Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

“You got two cops in the lobby. Guess.”

Unable to comply.

“Underground business must be good,” Peabody commented to the doorman. “For Atelli to rate a place like this.”

“Couldn’t say. I haven’t been down there since I was sixteen and lost a bet.” The doorman hustled over to open the door for a woman wrapped in a blue coat, with a mile of multicolored scarf wrapped around her neck, an earflap hat pulled low over her head, and thick mittens on her hands.

She had three yappy little dogs, all in plaid sweaters—and, to Eve’s amazement, tiny boots—on leashes.

“Thanks, Chester.”

She led the yapping, booted dogs to the elevators, hauling and clucking when they tried to drag her to Eve and Peabody.

“Sorry!” She trilled out a laugh. “They don’t bite!”

She pulled a swipe out of her pocket, then made kissing noises and herded the trio into the elevator.

“Those dogs had boots.”

“I guess their paws get cold,” Peabody said.

“Huh. Who makes tiny dog boots? Who thinks to make tiny dog boots? How do you know what size to buy? This is an area with many, many questions.”

Mr. Atelli will receive you. Please use Elevator C. Enjoy your visit, and the rest of your day.

The elevator rode swiftly and silently to the penthouse level, then opened into a private foyer painted dove-wing gray and holding a pair of black lacquer benches. A large white orchid bowed between them from a pedestal in the form of an elongated, naked woman.

Niches ranged on the opposing walls, all filled with jewel-toned bottles and statues—all women in various states of undress.

Even as she stepped up to press the button on the inner door, Carmine opened it.

He wore black lounging pants in a silky hue, and some sort of short black robe, open over a snug white tank. Gilded blond hair fell in tousled waves around a sharply handsome face. He smiled, gestured them in. A large stone winked on his finger—the same silvery blue as his eyes.

“Ladies, an unexpected pleasure.”

“Not ladies, not a pleasure. Cops and police business.”

“Different perspectives. Please, come in, sit.”

Windows backed the living area, with dwarf lemon trees, heavy with fruit, bathing in the pale winter sun that slipped through them.

Low-slung gel sofas in navy, double-wide chairs in navy and gray stripes ranged with tables with a dull nickel finish. Splashes of color came from the art—the female form again, in every hue, sinuous or robust, sensual or pastoral.

As he gestured for them to sit, a woman wandered down a curve of steps. Her hair tumbled, flame-red, down the back of a short, white robe that gapped open enough to showcase impressive breasts—and the fact that she was a natural redhead, or had her hair colored above and below.

Her voice, sleepy as her cat-green eyes, purred. “You want coffee, baby?”

“Sure do. I wake you up?”

“The ringer did, but that’s okay. Josie’s out though.”

“Maybe we’ll both wake her up when I’m done here.” He sent her a grin and a wink, got a husky laugh as she kept wandering out of sight.

“So, Lieutenant, Detective.” He spread his hands as he sat. “What can I do for you?”

“What time did you get home this morning, Carmine?” Eve asked him.

“About five-thirty, I think. I took off a little early this morning as Josie’s in town. A good friend,” he added, “who’s been in Europe for a few months. She and Vivi and I had a drink—here—then went to bed. Is there a problem with my place?”