In Death 18 - Divided in Death

the sweepers, EDD. Media’s going to start jumping by morning. You’re probably going to want to formulate an official statement as her employer.”
    “I’m already working on that.”
    “I want her under wraps, Roarke. No statements from her, so if she goes back to work, I need her tucked up tight.”
    “I can promise you, she knows how to stonewall the media.”
    “Just make sure of it. If you don’t have something else going, you could start digging deeper on Bissel and Kade.”
    “I’ve cleared the table for this.” He picked up his wineglass again. “I’ll get my shovel.”
    “You’re okay, you know.” She stepped to him, gave him a light bite on the bottom lip. “For a slick-talking, sticky-fingered civilian.”
    “You’re okay yourself. For a mean-tempered, single-minded cop.”
    “Aren’t we the pair? Give a yell if you find something interesting.”
    She sat at her desk to sort through her notes, the statements, preliminary findings. Then began to write up a report for her files, and her commander’s.
    Halfway through, she pulled out the crime-scene stills and studied them yet again. Had they been conscious when the stabbing started?
    Unlikely, she thought, given the time frame. Whoever killed them had wanted them dead and hadn’t cared about causing pain. That left out rage, in her opinion. It had been too cold-blooded, too premeditated for rage.
    It was meant to look like rage.
    Front door was open. She frowned as she rechecked her notes. Caro’s statement asserted the front door was open when she arrived. Yet in Reva’s, she stated she’d reset the locks and the security. And Eve was inclined to believe she had. It would be habit, routine, training, the sort of thing she’d do automatically even when in a temper.
    Whoever had killed them, and incapacitated Reva, had gone back out the front door, leaving the locks open. Why not? What would it matter?
    In fact . . .
    She got up, went to the doorway. “Fancy security system like Kade’s . . .” she began, “. . . if it’s shut down, and an egress is left open, how long before the company’d do a routine check of the premises?”
    “That would depend on the client’s request. It’s individualized.” He glanced up from his own work. “You’re wanting me to check.”
    “You could get the answer faster, seeing as you own the world.”
    “I only own specific parts of the world. Open Securecomp,” he ordered his computer. “Authorization Roarke.”
    Working . . . Securecomp open on Authorization Roarke.
    “Access client file for Kade, Felicity, residential account, NYC.”
    Working . . . Kade, Felicity, accessed. Do you want the data on screen or on audio?
    “On screen. Detail client’s profile for house security.”
    Profile displayed.
    “Let’s see, then . . . sixty minutes on the street-level doors and windows. The instructions are to monitor for motion, and to relay any questions to her house droid after a sixty-minute period.”
    “Is that standard?”
    “It’s rather long, actually. I’d have to assume she trusted the system, and didn’t care to be disturbed should there be a glitch.”
    “Sixty minutes. Okay. Okay, thanks.” She wandered back, running it around her head.
    Had they figured Reva would be out at least an hour, or if not out, disoriented? Security company activates house droid, house droid reports security has been compromised, and the company automatically reports same to the police and sends over a team.
    But Reva’s a tough customer. She surfaces quicker, and even though she’s sick, scared, confused, she makes a call. So that part of the plan—if it was part of the plan—didn’t work, because Caro, rushing the few blocks with a coat thrown over her pajamas, closed the door before the sixty was up.
    She added the detail to her report.
    What was left on scene?
    The kitchen knife from the Bissel-Ewing house. How long had it been missing? Unlikely they’d be able to determine.
    Military-issue stunner. Used by military personnel, Special Forces, certain city crisis-response teams. Who else?
    “Computer, what weaponry is issued to United States Secret Service agents, specifically those on presidential detail.”
    Working . . . all agents are issued an M3 stunner and a neuron blaster, both handheld models. Agents may choose between a 4000 blaster and a 5200, as suits their personal preference.
    “An M3,” Eve murmured. “I was under the impression SS agents carried A-1s.”
    Prior to