“Because DeWinter said they were.” As they walked, she poked a finger into his arm. “She dinged me on it, and I didn’t have a decent comeback. That’s three large a boot, for God’s sake.”
“I believe your math is correct. I expect they’re comfortable.”
“Yeah, they’re comfortable, but—”
“And sturdy, as you prefer,” he continued smoothly. “I imagine if necessary—as it often is—you could chase a suspect several blocks in those.” He brought the hand he held to his lips. “My cop spends a good portion of her day on her feet, walking these streets and chasing bad guys. I have a fondness for those feet, and consider good boots as essential in your daily pursuits as your weapon.”
“For six grand they ought to be gold-plated,” she muttered.
“Far too heavy,” he said easily. “And you’d surely end up with blisters. Here we are.”
She dropped the argument she wouldn’t win—for now anyway—and studied the stone building with its curvy concrete trim. Three stories, long, narrow windows, ornately studded double doors of dark, aged wood.
“How old do you figure?”
“Late nineteeth century. It was a residence, then a bank. It survived the Urban Wars intact, and morphed into a high-fashion boutique for a time, but the owners failed to maintain it.”
“It’s yours?’
“It was. I sold it a few years ago.”
“You sold it to Bellami?”
“More accurately my representatives sold it to his representatives, and now it’s a residence again. One that appears well tended. I find that satisfying.”
“I bet you made a tidy profit, too.”
The smile he pulled out for her equaled pure sin. “Darling, how else could I afford to keep my wife in six-thousand-dollar boots?”
“You’re a real funny guy.”
“I live for your laughter.” With her hand still in his, he tugged her up the trio of stairs to the double doors.
Top-of-the-line security, she noted, including full-sweep cams.
At the press of a buzzer, the computer-generated voice answered.
Good evening. How may I assist you?
“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge. “And Roarke, expert consultant, civilian. I need to speak with Fabio Bellami.”
One moment, please, while I verify your identification …
Your identification has been verified. Please produce identification for Roarke, expert consultant, civilian.
“Thorough,” Eve commented, smirking a little when Roarke took out his ID.
Thank you. Please wait while Mr. Bellami is notified.
“When’s the last time you spoke with Bellami?” Eve asked.
“A year, or more. I know more of him than know him.”
The right side of the doors opened. The woman wore slim black pants and a sweater. Her pale blond hair, drawn back in a smooth tail, left her quietly pretty face unframed.
“Please come in.” Her voice carried the faintest accent. Maybe Scandinavian, Eve thought. “Mr. and Mrs. Bellami are in the living room. May I take your coats?”
“No, thanks.” Eve scanned the entrance. Lofty ceilings with fancy exposed beams and a tiered chandelier that mated rust-colored iron with sparkling crystal. Some art—dreamy landscapes—a couple of chairs that looked old and were painted a bold red, a cream-colored table holding a trio of vases, in varying heights where rainbows of flowers spilled.