“Ladies. What can I do for you today?”
“Anthony Hampton?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD, with my partner Detective Peabody.”
“Cops?” His smile turned to a grin as he studied the badges. “That’s a first. Is there a problem in the building?”
“No, sir. We’d like to come in.”
“Okay, sure, but . . .” He glanced behind him. “We’re kind of in mid-chaos around here. Getting married on Saturday.”
Eve felt the clench in her gut, but stepped inside. The hard, she realized, just became brutal. And brutal should always be done quickly. “Mr. Hampton, I regret to inform you that your cohab, Karlene Robins, is dead.”
“What? Jesus, that’s not funny. If this is one of Chad’s sick jokes—”
“Mr. Hampton, the body of Ms. Robins was found this morning. She’s been officially identified. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Come on, come on, that’s fucking bullshit.” The anger slapped out as he grabbed Eve’s arm, shoved her toward the door. “Get the hell out of here.”
“Mr. Hampton.” Eve countered the grip, muscled the man into a chair. “Karlene was murdered in a loft in SoHo, where we believe she took a client for a showing. Did she take a client on a showing yesterday?”
“That’s what she does. That’s what she’s doing right now.” He dragged out his pocket ’link. “Right now.” He punched a single key. And shoved at his hair as a musical voice informed him Karlene was unavailable. “Karlene, I need to talk to you. Goddamn it, Karlene, now. Whatever you’re doing, I need to talk to you now.”
“Anthony.” Peabody crouched down, laid a hand over his. “We’re very sorry.”
“She’ll tag back. She will.” His breathing began to heave and hitch. “She’s just busy. It’s a crazy week.”
“When did you last speak with her?”
“I . . . Yesterday, when she left for work. But, we texted a few times.”
“She lives here, but she didn’t come home last night?”
“She had some work, a client on the hook. And then she was going to Tip’s to do some wedding stuff. She stayed with Tip last night. Tip. I’ll get ahold of Tip, and then . . .”
Eve let him play it out, let him call the friend, listen to her tell him she hadn’t seen or heard from Karlene. She watched anger and disbelief take its horrible slide into grief.
“She—she’s at work. She’s at work. I can contact her boss, and she’ll—”
“Anthony.” Peabody repeated his name, in that same gentle way.
His eyes changed, filled with desperate pain. “But she can’t be dead. That can’t be true.”
“When did she text you?”
“I don’t remember, exactly. Here.” He shoved the ’link at Peabody. “It’s logged. It’s right in there.”
As Peabody took the ’link, stepped away to check its log, Eve pulled a chair over to face him, sat. “Mr. Hampton, look at me now. Detective Peabody and I need your help. Karlene needs you to help us find who hurt her.”
“How is she dead? How is she dead?”
“We believe whoever she took to the loft killed her. Do you know who the client was?”
“That can’t be. This is all . . . not real.”
“Who was the client?” Eve repeated.