Vendetta in Death (In Death #49) - J. D. Robb Page 0,57
got on the elevator along with more business types. She tuned out the talk of marketing strategies, Jenny in accounting’s birthday, brainstorming sessions, lunch meetings as the damn car stopped on every damn floor to let some off, let more on.
She grieved for the glides at Central.
Everything smelled like too much perfume, cologne, fake coffee, somebody’s mid-morning muffin, somebody else’s fear sweat.
On twelve she stepped out into a moment of blessed quiet.
Discretion’s office, behind double-frosted glass doors, held more quiet yet, and the faint scent of … she didn’t know what the hell, but it was good—and probably discreet.
The waiting area held deep scoop chairs, each with an individual screen. Maybe to preview choices of companions, she thought.
A single female—late twenties, silky blond hair, sharp green eyes, and a red suit that showed just a hint of black lace at the cleavage—sat at what looked like an antique desk or excellent replica.
She swiveled away from her comp screen, smiled. “Good morning and welcome to Discretion. How can I assist you?”
Eve pulled out her badge. “Manager.”
The smile faded. “We’re fully licensed and inspected.”
“Not my area, not my question. We need to speak to whoever runs the show, regarding a dead guy.”
“Wh—how— Please wait.”
She didn’t call back from the desk, but popped up and rushed away on shoes so high Eve wondered she didn’t suffer nosebleeds.
“You’ve got to give them classy,” Peabody decided. “The colors, the furnishings—and those are real miniature orange trees over there. In blossom. What a great smell.”
Okay, Eve thought, so that was it.
Another woman came back—tall heels again, these with toes so pointed Eve imagined they could jab a hole in brick. A good two decades older than the desk girl, she had an air of what Peabody would have called class.
The dark suit with its short skirt showcased excellent legs; the fitted jacket, an excellent body. Her hair, a kind of caramel, coiled tidily at her nape. Her skin, a few shades lighter, all but glowed, and her eyes, sea green, showed only polite curiosity.
“I’m Araby Clarke. Why don’t we speak in my office?”
“Okay.”
She gestured, led them to a wide doorway, into a long hall. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your names, but I swear … have we met?”
“Oh, of course! No, we haven’t met until now.” She gestured again into a spacious office. “But I did see the vid, and admit I’ve followed you and Roarke, and you, Detective, whenever there’s media. Please sit.”
The office suited her, deep cushioned chairs in dull gold, glass tables holding glass vases and exotic flowers. Art of beautiful men and women—oddly romantic rather than sexual. And a view of command through the window behind the long, glossy desk.
“You gave Kerry quite a jolt.” She sat, crossed her killer legs. “She said someone was dead. Is it someone I know?”
“Thaddeus Pettigrew.”
That polite curiosity flashed away. Eve wouldn’t say the woman jolted, but she registered distress. “Oh no. Oh, I’m very sorry to hear this. He’s been a client for years.”
“Years. As in?”
“I’ll have to check, but I believe at least a decade.”
So, not a new habit, Eve thought. “I’m going to need you to check on that, and several other things.”
Araby sat back. “You put me in an interesting position. Under most circumstances we would refuse to answer any questions regarding a client. Even with a warrant, I would contact my legal department and do what could be done to void that.”
“He was murdered, Ms. Clarke.”
“I realize that, or why would Dallas and Peabody be in my office? And that’s precisely why I won’t demand a warrant. I do want just a moment to talk to my legal people. I’ve owned Discretion for sixteen years, and we’ve never had anything like this happen. I want to make certain I do the right thing for everyone involved. If you’d just give me a minute.”
When she hurried out, Eve nodded. “She’ll give us what we ask for.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, because she wants to. She liked him—at least the way you like a longtime, regular customer. We’ll get what we came for.”
So Eve settled back to wait.
11
Eve shoved her way over the bridge to Brooklyn, weaving through, leapfrogging over the thick river of vehicles heading in the same direction. The river clogged when neck-craners slowed to study the delivery truck and sedan with crunched fenders along with the police cruiser dealing with the encounter in the breakdown lane.
Eve cursed them all for idiots, hit lights and sirens, pushed into