At the top of the window, a pair of tiny metal plates had been stuck to the cracking paint, one on the frame, the other on the sash. There was another set at the bottom and the things appeared to be made of copper that had been coated with a matte finish of some kind. If she hadn’t come over, she never would have noticed them.

Grier went back through living room, the kitchen and the bathroom, and found the same thing on every single window. Top and bottom, two sets. And the doors were likewise equiped—all of them, interior and exterior.

She knew exactly what the plates were.

Her multimillion-dollar house on Louisburg Square in Beacon Hill had them on its own sashes and jambs. They were state-of-the-art security alarm contacts.

Standing in the center of the apartment, her mind ran through the math: bowling-alley empty, forty-dollar sleeping bag for a bed, no phone . . . but the place was wired for sound like it was a bank safe.

Time to dig around.

Using the soft cloth that she cleaned her sunglasses with, she went through her client’s personal effects without leaving fingerprints behind—and she found the alarm’s receiver in the folds of the sleeping bag. As well as a pair of forty-caliber handguns that were fitted with silencers and had no serial numbers on them and a hunting knife that was well-worn but viciously sharp.

“Jesus . . . Christ,” she whispered, putting everything back just as she’d found it.

Rising up from her crouch by the “bed,” she went into the kitchen. Systematically going from handle to handle, she wiped off her prints and then looked under the sink and behind the refrigerator. Next stop was the bathroom, and her hands were shaky as she got rid of any traces she might have left behind and also flashed her penlight into dark corners.

In her haze of jerky suspicion, she was well aware that she was violating her client’s privacy, but the bloodhound in her couldn’t stop—the frantic hunt was like a muscle that hadn’t been used and needed the exercise. She had done this so many times with Daniel’s apartments and cars, and by the time she finished going through Isaac Rothe’s place, she felt sweaty and vaguely nauseous in a very familiar way.

No drugs, though. Anywhere.

Returning to the living room, she measured the windows once again. The twenty-five grand would be worth protecting . . . but the security system hadn’t been activated.

Which meant it was used as a notifier when Isaac was sleeping.

In her experience, the only kind of criminal element with access to this caliber of equipment was a drug lord or very high-level Mafia capo. Her client’s affect and physical appearance matched neither of those profiles—typically, those were older men, not under-thirties who were built like enforcers.

There was one other possible explanation, however.