Page 25 of Girl, Empty (Ella Dark #27)

Alexander Sinclair’s house had a driveway big enough for ten cars, and there wasn’t a single car on it. That alone was cause for concern, Ella thought.

‘That’s a lot of house for one person,’ Ripley said.

‘Sure is. Doesn’t look like Sinclair is home, though.’

‘You know who has houses this big and no family? Weird people.’

Ella unhooked her belt and grabbed the door handle. ‘That’s a generalization, but I don’t think you’re far off the mark.’

‘Think about it. If you’ve got money, people flock to you, especially the opposite sex. You’re fighting them off. Sinclair’s file said he was 52 and single with no kids or divorces to his name.’

‘Let’s go take a look.’ Ella exited the car and headed down the cobblestone driveway towards the front door. Ripley spent a moment scanning the perimeter before catching up.

‘And another thing – I thought this guy was a security freak? I’m not seeing much in the way of security.’

Ella reached the front door and conceded that Ripley had a good point. Despite the house’s size, there wasn’t much keeping potential burglars at bay. ‘Maybe he relies on those weapons he’s got.’

‘Yeah, let’s get a closer look at this collection. I’ve got a feeling some of that stuff should be in our vault at HQ.’

Ella hammered on the door and waited. Meanwhile, Ripley took it upon herself to gawp through the ground floor windows, but she couldn’t see much judging by how she was cupping her eyes against the glass.

‘Looks dead in here,’ she said.

One more knock on the door. Then, to Ella’s surprise, she saw movement behind the frosted glass. She gestured for Ripley to hurry up and get over.

The door unlocked, and it opened to reveal a young woman in what Ella guessed was a cleaner’s outfit. Blue scrubs, stains on the shoulder. ‘Yes?’ the woman said.

‘Hi. We’re with the FBI. Is Alexander Sinclair home?’

‘Mr. Sinclair has just gone to the store.’ Her accent was Eastern Europe.

‘How long will he be?’

The cleaner pocketed a rag. ‘I never know with Mr. Sinclair. Could you come back at’

‘We’ll wait,’ interrupted Ripley. She flashed her badge. ‘May we come in?’

‘That’s…. I don’t… Mr. Sinclair is-’

‘He’ll understand.’ Ripley stepped forward in lieu of an invitation.

The cleaner hesitantly stepped aside, looking all but like she was welcoming a fatal dose of anthrax into her boss’s house.

Ella reassured herself that it wasn’t illegal to enter a home with the resident’s consent, even if that consent had been a little coerced.

The cleaner opened the door and Ripley walked inside. That’s all a judge would see.

‘Is there a reason Mr. Sinclair went to the store himself?’ Ella asked. ‘He doesn’t seem the… store-going type.’

‘I cannot drive,’ the cleaner said. ‘Please. Sit in the front room, if you must. I need to get back to the job. Is this okay?’

Ripley said, ‘You go right ahead. We’ll just take a seat.’

‘Down the hallway. Door number four. I’ll be upstairs in the bedroom.’

The agents followed the vague directions down the corridor and through the fourth door on the right.

A grandiose living room emerged, which looked more like the lovechild of three disparate living rooms rather than a single one.

A leather sectional of beige took up one corner, and it faced a TV so massive it could probably be seen from space.

The opposite wall had a silver theme, complete with a single chair in desperate need of TLC.

Then there was a multi-colored corner full of abstract art.

Ella could already feel Ripley’s frustration bubbling over.

‘Did he rob a furniture store?’ Ripley said.

‘Or three furniture stores.’

‘Look at that crappy art. Max makes more interesting pieces than that.’

‘Just take a seat, woman. Don’t waste all that rage. Not when you can direct it at Sinclair himself when he gets here.’

Ripley dropped gracelessly onto Sinclair’s beige sofa and put her feet on his coffee table. She sighed and said, ‘It would be nice if the cleaner made us a drink, wouldn’t it?’

‘We can’t ask that. It’s rude,’ Ella said.

She was circling the living room in search of anything suspicious, but there wasn’t much to see.

If not for the strange mismatch of styles, it would seem like a show-home.

‘Mia, you think this guy is one of those… tech billionaires? Those nutty recluses? You hear about them all the time. Apparently there’s hundreds of them. ’

‘Billionaire? God no. This is house is barely seven figures. It’s big, but it’s built like crap.

’ She rapped her knuckles against the wall beside her.

‘You hear that? Drywall with fiberglass insulation. Cheap as hell. Not to mention I can hear the freeway from here. You couldn’t pay me to listen to car engines. ’

The floorboards from the upstairs creaked. Ella guessed the cleaner had gone back to work. ‘We need to be ready to grab Sinclair when he gets here. If he gets a sniff that we’re FBI, he’ll run. Let’s hope he doesn’t recognize the car.’

‘You know, we can’t really risk that,’ Ripley said. ‘If he’s our guy, he’ll be in the paranoid stage.’

‘Second Kill Syndrome.’

‘Exactly. So we should… get a closer look. Maybe we ought to wait out in the hallway.’

Ella caught the ulterior motive right away. The hallway. Waiting out there meant they’d be right outside the other doors in the corridor; doors the cleaner hadn’t invited them into. Doors that perhaps led to Sinclair’s private collection.

‘What’s the legal stance on that?’

‘I forgot.’

‘Did you choose to forget?’

‘Yup.’

Ella was quick to surrender. The problem with working in a field you were passionate about was that personal curiosity sometimes interfered with professional limitations, and curiosity usually won.

‘Alright, but we go careful. No forced entries.’

‘Relax. The cleaner said we could be in the house. She didn’t specify which room.’

They slipped back out into the hallway. A vacuum whirred to life upstairs. Perfect cover to go snooping. Ripley pointed to the first door with a nod of her head. She opened it and a sterile, gleaming white kitchen greeted them in return.

‘Next,’ Ella said. She checked the door opposite the kitchen. A slow turn of the knob and an office appeared. The place was dominated by a chrome desk with a desktop computer perched atop. ‘He’s only got one monitor.’

‘Most people only have one monitor.’

Ella’s point of reference for computer nerds was Roadrunner back at HQ. She’d never seen him with any less than three screens, and he always said the more screens, the more the man. ‘Not savant hackers.’

‘We don’t know anything about savant hackers. That’s our whole problem. Come on, next room.’

Beside the office was a door that led to a home gym. There was a treadmill in the corner, a yoga mat, and a weight rack, none of which looked like they'd ever been touched. It was the kind of gym someone built just to say they had a home gym. No one had ever sweat in here.

They were running out of doors. Only one remained at the far end of the hall, and Ella wasn’t about to go upstairs in case the cleaner tipped Sinclair off that they were snooping.

Ella tried the handle to the final door, but it was locked.

Ripley tried next, then she shot Ella a look with her eyebrows raised.

‘We’re not breaking it down,’ Ella whispered.

‘Who said anything about breaking it down?’

‘Your face did.’

Ripley stuck her pinkie finger in the keyhole, like that might somehow unlock it. ‘It’s one of those antique locks.’

‘Not exactly high-tech.’

Ripley grinned. ‘You still do that trick?’

‘Trick? I can’t handle any more magic, Mia. Not today.’

‘You know the one I mean. With the string.’

‘Ugh. Yes, but we…’ Ella peered over at the door, just in case Sinclair had miraculously appeared. ‘We can’t go in. What if there’s nothing inside?’

‘There is. I can tell.’ Ripley began to jiggle the knob aggressively, then started ramming her shoulder against the doorframe.

‘Mia, stop!’ Ella hissed. ‘You’re going to leave marks! What the hell are you doing?’

‘A locked door means there’s something inside worth hiding. Come in. We’ll be in and out in a few seconds.’

Ella already knew she couldn’t win this argument, but it was oddly refreshing to see Ripley being so cavalier. There was once a time when she’d scold Ella for saying the wrong thing to an interviewee, now she was violating locked doors on the off-chance there might be some evidence inside.

‘Fine. Better a picked lock than a splintered door. You really want me to do this?’

‘Dark, if Sinclair doesn’t have an alibi, we’re going to have to devour this place anyway. I’m just saving us some time.’

Ella exhaled through her nose and reached into her pocket.

Her keys jangled as she pulled them out.

Attached was coiled, four-inch piece of thin, wound metal.

A high-E guitar string. The right type of guitar string had tiny ridges spiraling down the metal, and with the right angle, those ridges could catch the pins inside an old tumbler lock the same way a key's teeth would.

She'd worked at a key cutter's after leaving school, and it had been the best education of her life.

‘Alright. But we’re in and out in ten seconds, okay?’

‘Roger.’

‘Keep an eye out.’

Ella bent the string at a ninety-degree angle and slid it into the keyhole.

The metal scraped against the pins inside.

She applied gentle upward pressure while twisting and felt for that sweet spot where the ridges would catch.

The first pin clicked into place. Then the second.

Old locks like these usually had five pins.

For a supposed security enthusiast, Sinclair wasn't living up to his reputation.

Third pin. Fourth.

The lock clicked open.

‘Still got it,’ Ella said.