Vendetta in Death (In Death #49) - J. D. Robb Page 0,80
No reports filed. None filed during the three-year marriage on the husband.”
Eve sat back, let it cook. “I want to talk to both of them.”
15
Roarke opted for a lot near the apartment building on the Lower East Side. Considering the ride, Eve couldn’t blame him for rejecting a street slot, even if they found one.
Plus, since the piss-trickle rain had finally stopped, it wasn’t a bad night to walk a few blocks.
“I still have to try to run down the concrete, the epoxy,” Eve commented.
“You’ll learn that Mildock’s been in business more than a century, and the floor you’re looking for may have been poured long, long ago.”
She’d thought of that herself, but still scowled. “That’s not helpful.”
“Alternately, it may be a newer pour, or a resurfacing before the color sealer. I’d push more on the epoxy, which would need refreshing every decade or so if the floor gets any real traffic.”
She blew out a breath. “Odds of me hitting anything on either are slim to none. What it gives me is a match when we find the kill zone.”
He took her hand. “I wager I could dig up blueprints of Eloise Callahan’s home here in New York without too much trouble. Then you’d know if a basement area exists.”
“A garage does. I saw it. But I like basement better. Or there might be another outbuilding behind the main house.”
“I’ll have a look when we get home again.”
They paused outside the building, both studying the layout, the security.
“I’d say the odds of the basement or subfloor of this building having a top-grade epoxy finish in Burnished Gold are too long to measure.”
Eve nodded. “Decent, working-class, reasonable security, but nothing approaching top-of-the-line. Door cam, and it looks like it’s in working order. We can take a look at the feed from the last couple nights, just to eliminate, but this isn’t it. It’s not going to be a multi-resident building. Not private enough.”
Eve glanced up. “They’re both on the fifth floor. Let’s take Ruzaki first, and see if we can pull Fassley in. Hitting them together’ll give me a sense of the dynamic.”
Ignoring the buzzer, she mastered into a small lobby that smelled lightly of pine cleaner and somebody’s take-out Chinese. She eyed the pair of elevators suspiciously.
“Let’s risk it.” Roarke called the car, tugged her inside. The elevator smelled exactly like the lobby.
When they exited on the fifth floor, she caught the pine, but not the Chinese.
“Right across from each other,” Eve noted, glancing from one apartment door to the other. “Ruzaki’s got police locks and a door cam.”
“Violent ex-husband,” Roarke surmised. “Still worried there, I’d say. Just the standards on Fassley’s, so either she can’t afford the extras, or she isn’t worried about someone forcing his way in.”
“I’m betting on the second.” Eve pressed the buzzer on Ruzaki’s door.
It only took a moment for the cautious voice to come through the intercom. “Yes?”
“Lieutenant Dallas and civilian consultant, NYPSD.” She held up her badge. “We’d like to speak with Una Ruzaki.”
“About what?”
“Ms. Ruzaki?”
“Yes.”
“It would be easier if we came in to speak with you.”
“Would you hold your badge a little higher? I’m going to contact the police and verify it.”
“Sure. Contact Cop Central.”
While they waited, Eve heard the murmur of entertainment screens, occasional kid squeals. Then the locks opened.
“I’m sorry. It’s better to be careful.”
“No problem.”
A quiet-looking brunette, Eve thought, mixed race, about five-three, on the thin side. She was dressed in what looked like plaid pajama pants, a white T-shirt, and bright red house skids.
“What’s this about? Sorry, come in.”
The living area was decorated in quiet colors like the woman, except for an area sectioned off in a kind of playroom. That held brightly colored blocks and toys in a bin. Another section held a small table and chairs. The tablet, the glass of something fizzy indicated Una had been sitting there when they arrived.
“Your name’s come up during the course of an investigation. We believe you might be able to provide additional information.”
Her fingers twisted together to match the nervous expression on her face. “What kind of investigation?”
“I’m Homicide.”
“Oh. God. Wait.” She hustled down a short hallway, peeked in a room, then quietly closed the door. “My son. He’s only three. I don’t want him to wake up and hear … I don’t know anything about a murder. Is it someone I know?”
When her lips pressed together, Eve read both hope and dread on her face.
“Do you know Nigel McEnroy or Thaddeus Pettigrew?”