Page 135 of Calculated in Death

“Yes. And I’ve glanced over his data.”

“Good. He left his apartment yesterday, early evening with two suitcases according to his neighbor.”

“He’s on the run?”

“I don’t think so. I think he’s just changed locations. Take a look.”

She ran the recording, through the living room, the kitchen, and through to Frye’s personal gym.

“Solitary,” Mira said. “It’s more than a lack of style or decor, but a lack of emotion, of connection. He may, of course, have packed up any personal items along with his clothes and electronics, but two suitcases wouldn’t hold many.”

“There’s no sign there was any. No sun-fading on the walls where he might’ve hung art, for instance. And there’s a sense in the place that this is how he lived. Alone and without connection.”

“Except for the gym,” Mira observed, “which is fully outfitted, well-stocked, and well-organized. This is, or has been, his interest. Which fits as he was both military and in professional sports.”

“Semi-pro,” Eve added.

“Yes, that’s important, I think. He’s never been quite good enough, or smart enough, or clever enough. He’s never been, you could say, at the top of his game.”

Until now, Eve thought. “The nightstands didn’t have drawers or shelves or cabinets. Just two plain tables. No place for sex aides or protection. He could have kept that elsewhere, but according to the neighbor again, she’s never seen anyone come to his place, anyone but him leave it. The canvass of the building indicated the same. People noticed him. He’s a big guy, but they didn’t know him.”

“That lack of connection again, of companionship. Yet he played and worked with teams in the past. Sports and military.”

“Yeah, I’m going to do some checking there, see why he left or if he was booted. The place was clean,” Eve added. “Seriously clean. Even the drawers had been wiped out. His bed was made, right? A guy, living alone, a guy walking out and likely not planning to come back, but his bed was squared away like a bunk in boot camp.”

“Yes. His training’s important to him. Physical training, and maintaining his area. If you’d found clothes, they would have been tidy and organized. Plain, efficient, nothing flashy. Good quality. His dishes matched. Undoubtedly he bought them in a set, but he’s kept them in that set. The fact that he took everything he could tells me he’d have been very unhappy to leave his fitness equipment behind. That means something to him. Replaceable, certainly. But it was his, something he used, enjoyed. Something that proved his strength and sense of self. He’ll blame you.”

“Only more reason to try for me, and it’s going to be tomorrow. It’s the only logical choice left. And going with his sense of self, his comfort zone, he’ll go in as security. That’s another logical choice.”

“I agree. But, as he’s shown, he’s a scattershot planner. He may not take the logical choice. He may jump with impulse.”

Eve considered that as she swung through the gates. “If he manages to get his hands on a ticket and come as a guest, or as one of the staff, we’ll still spot him.”

“He won’t come at you directly. If he’s able to infiltrate security, he’ll know its weaknesses.”

“Yeah. But so will I. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Plan carefully,” Mira warned. “When he comes, he’ll be brutal.”

“I’ll be covered,” she told Mira, and signed off.

She’d take an hour first, Eve decided. Get in a solid workout. Test and tune her body, clean out her head.

She sincerely hoped things didn’t shake out with her going up physically against a guy who could bench-press three hundred pounds, but if it did, she wanted to be ready.

She had an insult waiting for Summerset, who she knew would comment about her being home early. She’d say it was Mortician’s Day, and she’d taken off in his honor.

Quick and to the point.

But when she walked in, he wasn’t on the lurk in the foyer. Out somewhere maybe, she assumed. Digging up mushrooms in some dank cellar or visiting a fellow ghoul.

Pleased at the idea of having the house to herself, she jogged up the stairs. And when she turned toward the bedroom very nearly squealed like a girl when he walked out of it.

Instead she said, “What the fuck!”

“Laundry must be put away,” he said equably, “even the small collection of rags you call T-shirts.”

The reminder he handled her clothes left her speechless. She lost any possible insult advantage when he just continued down the hall.

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