She considered pulling Peabody in, but didn’t see the point. If she pulled a name out of the fishing expedition, she could toss it to her partner, have Peabody do a run.
While she herself told people, who knew better than she did anyway, where to put flowers and lights and shiny balls.
And maybe, if she got through that fast, and Peabody came up with some solid information, she could squeeze out another hour to tug that line.
She’d honor the deal, she’d contribute, but she wasn’t going to spend an entire day playing lady of the manor. It made her feel stupid.
She headed east, zipping through traffic—blissfully light as the shops hadn’t opened yet. It didn’t stop the ad blimps blasting out with a kind of frenetic desperation about how many days, hours, minutes shopping time were left.
The carts were open, smoking with offerings of egg pockets and seasonal chestnuts, doing early business for the poor saps who’d open those shops and deal with the Saturday-before-Christmas insanity.
A SkyMall blimp announced the first two hundred paying customers would receive a FREE GIFT! She decided working security at the SkyMall ranked high on her list of worst ten jobs, right up there with shark tank cleaners—somebody had to do it—and proctologists.
Considering the motivations of obtaining a medical degree to poke into assholes kept her entertained until she pulled up in front of the shiny glass-and-steel building overlooking the East River.
She expected the doorman in his black-and-gold livery to hustle over and bitch about her substandard vehicle, and was prepared to snarl at him.
He was quick on his feet, actually opened the car door before she could.
“Lieutenant.” He offered her a hand and a dignified smile. “I’ll keep an eye on your vehicle.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Roarke contacted you.”
“Moments ago. I’m Brent if there’s anything I can help you with. I did check our records, as Roarke requested. I’m afraid we have no John Jake Copley listed.”
Eve pulled out her PPC, scrolled through to Copley’s ID shot.
“Do you recognize him?”
“Yes, of course. That’s Mr. Jakes.” Brent’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see! Mr. Jakes—or Mr. Copley—has number 37-A. The northeast corner unit on thirty-seven. He shares the unit with Ms. Prinze.”
“Full name?”
“One minute.” He took out his own handheld. “Mr. John Jakes and Ms. Felicity Prinze.”
“Okay. Give me a sense.”
“They’re relatively new to the building. I don’t see Mr. Jakes—Copley,” he corrected, “often. I’m pretty sure he works downtown as I chatted once or twice with his driver. Ms. Prinze is very nice, ah, considerably younger. She’s a . . . performer.”
“I bet. What sort?”
“From what I’ve heard, she was a dancer. She’s taking acting classes, dance classes, and I believe voice lessons.”
“Okay. Is she up there?”
“I’d say yes. She’s not what you’d call an early riser. Has she done something wrong, Lieutenant?”
“I’m going to find out.”
“I hope not,” he said as he opened the door of the building for her. “She’s a very nice young woman. Should I call up for you?”
“No, thanks. Do you know if Copley’s up there?”
“I can’t be sure as I came on this morning at eight. He hasn’t gone in or out since I’ve been on the door.”
“If you see him—come in or go out—tag me. This number.”
She passed Brent a card, walked to the elevator. “I appreciate the help, Brent.”
“Anything I can do, Lieutenant.”
She stepped into the elevator, texted Peabody the name of the side piece, the address, the bare bones, with instructions to do a full run.
The elevator rode smooth, but then Roarke knew how to bring smooth into a building. The hallway on thirty-seven was wide, quiet and tastefully painted, with carpets of classy black swirls on elegant gray.
Good security—and she’d have expected nothing less there in a Roarke’s property. Discreet cams worked into the crown molding, and each apartment outfitted with top-grade palm screens, cams, and alarms.
She stopped at 37-A. Double doors, she noted, to add that more powerful, important touch. She pressed the buzzer, waited.
She gave it three tries—increasing the length of the buzz—before the intercom clicked.
“Is that you, baby?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
“Huh?”
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” Eve held up her badge. “I’d like to speak with you, Ms. Prinze.”
“You’re really not supposed to try to sell stuff in the building. You could get in trouble.”
“I’m not selling anything. I’m the police.”
“The police?”
“NYPSD. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”
“Oh . . . But . . . How can I be sure you’re the police, Officer Eve?”
“Lieutenant.” For the second time that morning Eve