Page 11 of Dead Fall

Carolan shook his head and smiled back. “Let’s check out the terrace first.”

The incredible living room had floor-to-ceiling, lanai-style sliding glass walls that could be retracted to connect the space to the outdoors. Careful not to disturb anything, they stepped through the one glass panel that had been left open.

The fancy terrace reminded him of something you would have seen at a Ritz-Carlton or a Four Seasons. Three-foot-by-three-foot concrete tiles were spaced a couple of inches apart and had precisely manicured, perfectly uniform strips of grass growing between. The plush, all-weather furniture was nicer than anything Carolan had on the inside of his house, much less what was on his back deck.

He and Fields walked the terrace back and forth, finally coming to a stop at the spot from which Burman either jumped or was pushed, and looked over the glass railing to the street below. Eleven floors were indeed a long way down.

After bending down to examine several of the concrete tiles, Carolan motioned for them to return inside.

“You go that way,” he said, pointing down the hall, “and I’ll go this way. We’ll meet back here in twenty minutes.”

Burman’s large, modern condo was tastefully and expensivelydecorated. The floors were clad in marble and the walls were hung with pop art pieces by the likes of Roy Lichtenstein and Keith Haring. For the cost of the furniture alone, Carolan figured that he could have sent all four of his kids to college and then on to graduate school.

He searched two guest rooms with en suite baths, as well as a home gym and sauna at his end of the condo. There was nothing of interest to be found. He hoped Fields was having better luck and decided to join her.

She was looking through what appeared to be Burman’s home office when he found her. “Anything good?” he asked.

“He’s got great taste,” she said, picking up a rich, leatherbound notebook from the desk and fanning the pages. “Right down to his Hermès daily planner, which appears to be only for looks, as all of the pages are blank.”

“Did you try his computer?”

Fields nodded. “Locked with a biometric scanner.”

“Fingerprint or iris?”

“Does it matter?”

“If it unlocks via a fingerprint, we could bring the body up before the medical examiner gets here,” Carolan replied.

“No such luck. Iris.”

“Then we’re screwed. Dead men not only tell no tales, but lifeless eyeballs can’t fool artificial intelligence. With his money, he’d have top-of-the-line. What about any credit card or bank statements?”

“Look at this place,” she said with a sweep of her hand. “All this glass and chrome. Our guy’s a minimalist. Even more important, he’s a techie. He doesn’t do paper.”

Carolan didn’t like it, but she was right. The odds that they were going to find some shoe box or accordion file stuffed with receipts for Burman’s accountant were next to nothing.

“How about his bedroom and master bath?” he asked.

“I may have found something the police overlooked,” Fields responded as she held up a small stub.

“What’s that?”

“A valet ticket.”

“From where?”

“The pocket of a suit jacket in his closet.”

“Very funny. Try again.”

“The Commodore Yacht Club.”

Carolan took a deep breath and then, exhaling, replied, “Fuck.”

Fields had rarely heard him curse. “What’s wrong with the Commodore Yacht Club?”

“Pocket that ticket and don’t let Detective Greer know you have it. I’ll explain once we’re outside.”

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