Page 22 of Passions in Death
“And that makes it nice and neat,” she muttered.
Maybe more likely, she thought, if Albright had anything concerning the Maui trip tucked away, she’d have tucked it in the artist space.
But they had to check.
More, she wanted to see where and how the couple had lived. Private spaces told you things people often didn’t.
She hunted for parking, lucked into a street spot under a block away. Then spotted Peabody and McNab hoofing their way toward her as she got out of the car.
Peabody’s pink cowboy boots clomped; McNab’s airboots with multicolored swirls pranced. His shirt somehow matched the boots, and his baggies shined neon blue.
At least Peabody wore sensible khakis and a blue—not neon—top under a tan blazer.
They held hands, but wisely uncoupled before they reached her.
“Warrant came through.” She pointed down the block, then continued to walk. “McNab, I spotted door cams, so start with the security feed. Look for the black case. I don’t expect to get that lucky, but let’s cross it off. Also anyone entering from TOD to an hour after we released the party group. Then we’ll want a search through any house e’s for any reference to this surprise trip.”
“All over it and back again.”
“Anything hinky with the e’s, we take them in. We’re authorized.”
She paused in front of the building for a longer look.
An old, faded brick, pre-Urbans, that had held its own during that violent era. No graffiti, sensible riot bars on the first-floor windows. Reasonable security. A four-decker, no retail space. Probably a walk-up, she thought, grandfathered in before mandatory elevators.
“They could both probably walk to work from here,” Peabody commented. “I checked, and Albright usually set up about six blocks from here, and her studio space is just under four. Fancy Feet is one crosstown block and one short block north. Rent takes a bite, but with two incomes, manageable. Just.”
“They’d save on transpo.”
“Yeah, they moved in here together just about ten months ago. Both had studio apartments previously. Combining those rents, this place isn’t much more. It’s billed as a two-bedroom, but the second’s smaller than your closet. I checked.”
“Top floor, southwest corner. I checked,” Eve said. “Let’s go have a look.” She walked up, mastered in.
The entrance area was smaller than her pre-Roarke closet, and barely fit the three of them.
Not altogether a walk-up, she realized, as it had one elevator. One dubious elevator.
She wouldn’t have used it in any case.
Stairs, barely wide enough for two across, had a sturdy rail that looked fairly new.
No soundproofing, as she could hear voices—on-screens, in actuality, and the requisite crying baby—from behind doors painted what she thought of as apartment green.
It looked and smelled reasonably clean. No trash on the cheap laminate floors, no graffiti on the builder’s-beige walls.
“Find the security hub or building super, McNab.”
“Both basement level.” He grinned. “I checked.”
“Good to start off the day efficient. Let’s move.”
Chapter Four
As they started up the steps, Eve heard Peabody whisper, “Loose pants, loose pants.”
At Eve’s cool stare, Peabody shrugged. “It helps.”
More noise on the second floor. Instead of a crying baby, a toddler wailed, “No! No! No!”
