Eve scowled her way inside. “How much did you slip him?”
“A fifty.”
“I don’t bribe doormen,” she said with some righteousness.
“No, darling, you reduce them to quivering puddles of fear and awe, but this seemed quicker and cleaner.”
“He recognized you anyway. I saw it. You don’t own the damn place, do you?”
“I don’t, no.” He glanced around the spacious gold and white lobby, turned to the elevators. “Pity. It’s quite nice.”
“Next time I want the quivering and the awe.”
He let her step in the elevator first, so he could give her a light pat on the ass. “Next time.”
A house droid met them at the door of an elegant little foyer with a lush grape arbor, complete with rustic stone benches, cleverly painted on its walls and ceiling. The droid, sober in a simple gray dress and low heels, requested identification.
Eve held out her badge, watched the droid scan it.
“Please come in. Mrs. Bittmore and Ms. Brigham are in the living area.”
The area couldn’t be called spacious, but it hit those elegant notes again with the play of light-colored fabrics against walls the color of good burgundy. Art leaned toward the old world with classy depictions of misty forests, quiet lakes, blooming meadows.
Two women rose from a wheat-colored love seat backed by a pair of glass doors and a short terrace—then the view of the great park.
The older one stepped forward. Tiffany Bittmore had allowed her hair to go white, but Eve decided the decision had elements of vanity as the perfect sweep of it resulted in the same sort of classy elegance as the decor.
Her eyes might have been a dreamy shade of blue, but they held a sharp shrewdness. Her face, dewy and smooth despite her years, wouldn’t have been called beautiful, but arresting.
The curve of her lips did nothing to soften the stiletto blades of her cheekbones.
“Lieutenant Dallas, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And, Roarke, another pleasure. Your reputations and deeds precede you.”
“As do yours,” Roarke returned, with a charm he could wear like a silk tie. “It’s truly an honor, Mrs. Bittmore.”
“The gods gifted you with looks designed to stop women’s hearts. I’d have drooled over this one,” she told Eve, “back in my day.”
“I’ve learned to step around the puddles.”
With a laugh, Mrs. Bittmore gave Eve a friendly slap on the arm. “I think I’ll like you. Come meet the light of my life, then we’ll have some coffee. I’ve read The Icove Agenda and seen the vid, which I rarely do, so I know you’ve a fondness for real coffee. Clarissa?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll see to it right away.” The droid eased out of the room.
“My granddaughter, Seraphim.”
“It is a pleasure. It would be more of one, I’m sure, if we hadn’t heard the media bulletin.” She offered her hand, a woman with her grandmother’s eyes in a softer, less dramatic face. “I contacted HPCCY when we did, and spoke briefly with Philadelphia. She told me you’d been in to see her, and Nash.”
“You work at HPCCY, and were a resident of The Sanctuary,” Eve began.
“Please, let’s sit.” Mrs. Bittmore gestured to chairs. “This is a horrible thing, and it’s distressing for Seraphim.”
“I might’ve known some of them,” Seraphim said before she lowered to the love seat. “I almost certainly had to know some of them. The report didn’t give any names.”
“They didn’t have any to give.” Eve debated a moment, which angle to play first. She took out her ’link, brought up one of the ID photos. “Is she familiar?”
“Oh Lord.” Seraphim took a deep breath, then reached for the ’link, and the photo of Linh Penbroke. “It was years ago, but I think I’d remember her. She’s so pretty. I don’t. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this girl before. But I lived in The Sanctuary for months. So many came and went . . . Still, I think I’d remember this face.”
“Okay.” Eve took back the ’link, brought up the second image. “How about her?”