Page 149 of Random in Death

It looked like a fancy studio apartment with its creamy white walls and dark wood floors. An entertainment screen dominated the wall across from a gel couch in navy, a couple of oversized chairs in navy-and-white stripes.

A mini-kitchen area held a full-sized AutoChef and friggie, a sink. The droid might not work down here, Eve thought, but good old Francis kept it spotless.

Though she didn’t hear Roarke come down, she sensed him, and turned.

“Hangout area, rich boy’s hangout. Looks innocent. I doubt he makes much use of it. He’s too busy to flop down and play games or watch a vid.”

“The door to the steps? Very serious locks. Hardly needed for innocence.”

She walked to a door, opened it. “John. Let’s try that one.”

Through an alcove, another door, another lock.

“I should mention,” Roarke began as he dealt with the lock, “he or his father installed alarms on the elevator block and the door to the steps. I deactivated them.”

“I vote for Master Francis.”

“As do I. They’d signal his ’link. Won’t now, of course.” He opened the door for her.

“I didn’t see any cams in the hang space. Or in here,” she said. “Study area. More like an office. Good desk, state-of-the-art comp system, leather chairs, beverage station.”

She gave one of the desk drawers a tug. “Locked. He takes no chances. I bet the comp’s triggered, too.”

“I can deal with that.”

“It really was good timing. But hold off.” She pointed to another locked door. “Hang space, study space. This? It’s just a pass-through. In there’s going to be the real work area.”

“I wonder how an adult could allow a boy— Sixteen, isn’t he?”

“Seventeen in September.”

“How he could allow all of this. The locks and blocks. I don’t know much about parenting, but I know bloody red flags when I see them.”

“With you there.”

He eased the door open. “Hold,” he told her. “Cams in here, and I’ll wager a sensor that will, again, send an alert to his ’link. This may take more than a minute.”

With no choice, she shut down impatience. “Do what you gotta.”

She stepped back to give him room, did another pass through the study area.

All drawers locked. No photos, no memorabilia, no fiddle toys. He used the comp, she thought. But she’d bet Roarke’s excellent ass he used that exclusively for schoolwork.

The money shot was the lab.

She heard Peabody coming.

“Wow, hell of a space for a teenager. He’s got his own apartment down here, basically. Which explains the bedroom.”

“What about it?”

“Bed, a pair of nightstands, matching lamps, reading chair, dresser, big closet, en suite. He’s got a shit-ton of clothes, all along the lines of the Stubens. Make that a rich old clueless accountant. And there’s nothing, Dallas.

“No mess, no personal things, no sign of a teenager. No tablet, no doodles, no posters on the walls. Neatly hung or folded clothes, neatly lined-up shoes. And none of them were baggies, cheap or otherwise, or Kick Its. No trench, no wig.”

“He’s wearing them. He’s hunting.”

“We’re in,” Roarke told her. “And yes, this is his real work.”