“That’s good work by Callendar,” Peabody commented.
“Yeah, it is. If we connect Berkle to Smith, we’ll set things up. Berkle contacts Smith. Needs some alterations, and fast. If she’s already got some on the slate, we get Berkle to move up the appointment.”
“And if she’s not connected?” Roarke asked.
“Berkle did some hefty shopping at Dobb’s, used Smith as her fitter. Berkle fits the fictional vic profile. They’re going to connect. Dobb’s is a long trip from the Upper East. Why go there to shop?”
“I wondered that,” Peabody said from the back—between sips of hot chocolate. “I played around some. It turns out her sister-in-law lives in Brooklyn. They’re pretty tight. They probably go together, have lunch, that kind of thing. Girl day.”
“She’s sixty-eight.”
“A girl’s a girl,” Peabody said.
Eve looked at Roarke. “Is she a sensible, steady sort of girl?”
“I don’t know her particularly well, but my impression is yes. She has a reputation for being no-nonsense when it comes to business, and generous in her causes.”
“Good. Steady would be good.”
They pulled up to a pale gold tower, one that boasted a pair of doormen in dignified gray-and-silver livery.
Eve stepped out even as they marched, in tandem, toward the offending DLE.
“NYPSD.” She whipped out her badge. “That’s my ride, and it stays where it is.”
“Miss—” At her fierce stare, the doorman on the left looked at her badge again. “Lieutenant,” he wisely corrected. “If you could use our private garage—”
“Where it is,” Eve said and strode between them to the doors.
Behind her, Roarke pulled out a couple of bills. “Ease the sting a bit.”
Eve strode straight to the concierge desk in a deep lobby mirrored with the pale gold. The air smelled faintly of roses, and her boots sank into the red-and-gold carpet spread over the polished floor.
At the desk, which held the roses in a fat, clear vase, a woman in a suit of bold blue smiled politely.
“Good evening. How can I help you?”
Eve held up her badge. “Natalia Durban Berkle. Is she in?”
“Before I discuss a resident or guest, I’ll need to verify your identification.”
“Do it.”
From under the desk, the woman took a scanner, ran it over the badge.
“Yes, Lieutenant, Ms. Berkle is at home. Is she expecting you?”
“The badge makes that question irrelevant. Is she alone?”
“Her daughter is with her, and her staff. No other outside visitors have logged in.”
Eve lifted a hand for Peabody. Peabody handed Eve the photo of Smith.
“Has this woman visited? Ann Elizabeth Smith.”
“I believe so, but let me verify.”
She turned to her comp, went to work. “I can verify that Ms. Smith has signed in to the visitors’ log. Her last visit was February third, at three in the afternoon.”
“Clear us up.”
“Lieutenant, I’m obligated to notify Ms. Berkle of requests to visit her private residence. If you could …” Her gaze shifted to Roarke. She blinked, twice.
“No harm in that, is there, Lieutenant?” Roarke said easily. “If you’d let Ms. Berkle know that Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, and Roarke would like a few moments of her time?”
“Of course. If you’d like to take a seat while I—”
“We’re fine,” Eve snapped. “Tag her, clear us up.”
“Absolutely.” She tapped her earpiece, waited a couple of beats. “Yes, Earnestine, it’s Paulette at the concierge desk. Would you see if Ms. Berkle is home to Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, and Roarke? Yes, I’ll hold.”
Eve shifted to eye the bank of three elevators—mirrored gold like the walls.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll be sending them up now.”
After another earpiece tap, Paulette went back to her comp. “Ms. Berkle would be delighted to greet you. Please take Elevator Three. I’ll clear it for Ms. Berkle’s residence. Enjoy your visit.”
Eve said nothing until they walked into the elevator and the doors shut—with soft, mindless music cuing on.
“You tipped those snooty doormen.”
“The snooty doormen were only doing their job,” Roarke responded.
“And you tipped the tight-ass concierge.”
“That I didn’t.”
“With Roarke charm.”
“Ah, that. Well now, that simply exudes when it’s called for, and is free for the taking.”
Peabody unsuccessfully muffled a snicker.
“But you don’t own the building, or we’d already be talking to Berkle.”
“I believe Natalia owns it, or the majority portion of it. Would you like me to make her an offer?”
“I’ve already dealt with a tight-ass, so I don’t need the smart-ass.”
“But it’s such a good match with your own. Our lieutenant draws smart-asses like bears to honey, wouldn’t you say, Peabody?”
“I don’t want her boot up mine, so I’ll take the Fifth.”
“Wise, as is our lieutenant, as she’s already connected your suspect with Natalia.”
“Coincidence is bollocks,” Eve said as the doors opened.
A woman stood pin-neat in black pants and a creamy white sweater, her hair a short and glossy brown bob around a pleasant face.
“Good evening, please come in. I’m Earnestine, Ms. Berkle’s personal assistant.”
She gestured them through the private foyer decked with fresh flowers in a dozen slim vases and a tinkling wall fountain of a mermaid pouring water from a seashell into a small pool.
The New York view dominated the living area through a wall of glass doors. Inside, a long, narrow fireplace snapped with light and flame under a large painting of a poppy field.
A U-shaped sofa in pale, shimmery blue faced the fire.
More seating—chairs, sofas—arranged in conversational groups picked up that shimmery blue and the poppy-red.
More art—lilies, overblown roses, and something that speared in purple that Eve couldn’t name—turned the walls into a garden. Obviously Berkle liked flowers.
A series of clear, floating shelves held what Eve assumed were expensive trinkets. In one corner stood a white piano with a trio of thick silver candlestands.
“Ms. Berkle will be right down. Let me take your coats.”
“We’re fine,” Eve told her.
“Please, take a seat. Be comfortable.”
Instead, Eve held out the photo. “Do you know this woman?”
“Yes, of course. Ann. She’s Ms. Berkle’s seamstress.”
“When did you see her last?”
“The beginning of this month when she delivered some alterations for Ms. Berkle.”
“How do you contact her?”
“I … have a ’link number.”
“I need that.”
“I, ah … Ms. Berkle.” Relief pumped off Earnestine as Berkle descended a sweep of glossy white stairs.
She didn’t look sixty-eight, Eve thought, but she did look rich.
Diamond studs glittered at her ears, and a fatter diamond weighed down her left hand. She wore those flowy pants, silver gray with the sheen of silk, matched with a draping blouse that showed off the diamond heart around her neck.
Icy blond hair swept back from a face with long-lashed blue eyes, a straight sharp nose, and a wide mouth dyed as red as the poppies on the wall.
She let out a quick trill of laughter and held out both hands to Roarke.
“What a lovely surprise!” She kissed both his cheeks.
“And you, Natalia, lovely as always.”
“You should’ve seen me three minutes ago.” She laughed again. “But I’ve had decades of practice in the art of illusion. And this must be your very impressive wife.”
“Lieutenant Eve Dallas, Detective Delia Peabody, the always lovely Natalia Berkle.”
“I’m simply delighted to meet both of you. Isn’t this exciting! Dru will be right down. You’ve met my daughter, Dru, haven’t you, Roarke?”
“I have, yes.”
“Wonderful. Let’s sit down, have some wine.”
“Ms. Berkle,” Eve interrupted. “This is official police business.”
“Yes, I assumed, which is part of the excitement. Oh, no wine then,” she said as she took Roarke’s hand and led him to the sofa.
“I’d love some,” he told her. “But it would be coffee for the lieutenant and detective.”
“Earnestine?”
“Yes, Marsha’s already seeing to refreshments. Should I finish upstairs?”
“I need you to stay.” Eve struggled not to snap. “I’m sorry to be abrupt, Ms. Berkle, but—”
“Natalia, please. I’m sure this is all part of the official police business. And here’s Dru. Dru, join us. I think we’re about to be interrogated.”
She looked like her mother—a younger version in stylish street clothes. And, like her mother, she walked to Roarke as he rose, kissed his cheeks. “So nice to see you again. And to meet you, Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. Mother and I both read Nadine Furst’s book, and saw the vid. We’re very big fans.”
“We’re not here to interrogate you, but we do have some questions. About Ann Smith.”
“Ann? Oh, thank you, Marsha,” Berkle said as a woman in a black dress wheeled out a cart. “That lovely Cab for the gentleman, Dru, and myself—after all, it’s from the gentleman’s vineyard. And coffee for the ladies.”
“That’s black for you, Lieutenant Dallas?” Dru asked. “And cream and sugar for you, Detective?”
“Thanks. Ann Smith,” Eve repeated. “I need her contact information.”