Free Pretty Girls by Karin Slaughter Page B

question struck her as odd, or maybe she was annoyed by the way Fred Nolan was still breathing down her neck. “Why would the burglars break the glass in the door if they had a key?”
    Mayhew looked up from his notebook. “It’s just a routine question. We’ll need to talk to anybody who had access to the house.”
    Claire felt a tickling sensation at the base of her throat. She was starting to feel overwhelmed again. This was the sort of thing Paul would know. She tried, “The housecleaners, our handyman, Paul’s assistant, his partner, my mother. I can look for names and numbers.”
    “Your mom,” Nolan said. “She’s quite the pistol.”
    Claire pressed the code into the keypad beside the four-bay garage. The heavy wooden door slid silently up its tracks. She watched the men’s eyes take in the diamond-plate wainscoting and matching storage cabinets. The floor was a racetrack-white and black rubber tile. There was a bracket for everything—hand tools, extension cords, tennis rackets, golf clubs, basketballs, sunglasses, shoes. Paul’s custom workbench took up one side of the room. He had a charging station, a mini fridge, a flat-panel TV, and an air conditioner for hot summer days.
    Then, of course, there was Claire’s BMW and Paul’s Porsche Carrera and Tesla Model S.
    “Holy shit.” Nolan’s tone was reverential. Claire had seen men get harder over Paul’s garage than they ever got over a woman.
    “It’s through here.” Claire entered the four-digit code into another keypad and led them downstairs to the basement. She had loved that Paul loved his garage. He spent hours in here working on his models. Claire had teased him that the only reason he constructed them at home instead of at work was because here, he got to clean up after himself.
    “Kind of a neat freak,” Nolan said, as if reading her mind.
    “I got lucky,” Claire told him. Paul’s mild obsessive–compulsive disorder had never stopped their lives or made him do odd things like touch a doorknob twelve times. Actually, his compulsions manifested themselves in acts that any wife could appreciate: putting down the toilet seat, folding all the clothes, cleaning up the kitchen every night.
    At the bottom of the stairs, Claire entered another four-digit code into the keypad on the door. The lock clicked open.
    Mayhew said, “Never seen a basement under a garage like this.”
    Nolan said, “Kind of Silence of the Lambs -y.”
    Claire flipped on the lights and the small, concrete room came into stark relief. Paul had designed the space to double as a tornado shelter. Metal shelves held food and supplies. There was a small TV, a weather radio, a couple of camping cots, and plenty of junk food, because Claire had told Paul that in the event of the apocalypse, she was going to need lots of chocolate and Cheetos.
    She was glad she still had on her coat. The temperature was kept low because of all the computers. Everything was controlled from inside this room, not just the security cameras but all the audio-visual systems, the automation for the blinds and fixtures, and whatever else made the house run like magic. There were banks of components with flashing lights and a small desk with four flat-screen monitors mounted on articulating stands.
    Nolan asked, “Does your husband secretly work for the NSA?”
    “Yes.” Claire was tired of his questions, which were made even more grating by his flat, Midwestern accent. The most expedient thing would be to just give them what they wanted so they would go away.
    She opened a desk drawer and found the laminated checklist that explained how to work the security cameras. Paul had tried to walk her through the steps but Claire’s eyes had glazed over and she’d worried she was going to have a seizure.
    She tapped the computer keyboard and entered the access code to the system.
    “Lots of passwords to remember.” Nolan was standing too close again.
    Claire slid away from Nolan. She handed Mayhew