Home > Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(8)

Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(8)
J.D. Robb

She got out, planted her feet as the doorman curled his lip.

“You can’t park that heap here.”

“I just did.”

“Now you’re just going to move it. This space is reserved for pickups, drop-offs. For cabs, limos, and vehicles that aren’t an embarrassment to the vehicle industry.”

She flipped out her badge. “This is an official NYPSD vehicle, and it works for me. It stays where I put it.”

“Look, look, I’m all in support for the boys—and girls—in blue, but I can’t have junkers like that sitting out here.”

“Don’t judge a book by its title.”

“What?”

“Cover,” Roarke supplied. “It’s cover, darling.”

“Whatever. It stays . . .” She scanned his name tag. “Eugene. Have you seen Senator Mira tonight?”

“No, haven’t seen him and I’ve been on the door since four. Look, look, pull that thing around the corner, into the garage. I’ll buzz ’em, and you won’t have to pay.”

“Some might consider that attempting to bribe a police officer. I’m going to let it pass. How about Mrs. Mira?”

“Her social secretary left about twenty minutes ago, so as far as I know Mrs. Mira’s up there. What’s the beef here?”

“I’m going to have one with you if you don’t clear us up to the Mira apartment, and now. It’s been a long day, pal, and now I’m wet and cold. I can make your life a living hell should I choose to do so.”

“Cops,” he mumbled under his breath and lumbered back to the doors. He stomped over to the lobby comp.

“Mrs. Mira or one of her people have to clear you. They bought a private elevator, and if I try to send you up without clearance, that trips an alarm. And it’s my job. You can make my life a living hell, but, sister, you’ve got nothing on my wife. I lose my job, she’ll make me wish I was in hell.”

“That’s Lieutenant Sister—and let them know the NYPSD needs to speak with Mrs. Mira.”

He tapped something on the screen, then put on an earpiece for privacy. “Yo, Hank, it’s Eugene on the door. I got the NYPSD down here needing to speak with the boss. Uh-huh. Yeah, that’s next. Got it.”

He turned to Eve. “Need to scan that for verification, and Mrs. Mira’s security is informing her you want to come up.”

“Scan away.”

Once he verified, he went back to the screen and Hank. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, verified. All right. Security wants to know what you want to talk to Mrs. Mira about.”

“I’ll discuss that with Mrs. Mira, in order to respect her privacy.”

“She said— Okay, you heard her. I got it.”

He turned away from the screen to gesture to the last elevator in a line of three. “That’s the private. I’m going to send you straight up. Security will meet you.”

“Dandy.” Eve strolled to the elevator with Roarke, waited for the doors to open.

They did so with barely a whisper. The car had soft gold walls, a bench padded with royal blue on each side, and a small table holding a vase of white roses on the back wall.

“Who does that?” Eve wondered. “Who puts flowers in an elevator?”

Roarke continued to work on his PPC. “They purchased the entire top floor—that’s four units and terraces—eight years ago.”

“The whole top floor.”

“Indeed they did, to the tune of twelve-point-three million. You did say to have a go at their finances.”

“I figured that for when we’re home.”

“The anticipation was too much for my fragile willpower. Oh, the car has ears and eyes as well, but I took the liberty of jamming both when we got in.”

“You do keep busy.”

“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

“Why? They’re idle when you’re sleeping—does he set up shop then? Are we all supposed to stay awake using our hands so the devil doesn’t make stuff? What if you broke your hand? Is he doing his workshop thing while you’re waiting to have it fixed?”

Roarke contemplated the pale gold ceiling. “Such a simple, if moralistic, phrase now thoroughly destroyed.”

“I keep busy, too.” Pleased with herself, she strode off when the doors whispered open.

A big, built black guy, who looked as if he should grace the cover of some men’s fashion mag, stepped forward in the wide entrance foyer. There were more white roses, more benches, subdued lighting—and double doors, firmly closed.

“Lieutenant, sir,” he said to them with a faint British accent. “I’ll need to stow and secure your weapons as well as any electronic devices before I let you in to see Mrs. Mira.”

“Not a single, solitary chance in hell.”

“Then I’m afraid, without a warrant, this is as far as you go.”

“All right. I’ll assume Mrs. Mira isn’t concerned about her husband being attacked and possibly kidnapped this evening. Any change there, she can contact me at Central tomorrow. I’m going off duty. Let’s go eat spaghetti,” she said to Roarke and turned back to the elevator.

“Just a minute. Are you claiming Mr. Mira’s been attacked?”

“With meatballs,” Eve added. “And a nice glass of wine.”

“Sounds absolutely perfect to me. In front of the fire?” Roarke added. “It’s a night for a fire in the hearth.”

“Lieutenant Dallas!”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Are you talking to me?”

“Has Senator Mira been injured?”

“Look, Hank, I’m here to speak with Mandy Mira on official police business. She either agrees to the access or she doesn’t. Stop wasting my time.”

“Please wait here. I need a minute.”

“That’s what you’ve got. Sixty seconds. From right now.” She lifted her arm, deliberately consulting her wrist unit as Hank opened the doors, slipped inside.

Then she drew a deep breath. “Why are people so bitchy to cops?”

“I can’t imagine, but now I actively crave spaghetti.”

“We’ll get there.” She turned around as the doors opened again on the thirty second mark.

“If you’ll come in, Mrs. Mira will be right with you.”

“Fine. She’s got about twenty-five seconds left.”

“Lieutenant,” he began, looking relieved when he was interrupted by the quick click of heels.

Mandy Mira was a tall, impressive-looking woman with a statuesque figure and a gilded swing of hair. It fascinated Eve that one side stopped at the ear while the other curved at her chin.

Eyes, coldly blue under a sweep of deep brown eyebrows, managed to convey annoyance and boredom.

“What is this nonsense? I’m not accustomed to having the police at my door, and don’t appreciate you using some wild fabrication of an attack to worm your way in.”

“Have you spoken to your husband in the last couple hours, Mrs. Mira?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Okay, sorry for the worming in.” Eve turned to go.

“I demand to know what this is about!”

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