Secrets in Death (In Death 45)

As she drove, she tagged Peabody, relayed the address. If they struck out there, they’d move to the next. It was a good angle to pursue. And she followed it up by starting a run on Angela Terra on the in-dash.

“Clean as a whistle,” she mused. “A clean, shiny whistle. Why are whistles so clean? What does that even mean?”

She didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud until the in-dash comp answered.

The phrase suggests the clean, pure sound a whistle makes. It indicates that to emit this clear sound, the tube must be clean and dry.

“Huh.” Eve pursed her lips, whistled. Let it go.

The clean-as-a-whistle Angela Terra had lived at the downtown address for seven years. The data stated she’d been born in Canton, Ohio, parents deceased, no siblings. No marriages or cohabs.

No connections, Eve thought, following the scent.

Graduated from an online university—interesting. Started the consulting business twelve years prior—with no other employment listed. Also interesting.

She pushed on to the consulting business, found absolutely zero. No data, no web page, no client list, no referrals. That wasn’t just interesting, she thought.

That was telling.

Angela Terra was bogus. The odds she wasn’t an alias for Larinda Mars were very, very slim.

“Sometimes you get lucky,” Eve noted aloud as she fought her way downtown.

She found the address—a quiet, dignified duplex. Since the residents of the neighborhood hogged all the curbside parking, she double-parked, ignoring the outraged horns. Flipping up her On Duty light, she stepped onto the sidewalk.

Sedate, she decided. The kind of sedate that took money to claim. The sort of neighborhood that ran to dog walkers and nannies, where the residents walked to their favorite restaurants and shops.

She approached the left-side entrance, walked up the short stairs to the door. Narrowed her eyes at it. Designed to look like old, rich wood, but a quick tap of the knuckles told her it was steel. A quick glance showed her high-level security. The cam, the palm plate, the double swipe, the trio of sturdy police locks.

No buzzer or bell, she noted, so knocked loud and long.

And received the expected response. None.

She walked down, and crossed to the neighboring door.

Standard door, she thought, good but standard security. And a buzzer.

She pressed it.

“Bonjour! Comment vous appelez-vous, s’il vous plaît?”

“Say what?” Eve buzzed again, holding her badge up to the scanner. “NYPSD.”

“Un moment, s’il vous plaît.”

“For Christ’s sake.” Eve leaned on the buzzer.

Finally she heard the locks thump. The door opened a couple inches with a woman in a red robe, her hair scooped up in a disordered chestnut mass on her head, peeking through the crack.

“Yes?”

Eve held her badge up again.

“Yes, the police. Is there some wrong? Something wrong?” she corrected.

English, Eve thought, heavily accented, but English.

“I have some questions about your neighbor, about Angela Terra.”