he knew he’d only make things worse if he tried to touch the doggen.
“I’m sorry,” Butch said in a rush. “I was just mumbling, you know, talking to myself. I did not mean to insinuate that you were misremembering or that you were not aware of the makeup, layout, and contents of every single room, closet, hallway, and basement in this house.”
Fritz hesitated, as if he were worried that Butch was attempting to cheer him up rather than telling the truth.
“I swear on my Lord and Savior,” Butch said as he took out his cross. “The only reason why I spoke that out loud is because it is vital that I see everything in these rooms exactly as it was, without anyone trying to hide their tracks by throwing out something.”
“Is Syn a suspect?” Fritz asked. “For something that was stolen?”
Yes, Butch thought. A life. Or two. Maybe three.
“It’s a difficult situation.” Butch glanced around. “Well, I guess this is a dead end—no, wait, the bathroom and the closet. There has to be a closet in here.”
Walking over, he peeked into the bathroom. The marble expanse had been stripped bare as well, all of the luxuries Butch was now used to seeing gone: No bath mats. No fluffy extra towels. No robes. There was a toothbrush and a single tube of toothpaste. Crest Original.
As if the guy didn’t like fussiness anywhere near his fluoride, either. Butch opened the drawers. Cracked the cupboards. Leaned into the toilet room.
Razor and shaving lotion were all he got.
He glanced at Fritz. “Where does he sleep?”
“I believe you will see it the now.”
“The closet?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
Walking over to a set of double doors, Butch opened them and blinked as the light came on overhead.
“Okay, this is a criminal waste,” he said as he looked at the bare hanging rods that ran around the room-sized space at shoulder level. “I could fit at least half my wardrobe in here.”
Or all of Marissa’s, Jane’s, and Vishous’s clothes—and his golf cart.
But there was what Fritz had been talking about: In the far corner, a ring of guns and knives had been set in a semicircle, the circumference of which fit a Syn-sized body.
The clothes, such as they were, were stacked in a pile at the foot of the arrangement.
Getting out his phone, Butch stood in the open doorway and took a video of the closet. Then he entered and went over to the clothes. After taking a number of mid-distance and close-up shots, he snagged a pair of nitrile gloves out of his pocket, snapped them on, and went through the layers.
He found a black knit cap. Black sunglasses.
And two pairs of leathers that smelled like they had been places.
He glanced over at Fritz, who was standing in the doorway, his old hands churning in front of him as if he were desperate to help in some way.
“How many pairs of leathers does Syn own?” Butch asked.
“Two. I have ordered more in his precise size, but they are downstairs in the packaging in which they arrived. He has not accepted them as of yet. He is waiting until something is worn through, he told me. Only then will he replace what he has.”
Butch laid out both pairs on the wall-to-wall carpeting, stretching the long legs flat. After photographing the sets separately and then together, he turned them over and did the same to the back sides. Then he repeated the process with the leather jacket before he went through its pockets.
Bullets. Switchblade. Length of chain.
Trident sugarless gum in cinnamon. Okay, so the Bastard was clearly worried about both clean breath and healthy tooth enamel.
Sitting back on his haunches, Butch cursed.
“Whatever is wrong?” Fritz asked.
He debated whether or not to press the butler on if he were certain nothing had been taken out of the closet.
Yeah, ’cuz that had gone so wicked well with the whole decor convo out there.
Refocusing on the leathers, Butch turned them back over so the fronts were showing and stared at the wear marks. The stains. The scratches. Leaning down, he breathed in through his nose, testing the scents.
Okay, right, lot of lesser blood. Some male blood that had to be Syn’s own. Dirt. Sweat. Gunpowder. Sex.
But . . . no female blood. On either set.
Which was kind of a well, shit. Leathers were not the sort of thing that you just threw in the laundry and sent around for a ride with some Tide. They were not cleaned that easily, and going