“We’re going to look fantabulous, mix with celebrities—and we actually know them—and walk the red carpet. Like stars. I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Not in my vehicle. And right now, I’m just a little more concerned with who the hell killed Marta Dickenson than standing around on some stupid red carpet while people gape at me.”
Peabody wisely neglected to mention the pre-premiere prep she and Mavis had already worked out, which included hair and makeup by Trina.
Eve had Trina fear.
“What’s that look for?” Eve demanded.
“It’s my ‘serious about murder’ face.”
“Bullshit.”
“I am serious about murder,” Peabody insisted. And nearly sighed with relief when the in-dash ’link signaled.
“LT.” Detective Carmichael came on screen. “We finished the search at the vic’s residence. Nothing out of line. We went through the vehicle. Same deal. McNab went through their electronics, fine-toothed them. Nada.”
“Figured it. We’re working on a warrant for her office data, client list.”
“McNab said there was some work stuff on her home unit.”
“Is that so?” Eve smiled. “Take it. The warrant covers it. Have him make copies of everything. I want you and Santiago to go have a chat with a Sasha Kirby, designer with City Style. She designed the crime scene, so to speak, and had access.” She checked the time, calculated. “After, I’ve got some alibis for you to run down.”
“You got it.”
Eve clicked off. “Peabody, contact Yung and tell her the residence is clear. See if you can get any kind of ETA on the warrant. We got a little break here,” she murmured. “Could be something relevant on her home unit. Could be.”
• • •
It was the day for penthouses and the Upper East Side, Eve decided. This time she had no choice but to wade through security, cool heels in the gold and white lobby jammed with flowering plants. As she’d figured on a hassle, she only lifted her eyebrows when security politely cleared her.
“I figured Mobsley would tell us to stick it,” Eve said as they rode up.
“Maybe she’s curious. Or guilty. According to the gossip channel she’s always doing something.”
“Which is why the expected stick it.”
With a shrug, Eve stepped off into a foyer done in sapphire blue and emerald green. More flowers, this time in tall white vases, flanked by candles as tall as she was.
A man in unrelieved black with white-blond hair and nearly as many earrings as McNab stepped out of wide blue doors.
“Please come in. Candida will be with you shortly. We’re serving catnip tea today.”
“We’ll pass on that.”
“I’d be happy to prepare another choice.” He gestured them into a huge space that looked like a small palace under a snowstorm. Every inch was white—sofas, tables, rugs, lamps, pillows. The only spot of color came from the white-framed portrait—their hostess reclining naked on a white bed. Her endless tumble of blonde hair and deeply red lips jumped out of the canvas.
Even the curtains on the wall of windows were filmy white so the city beyond seemed to float on clouds.
But not, in Eve’s mind, in a good way.
Something moved in the snowbank. She realized a huge white cat, its eyes blinking vivid green, stretched on some sort of divan. It watched them while its tail flicked lazily.
She liked cats. She had her own. But this one, like the room, like the filmed windows, gave her the creeps.
“We’re fasting today, so I can’t offer you food. Or caffeine, but we have some lovely water, harvested from snowmelt in the Andes.”
“That’d be great,” Peabody said before Eve could decline for both of them.