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?”