefted it, and carried it into the sitting room. She could hear the beeps and hums of the machines as Roarke worked on them. His occasional terse voice commands. Why she should have found it soothing, she couldn't say, but it was oddly satisfying to know he was in the next room working with her.
Then she started going through the paper files and forgot him, forgot everything else.
There were letters, handwritten in bold, sprawling script from James Rowan to his daughter – the daughter he didn't call Charlotte. The daughter he called Cassandra.
They weren't the sentimental or fatherly correspondence between parent and child but the rousing, dictatorial directives from commander to soldier.
"The war must be fought, the present government destroyed. For freedom, for liberty, for the good of the masses who are now under the boot of those who call themselves our leaders. We will be victorious. And when my time has passed, you will take my place. You, Cassandra, my young goddess, are my light into the future. You will be my prophet. Your brother is too weak to carry the burden of decision. He is too much his mother's son. You are mine.
"Remember always, victory carries a price. You must not hesitate to pay it. Move like a fury, like a goddess. Take your place in history."
There were others, following the same theme. She was his soldier and his replacement. He'd molded her, one god to another, in his image.
In another file she found copies of birth certificates. Clarissa's and her brother's, and their death certificates as well. There were newspaper and magazine clippings, stories on Apollo, and on her father.
There were photographs of him: public ones in his politician suit with his hair gleaming and his smile bright and friendly; private ones of him in full battle gear, his face smudged with black and his eyes cold. Killer eyes, Eve thought.
She'd looked into them hundreds of times in her life.
Family pictures, again private, of James Rowan and his daughter. The fairylike little girl had a ribbon in her hair and an assault weapon in her hands. Her smile was fierce, and her eyes were her father's.
She found all the data on one Clarissa Stanley, ID numbers, birth date, date of death.
Another picture showed Clarissa as a young woman. Dressed in military fatigues, she stood beside a grim-faced man with a captain's hat shading his eyes. Behind them was a dramatic ring of snow-covered mountains.
She'd seen that face before, she thought and dug out her magnifying goggles again to get a better look.
"Henson," she murmured. "William Jenkins." She pulled out her palm unit and requested data to refresh her memory.
William Jenkins Henson, date of birth August 12, 1998, Billings, Montana. Married Jessica Deals, one child. Daughter Madia, born August 9, 2018. James Rowan's campaign manager…