by the butler’s statement, these were the only two pairs that Syn owned.
So, assuming what Fritz said was accurate, it wasn’t like Syn had killed those females, ditched whatever he was wearing on his bottom half, and then thrown on a fresh pair when he got home. Unless he was ordering them himself on the sly and having the rogue leathers shipped to some place in town.
If Butch had some bank account information, he could check and see any transactions that had gone through to that effect. But something told him that that kind of hassle was probably not a big priority for someone who lived this sparsely. Although if you were trying to cover up homicide? You’d Amazon Prime the fuck out of another pair of pants.
Wouldn’t you? he thought.
“What about muscle shirts?” Butch said. “Does he submit them for laundry regularly?”
Fritz bowed. “He does, indeed. He also has two sweatshirts that he alternates between, as well as some gym clothing.”
“I want to speak with the laundress, please.”
Fritz bowed again. “Right away, sire. Stay here. I shall bring her unto you.”
Left alone, Butch sat back on his ass and let his blue-gloved hands dangle off his knees. Staring at the leathers, he tried to find the hole in the reasoning. Some other explanation for why the only two pairs of pants the male seemed to own did not smell like death or the blood of a female.
Maybe Syn had borrowed someone else’s leathers when he’d done the killing and then dumped those. Maybe . . . Fritz had miscounted.
That last one was probably not it.
Leaning to the side, Butch looked out at the vacant bedroom. So empty. So lonely. So . . . not the private quarters of a well-adjusted guy. But the anti-hoarding didn’t mean Syn was a killer.
Helania, on the other hand, had not only been totally certain that she’d seen the Bastard with the deceased, the dark glasses and knit cap she’d described were right here with the rest of Syn’s clothing—
“Sire? This is Lilf.” Fritz entered the closet with a uniformed female doggen. “She would be pleased to answer any of your questions.”
As Lilf bowed low, Butch noted that her pressed gray-and-white uniform matched her gray hair.
“Sire,” she said, “how may I serve you?”
“Hi, Lilf. Thanks for coming here.”
Butch got up to his feet and indicated the pile of clothes: Three muscle shirts, all pressed, and three undershirts, all pressed, and one black sweatshirt. There were also six pairs of thick black socks and a jockstrap.
“Do you wash all of his clothes? Syn’s?” he said.
“I wash everyone’s clothes, sire.”
“Good, and thank you for doing such a nice job on my own, by the way. Now, can you please tell me if, in the last five nights, you have scented vampire blood on any shirt, pant, sock, fleece—anything owned by anyone in this household? I mean, vampire blood that was not that of the owner.”
“Allow me to think.” Lilf’s eyes traveled around the barren closet. “Well, yes. The Brother Vishous had a muscle shirt with blood, not his own, on it. Just this morning. It was female in derivation.”
No doubt from when the brother had moved Mai’s body. “Good. Okay. Anyone else?”
“Balthazar and Zypher had the same blood on their shirts. I could tell by the scent.”
They had helped V, Butch thought.
There was a long period of silence. “I’m sorry, sire, I seem to be quite slow this evening.”
“Take your time, Lilf. It’s really important that you’re one hundred percent sure.”
The doggen crossed her arms over her chest, lowered her chin, and shut her eyes. As she seemed to fall into a trance-like state, Butch prayed that she would remember that—
“No one else,” she said as she lifted her lids. “Just those three. In the last five nights.”
“Out of the entire household.”
“Yes, sire.” She glanced at Fritz. “Have I done something wrong?”
Fritz patted her on the forearm. “Oh, no, dear. You’re doing just fine—as long as you’re certain.”
“I am.” She looked at Butch again. “I do all loads sequentially. There is a system that rotates through all the bedrooms. So I know whose laundry is whose.”
“Is there any way that V, Balthazar, or Zypher’s things could have gotten mixed up with someone else’s?” Butch spoke very carefully, as he didn’t want to offend the doggen. “Is it possible that you could be confused about whose muscle shirt is whose?”
Maybe V threw out his, and Syn’s was the other of the three she was counting. It wouldn’t