The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,106
his hands in the pockets of his slacks so he didn’t worry the watch band of his Piaget. Or the collar of his button down. “Is there something specific you’re looking for?”
Duh.
“What happens with the footage? Where is it recorded and stored?”
“Are you asking if you can view it?”
“You know, I am.” Smile. “It would be helpful.”
When Lane didn’t immediately answer, the detective smiled some more. “Listen, Mr. Baldwine, I know you want to be helpful. You and your family have been very open during the course of this investigation, and my colleagues and I have appreciated it.”
Lane frowned. “Actually, I’m not sure where it’s kept.”
“How can that be? Don’t you live here?”
“And I don’t know how to get access to it.”
“Show me where the computers are and I’ll handle it.” There was another pause. “Mr. Baldwine? Is there a reason why you don’t want me to see the footage from your estate’s security cameras?”
“I need to talk to my lawyer first.”
“You’re not a suspect. You’re not even a person of interest, Mr. Baldwine. You were down at the police station when your father was killed.” Merrimack shrugged. “So you have nothing to hide.”
“I’ll get back to you.” Lane returned to the door and opened it wide. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go have breakfast.”
Merrimack took his sweet time walking over to the exit. “I’ll just go and get a warrant. I’ll still get access.”
“Then this doesn’t present you with a problem, does it.”
The detective stepped over the threshold. “Who are you protecting, Mr. Baldwine?”
Something about the look in the man’s face suggested Merrimack knew exactly who Lane was worried about.
“Have a wonderful day,” Lane said as he shut Easterly’s door on that knowing smile.
As Gin inspected her throat in her dressing room’s mirror, she decided the bruises were faded enough such that, with a little make-up, no one was going to notice them.
“Marls.” She sat down in the padded chair she used when she was getting done up. “Where is Tammy? I’m waiting in here.”
Her suite of rooms was done in shades of white. White silk drapes hanging from white-sashed antique windows. White wall-to-wall carpet thick as frosting on a cupcake in the bedroom and white marble with gold veining in the bath. She had an all-white bed that was like sleeping on a cloud and this walk-in dressing/closet enclave was nothing but mirrors and more of that carpeting. Lighting was provided by crystal chandeliers and crystal sconces that dangled like Harry Winston earrings from key vantage points—but the fixtures were the new ones, not that old, distorted Baccarat stuff downstairs and elsewhere.
She had beyond had it with stodgy Orientals and oil paintings that were like dark stains on the walls.
“Marls!”
This dressing area was a connector between her bathing space and where her clothes hung, and she had long used it, even before the quarter-of-a-million-dollar overhaul, as her prep area. There was a professional hairdressers’ set-up for the cutting, coloring, and washing of her hair, a make-up station to rival the Chanel counter at Saks in Manhattan, and enough perfume bottles, lotions and potions to put goop in the shade.
There was even a long window overlooking the back gardens in case they wanted to see anything in natural light. Or look at some flowers. Whatever.
Tapping her manicured fingertips on the chrome arm, she twisted the chair around with her bare foot. “Marls! We’re leaving in a half hour for the courthouse. Come on! Call her!”
“Yes, ma’am,” her maid flustered from the suite proper.
Tammy was the make-up artist in town, and she always booked Gin ahead of her other clients for several reasons: One, Gin tipped well; two, the woman got to say that she did Gin’s make-up; and three, Gin allowed Tammy to attend the parties at Easterly and elsewhere as if she were actually a guest.
While Gin waited, she inspected her make-up collection, the lot of it fanning out in a professionally mounted display, the complete compliment of MAC eye shadows and blushes a child’s playground of colorful trouble, the rolling tables of foundations, beauty treatments, and brushes looking like something you might need a PhD to operate. In front of her, a twin set of theater lights went down both sides of the mirror, and overhead, there was a set of track lighting you could change the hue of, depending on whether you wanted to see the reds, yellows, or blues of a given hair color or make-up look.