Page 22 of Summer Shivers
“You have access. Let me know what you find.” The call ends. This is how Martin operates on a case. All business. I respect that.
“I’m heading out to the Lake Oswego house.”
She gasps. “Is that safe?”
“It’s a crime scene. Doesn’t get much safer than that.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I get on my bike and head out. The police took nearly twenty hours to process the crime scene. I get it. This murder is high profile. All I’s must be dotted, and all T’s crossed. But it's not all a waste, because I have something the police don't have, the floor plans for the house and knowledge of the safe room.
* * *
I stall the engine before pulling into the drive. Using the code Genevieve gave me, I open the front gate and coast the rest of the way in. Parking my bike on the side where it’s not easily seen from the road. No need to bring attention to myself while here.
I grab my gun from the saddlebag just in case. Then turn to take in this monstrosity that Genevieve called home. Can’t fucking believe that people live like this. Stone walkway leading to a huge glass door that opens into a giant room, cavernous almost. Stone and wood treatments throughout with the only separation being a big ass double-sided stone fireplace. I picture Genevieve curled up in front of it reading one of her romance books. It was why she took the job with Harrison in the first place as his assistant, because she loved reading and thought it would be glamorous to work for an author.
Should’ve stopped her back then.
I take my time casing the place, not seeing any signs of a struggle, or anything that would show she was lying. At least not obvious things. Wanting to get a feel for the house before finding the safe room.
It’s way too big for two people. Even if one of them had an ego as big as Harrison’s. Various poster sized photos decorate one of the walls—all of Harrison with other famous people—and barely any of him and Genevieve. His office is even worse. Stark white walls covered in various self-aggrandizing pictorial tokens. Everything from blown up book covers, to best seller lists. Looks like if he could blow it up to an obnoxious size and hang it on his wall, he did it.
Finally find a picture of Genevieve on his desk. The two of them, on their wedding day. She’s smiling big, with her arms around his neck, but her eyes are dead inside. Barely recognize that girl. Makes me equal parts happy combined with depressed as fuck. And Harrison? Dick looks like the spider that just caught the fly. I turn it face down out of spite and continue my self-guided tour.
The master bedroom takes up most of the second floor. Between the sleeping area, sitting area, and his and hers bathrooms and walk-in closets. The bedding is rumpled, but clearly only slept in on one side. The side closest to the door. What an asshole. Sexist as it may sound, the man sleeps closest to the door to fend off intruders. Same way he walks closest to the curb on the sidewalk. Only pussies don’t put themselves in harm’s way first.
Though, what if he did and that’s why he’s dead?
What if someone is after Genevieve?
I toy with calling her to see how she is but hold back. No one wants to kill Genevieve.
Her closet is the size of my apartment. With a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a blue suede sitting couch smack in the middle. Can’t help feeling bitter about that. Little foster girl done herself good marrying up like this. I never could’ve provided anything comparable.
It smells like her in here, only wealthier. I sit on the couch and take it all in. Rows upon rows of silk and cashmere clothing, high-heeled shoes that’ve barely been worn, and purses of every shape and size. No polyester blends here. Chuckle to myself at that. She always did romanticize the glamorous life. Even when she was pretending that anything I could give her was enough. Never would have been like this. Means it never would’ve been enough.
My thoughts start to piss me off, so I quit wasting time and head back to Harrison’s office, hell bent on finding the access point to the fucking safe room. The only thing I’ve needed so far that he didn’t include in the safe paperwork.
I spend time studying every book, statue, painting, picture, and nick-nack. Looking for anything that seemsjustoff enough. It’s obvious once I find it.In Search of Timeby some guy named Proust. Probably famous, probably something Genie’s read. Don’t give a fuck. Just glad that when I pull on it, one section of the bookcase swings open revealing a flat steel door behind. One with only a keypad to open it.
Bingo, motherfucker.
I enter the code that Harrison so graciously provided. The door clicks open to a room filled with monitors and machines that hum. Every monitor seems to cover a different room in the house in real time. Including the master bedroom.
I know just enough about these systems to find the index of files. A fourteen-day rotation before they’re overwritten. The files are password protected when I try to click on them. Harrison didn’t leave that anywhere in the paperwork either. I try a few simple four number combinations; nothing works. Have to get Al to take a look to see if she can crack it.
I notice a few more that have been downloaded and saved by date on the desktop. Curious, I click on one. Needs a password. I try Genevieve’s birthday and it opens. What a sucker, using his wife’s birthday as a password. Never mind that I too use his wife’s birthday as a password as well.
Genevieve lies naked on the bed in the master bedroom.
Next.
Zero desire to watch their fucking sex tape. Close that one and open the next. Same password. Genevieve naked on the bed again. This time she’s got a vibrator in one hand and a dildo in the other and she’s using them on herself.
There’s no sound.
Don’t need it.
