In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [5]
The concierge hovered near Camelia, watching his every move as he sauntered through the rooms, eyeing the sparse decor, the simple bedroom, the stark bathroom. He thought it surely looked like a bachelor pad to him, though “pad” was hardly the right word. This place could have been inhabited by a monk.
The concierge was breathing down his neck again and Camelia sighed as he said, “It’s okay, sir, you can leave now. I’m not gonna steal the silver.” If there was any silver to steal, he thought, still surprised by how austerely Vincent lived. And him, such a rich guy. Maybe money didn’t mean everything after all.
The elevator pinged again and Camelia’s cohorts arrived, men in blue looking tough and businesslike. Forensics was there too. And, of course, the photographer.
“Nothin’s been touched,” he told them. “Take your pictures before we start turning the place over. And I want every print in the place. Okay?”
He waited while the police photographer did his stuff, then he set to work, starting in the bedroom.
The bed was made up with fresh sheets— Camelia checked just to make sure. There wasn’t a speck of dust in the room, nor much comfort, either, he thought, remembering his own cozy master bedroom. Kind of a love nest, Claudia had made it, in deep red paisley with muted lighting and soft rugs. None of that here. Ed Vincent obviously didn’t like frills.
The bathroom was tiled in stark white and the shower doors were clear sheets of thick glass, not a scrap of gold in sight. Luxury reduced to minimalism. Not Camelia’s style, but who could tell with rich folks? Whoever had said they were different from us had gotten it right.
No water spots on the shower doors, no toothpaste uncapped, no mess in the sink. A pile of plain white towels awaited the master, as did a single Lucite toothbrush and a fresh bar of fragrance-free white soap in the matching dish. Looking for clues to an attempted murder in here was like searching for a snowball in a glacier.
Camelia dialed the concierge on the house phone. “Who cleans Mr. Vincent’s apartment?” he asked.
“It’s the building cleaning service, sir. They come every day.”
“So they were here this morning?”
“No, sir, not yet. They were here yesterday, though.”
“Thanks. One of my men will be down shortly. You give him the name of the cleaning service— he’ll want to speak to the person in charge of Mr. Vincent’s apartment.”
“Yes, sir.” The concierge was all business now. Camelia guessed he was nervous about men in blue littering his posh lobby. Well, tough. This was more serious than a few rich folks getting upset. Ed Vincent was almost a dead man.
He opened the drawers, sifted through the few personal things in there, the kinds of things any man kept in his bathroom—electric razor, spare toothbrushes, condoms. . . . Camelia wondered whether the spare toothbrushes were for his female overnight guests—and he was glad that Ed practiced safe sex.
He went through the drawers in the enormous walk-in closet that would easily have accommodated one of his kid’s bedrooms. He hated going through a man’s things, hated prying into his life, but this was his job. And he was nothing if not thorough. But this time, thoroughness got him exactly nowhere.
The print man told him there were very few prints because the place had been thoroughly cleaned, and the uniforms found nothing of significance, though they went through every pocket of every garment, as well as every cupboard and drawer. It beat Camelia how the man could live without a trace of clutter. There was even nothing in the refrigerator, not even the rich-bachelor token bottle of champagne. He just didn’t get it. If it were not for the clothes in the closet, he would have sworn that nobody lived here.
Sighing, he called it a wrap. “Thanks, guys,” he said as they departed in the soundless elevator. Then he walked back into the closet and studied the small safe set into the wall. It