Page 81 of Festive in Death

“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 struggled not to grind her teeth. “Lieutenant Dallas. Look at the badge, Ms. Prinze. You can scan it.”

“I don’t think I know how to do that. This whole security thingy is so complicated.”

Since she had some sympathy for technology fumblers, Eve dug for patience. “Okay. Do you know Brent—the doorman?”

“Oh, sure. He’s just a sweetheart.”

“You can call down, verify with him. I can wait.”

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