Chapter 12

Over breakfast in the bedroom sitting area, she outlined her strategy for the day.

"I thought about tagging Reo, trying to wrangle a warrant to search Copley's love nest." Eve bit into some bacon—honestly, good sex, a hot shower, then bacon? Did a morning get any better? "Reo's a smart APA, and she'll follow the dots I lay out. But even so, it's a long, skinny stretch for probable cause."

"I could get you in."

"Yeah." She slid a glance his way. "It's tempting to go the clever-fingers and lock-pick route, but no."

"I own the building," he said and ate some eggs.

"I should've figured. But even with that, there's no legal peg to hang an entry and search on."

"General maintenance, possible gas leak, suspicious sounds, smells, behavior. I imagine there are pegs."

"Weak ones."

"So your plan is?"

"To lie, if and when necessary. I'll get through building security, I've got a badge. If nothing else, I'll knock on doors, see if I can get a name and/or description of the side piece from neighbors, track her from that. I want a conversation."

"It may be she lives there."

"Yeah, that's the hope, but I'm not counting on that much good luck. Either way, it won't take long. Unless..."

"Unless?"

"Say I track her down, have a conversation and she says: JJ went to see that awful man, and there was a terrible accident. It wasn't Sugar Daddy's fault."

"Sugar Daddy."

"He qualifies. And she says how Copley tried to reason with Ziegler, but Ziegler got physical and then one thing led to another. Boo-hoo."

"But you're not counting on much good luck."

"I'm just pointing out the—very slim—possibility I might be more than a couple hours, considering if I find her, if she blabs, I'd have to go arrest Copley and try to grill him before he screams get me a lawyer. Like that."

"All very reasonable, but you don't have to explain to me. I'm bound to be fairly well occupied myself. I've some work to tidy up, then some preparation to oversee."

"Right, but..." She topped off his coffee, sent him a calculatedly innocent look. "If you should happen to run into Summerset while I'm gone, you could—"

"No."

"Come on."

"Absolutely no. Your deal."

She sulked over her eggs. Even bacon lost some appeal with the prospect of wrangling with Summerset.

"Isn't it bad enough I have to face hours of swarming decorators, then end that small nightmare by having Trina pour gunk all over me? Now I have to face the smirking disapproval of our resident corpse?"

"You run an entire division of murder cops firmly, cleverly, and efficiently. You'd step in front of a stunner to save an innocent bystander. You would, and have, faced off with vicious murderers. I think you can handle Summerset, decorators in our employ, and a hair-and-skin consultant."

He topped off her coffee in turn. "Buck up, Lieutenant."

"Bite me."

"I'll schedule that in."

She downed the coffee, rose. "Fine, but it's not my fault I don't know where the hell he is, and it's a really big house, so..."

She broke off, had to hold back a snarl when Roarke simply lifted his eyebrows.

"Okay, fine!" The battle lost, she stalked over to the house comp. "Where's goddamn Summerset?"

Good morning, darling Eve. Summerset is currently in the Park View guest room.

"Great. Where the hell is that?"

Before Roarke could answer, the computer continued in smooth tones.

The Park View is located here.

The little screen displayed a floor plan with a red dot pulsing in one of the rooms.

"The elevator would take you directly there if you request it," Roarke pointed out.

There was more chance Summerset would have moved on if she hoofed it. So she stalled. "Do all the guest rooms have names?"

"It's a simple way to organize them. Would you like a list?"

"No. How many are there?"

"More than enough."

"Ha!" She pointed at him. "Even you don't know."

"The number can vary as some of the salons, the sitting rooms, even entertainment areas can be utilized as guest rooms, if needed. Shouldn't you be on your way?"

"I'm going." She shoved her hands in her pockets. "I'll be back in plenty of time to do whatever."

"I'm sure you will. And I'll wish you luck even though with it you might be longer."

"Right." She hesitated, but couldn't find another reasonable excuse to stall. "If it's longer, I'll let you know."

When he only smiled, she walked out. She detoured to her office, fiddled for a few minutes, grabbed the coat she'd left there, then followed the route from the screen map.

Everything smelled faintly of pine and cranberries—how was that even possible? Floors gleamed, art shone.

She found the bedroom, started to knock. Stopped herself. It was her house, too, she reminded herself, and opened the door.

Easy to see how it got its name as windows framed with shimmering drapes opened to a view of the great park.

The bed struck her as sort of regal with a lot of deep carving on dark wood, and more shimmering stuff flowing over it under a bold garden of pillows.

Galahad sprawled over the foot of the bed as if he lived there.

Summerset, in his habitual funereal black, set a large painted vase filled with bloodred lilies on a table, turned to her.

"Is there something you need, Lieutenant?"

"No. What are you doing in here? Are those flowers for the cat or what?"

"I'm sure he appreciates them, but no. You're entertaining this evening, and there would be the possibility a guest might overindulge and be best served by staying the night."

"That's what Sober-Up's for."

"Regardless, hospitality decrees guest rooms are prepared for any eventuality. It's called courtesy."

"I'd say courtesy is not getting shit-faced drunk when you come to someone's house to a party, but that's just me. I have to go out for about an hour. I'll be back to do the stuff."

He arched one skinny eyebrow, made her teeth want to grind. "It's police business. I'm the police. I'm not welshing on the deal. I'll be back."

"As you say."

"That's right, as I say. So... go fuss with other bedrooms for potential drunks."

She walked out. She would not feel guilty for doing her job. She had a possible lead, and she had to follow up while it was hot, didn't she? Damn right.

But she checked the time, quickened her steps.

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 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."

"Oh, well, shoot, that's okay." Locks clicked and snicked before the doors opened to frame a serious bombshell.

She couldn't have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two. Curvy as a country road, she stood maybe five-two in her bare feet with their glittery red toes. Each big toe sported a painted snowflake in bright white.

She wore what Eve supposed would be called a peignoir—white as the snowflakes—a duet of a long silky gown, cut low on very healthy breasts, and an unbelted robe with fluffy white feathers decking the collar.

She had a heart-shaped face, all rose and cream, with a deeply bowed mouth—accented with a tiny beauty mark at the corner. Sleepy eyes in china-doll blue smiled out of a thick fringe of dark lashes.

"I'm not supposed to let just anybody in, you know? But since you're the police... OH! I just love your coat. It's so totally mag! I couldn't carry it, but—OH! Is it real leather?"

Before Eve could respond or evade, Felicity reached out to stroke the sleeve. "OH! It is! It's just gooshy-smooshy. I love real leather, don't you? I wonder if they make it in red. I love red, and I could have it cut down to knee-length maybe. Where'd you get it?"

"It was a gift."

The china-doll eyes sparkled. "I just love gifts, don't you?"

"Can I come in and speak with you, Ms. Prinze?"

"Oh, sure, sorry. You can call me Felicity. I'm sort of thinking of dropping the last name—professionally, you know? It's more fun, and sexier. Just one name. You know, like Roarke."

"Huh" was the best Eve could think of.

"You know: Roarke. The abso-ult rich guy. And completely iced. He actually owns this building. I would die to meet him, wouldn't you?"

"Well." She decided it was best not to mention she'd just recently banged said abso-ult iced Roarke into a mutual puddle.

"Hey, sorry! You maybe want some coffee? I have a stash of real. Police probably don't get real very much. I have a friend whose brother is a policeman back in Shipshewana. He's a sweetheart, but they sure don't make much money."

"What ship?"

"Shipshewana," Felicity said with a bubbly giggle. "Indiana. That's where I'm from, but I've been in New York almost a whole year now. I just got up, so I could sure use some coffee. I'll get us some, okay?"

"Great."

It gave Eve a chance to think. She watched Felicity walk away—who knew an ass could move in so many directions—then took stock.

As love nests went, Eve considered it upscale. A good-sized living area with a stellar view of the river through a wall of glass. The holiday tree stood front and center, rising from floor to ceiling, topped by a white angel and covered with red and gold balls.

She suspected Copley had let Felicity have her way with the decor as it ran to bright and fussy, feathers and beads. Like a cheerful bordello, Eve decided, all plush and girlie.

She wandered, noted the dining alcove—large enough for dinner parties with a red lacquer table holding a center Santa easily three feet tall.

She moved quietly, took a quick scan of a powder room—red accents, fussy soaps, frilly towels—a room with a ballet bar, a keyboard, a wall screen, rolled yoga mats, a glass-fronted friggie stocked with bottled water. One wall held a screen, another was completely mirrored.

She took a quick glance in the master bedroom—golds and reds, more feathers and beads, a huge mirrored bed, a bureau topped with a half dozen fancy perfume bottles, a masculine chest of drawers. A chaise piled with stuffed animals and dolls.

Gauging the time, Eve slipped back into the living area just before Felicity came out carrying a red tray holding two flowery cups with a matching creamer and sugar bowl.

"I didn't ask how you take your coffee."

"Just black's good."

"Ugh! I like lots of cream and sugar." She set the tray on a low table, sat. When she leaned over to doctor her coffee—and she did mean "lots"—Eve expected the impressive breasts to tumble right out of the peignoir.

"So." Felicity sat back, holding her cup with her pinkie curled out. "Are you all ready for Christmas?"

"Pretty much. Listen." How to begin? With a standard side piece, she'd have known her approach. But bombshell or not, this one was green as grass. "You live here with John Jake Copley?"

"You know JJ!" Delight pinkened her cheeks. "Why didn't you say so! Isn't he a dream? He's the sweetest man, and so good to me. I'm not really supposed to talk about him too much because, well, you know, he has to get his divorce and all."

"How did you meet him?"

"Oh, he didn't tell you?"

"We didn't get into that."

"It was so cute! I'm a dancer. I'm going to be a triple threat—that's what my voice coach says. I'm taking lessons, and acting lessons, and more dance lessons. JJ's paying for all of it. I'm an investment."

She flushed prettily.

"Anyway, I just couldn't stay in Shipshewana my whole life, could I?"

Eve got a strange picture of a pirate ship sailing through fields of corn and cows. "I don't see how."

"I know. Even though I miss everybody like crazy, you have to, you know, try to like fulfill your destiny. My theater teacher back home said I had real talent. A natural talent. So I came to New York. I want to work on Broadway, but it's really hard. They can be so mean at the auditions. And I didn't have as much money as maybe I should have. Things are really expensive here. I got a job as a waitress, but it gets really confusing. Then I got a dancing job. In one of those places, you know."

She winced a little.

"Yeah, I know."

"It was embarrassing at first, but like Sadie said, everybody's got a body, so big deal. And if you have a nice one, you can make some real money. I didn't like it a whole lot, but I was willing to sacrifice until I got my big break. You've got to pay your dues."

She took a sip of her coffee-flavored cream and sugar.

"So," Eve speculated, "you met JJ at the place where you danced."

"Oh yeah, right. One night JJ came in, and he got a lap dance. And then he got another one, and he bought me a drink. He wanted to, you know, but I don't do that. I'm not licensed, plus I don't want to, you know? For like money."

Eve considered the fancy apartment, the feathery peignoir—reserved judgment. "Okay."

"So JJ was with some, what do you call it, colleagues, and some of them got a little pushy. But not JJ. Anyway, he came back the next night and bought me another drink, and he was nice to talk to. Then he asked me out."

She pinked up again. "A real date. Dinner and everything. He took me out a few times—twice to a Broadway show, which was the ult. Then we, you know, but it wasn't like he was a customer. We were dating. I didn't know he was married, then he told me, and I was going to break it off because, you know, that's just not right."

"He didn't tell you he was married before... you know?" Eve qualified.

"No, but he explained how his wife's so awful, and controlling, and he's trying to get a divorce, and they don't even have sex."

"She doesn't understand him, appreciate him," Eve said.

"I know!" Irony wafted over Felicity's blond curls. "Then he bought this place so I'd have a nice, safe place to live. And he got me the lessons. And I have charge accounts and everything. I just have to be patient. It gets lonely sometimes because he has to travel so much for work, and he's trying to convince his terrible wife to agree to a civilized divorce. He's so sweet to me, and after he gets his divorce we're getting married. See."

She held out her hand—fingernails painted like her toes—to show off the rock on her ring finger.

Eve thought back to the hidden accounts, calculated what the rock would go for, if real. No charges or withdrawals corresponding, to her memory.

It struck her Felicity got the clichéd line and the fake diamond, and was naive enough to believe both.

"We're just crazy about each other. We'd spend every minute we could together if it wasn't for his awful wife, and if he didn't have to travel for work, like he is now."

Eve wondered if they grew them all this naive and gullible in Shipshewana.

"He's away on business now?" she asked.

"Yeah, he had to leave a couple days ago to give a big presentation way out in New L.A. He's really important, but you know that, so the client people wanted him especially. But he's going to be back for Christmas. He maybe has to spend most of it with his wife, because of how people gossip and stuff, but we're going to have our own Christmas here. Isn't the tree pretty?"

"Yeah, it's pretty. Do you know a Trey Ziegler?"

"Uh-uh. Is he a friend of JJ's? I haven't been able to meet his friends because of gossip and how his awful wife would use it to ruin him in the divorce. It's nice to meet you, so I can have somebody to talk with. Sadie, my friend from where I used to dance, says men never divorce their wives like they say, but JJ's not like that. We're crazy about each other."

"So you haven't seen JJ for a couple days?"

"Uh-uh. He had to go out of town, like I said, kind of all of a sudden. But he tags me every day, and he sent the flowers over there just yesterday."

Her extraordinary breasts swelled over the silk and feathers as she sighed.

"He's such a sweetheart. He's under a lot of stress what with work and his wife so we don't go out so much anymore. He needs the quiet. She's, what do you call it, vindictive. So I try to be really understanding, and make things nice for him when he's here."

"I'm sure you do. When did he leave town?"

"Um. Wednesday maybe. Was it?" She caught her pouty bottom lip between her teeth as she taxed her memory. "I get mixed up. He had to do the party with his wife—you know, for appearances—that night. Did you go?"

"I couldn't make it."

"Oh, too bad. I love parties. JJ was going to come over here afterward. And we were going to go have a big, fancy brunch at the caviar place for a treat. I just love caviar, don't you? But he had to go out of town."

"And he's never mentioned Ziegler?"

"I don't think so. Is he a client? JJ takes really good care of his clients. That's why he's so successful."

"I bet."

"Do you want to go out for breakfast maybe? My treat. I don't have dance or acting lessons today, and my voice coach doesn't come until two."

"I'm sorry. I can't."

"Oh, do you have to go already?" Felicity asked when Eve rose.

"I do, but maybe I'll come back. When JJ's here."

"That would be mag! We can have a little party."

"Why don't you get in touch with me when you expect him?" Eve pulled out a card. "We'll have that little party."

"Sure! This is, well, it's just magolicious. I can't wait."

"Neither can I." She opened the door, glanced back at the bombshell. "You know, Felicity, your friend Sadie sounds pretty smart."

"Oh, she's really smart. She's a really good friend, but she worries about me, and doesn't have to. She thinks I should go back to Shipshewana."

Eve decided Sadie might be the only person in New York dealing Felicity the truth.

"Have you talked to her recently?"

"I talk to her most every day. JJ doesn't want her to come here because, well, people don't always understand about the dancing, but... you've got to have girlfriends, right?"

"Yeah. What did she say about JJ having to go out of town, all of a sudden?"

"Oh, well, Sadie doesn't trust most guys. She's had some bad experiences. She never thinks JJ's telling me the truth."

"Like I said, she sounds pretty smart. Maybe you should listen to her. You ought to tag her up. And, Felicity? Maybe you should ask yourself why an important, successful man's doing out-of-town business over a weekend instead of grabbing a shuttle back to take you out for caviar."

Leaving it at that—the best she could do—Eve made her way out, nodded to Brent.

She hated feeling sorry for the woman—no, she corrected, girl. No more than a girl really. But it balanced out, she supposed. The sorrier she felt for Felicity, the more contempt she felt for Copley.

First chance, she promised herself, the two of them were going to have a long, fascinating conversation.

And it wasn't going to be much of a party.