“Get a warrant for entry, for search and seizure. Take down the door.”
“Should we wait for you to take the door?”
“Don’t wait for me. I have another line on her. Take the door, secure the flop. Record every fucking thing. Leave a watch on the street in case she comes back. If I’m wrong, take her down there.”
Eve ran across the lobby, startling the concierge, then the doormen. She jumped into the passenger seat, hit lights and sirens.
“Burn it,” she told Roarke.
“Delighted.”
As he burned it, Peabody clung to the seat with one hand, her ’link with the other. “Straight to v-mail, Dallas. She may still be talking to Ms. Berkle.”
“Try Berkle.”
As Roarke swerved around a Rapid Cab, streamed between a limo and a shiny sedan, Peabody’s grip tightened.
“She says she can’t get her to answer.”
Roarke screamed to a halt in front of secured gates.
“No, don’t call through,” she told him. “Just open them.”
He lowered the window, boosted himself up to sit on the frame, and pulled out some little device.
“It’s a good system,” he said after a moment. “So it’ll take …” The gates slid open. “That much time.”
He dropped onto the seat again, roared through the gates, up a short, straight drive to a three-story brownstone as regal as a queen. Lights shined in every window and around a grand entrance door under a portico.
Eve jumped out, pointed at the door. “Now that. I don’t want her to know we’re coming,” she said as Roarke got to work. “The target’s not answering her ’link, may already be in distress. Or dead. When he gets it open, if the vic’s not lying at the foot of the damn stairs, clear the first floor. Roarke, head up to three. I’ll take two. Otherwise—”
The door opened into a sparkling, quietly lit foyer. With no body at the foot of the wide double staircase straight ahead.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Eve swung her weapon toward the archway to the right.
A woman of about fifty—white apron over a black dress—squeaked, slapped both hands to her mouth.
“Stay quiet. NYPSD.” Lowering her weapon, Eve drew out her badge. “Peabody.”
Peabody pulled out the photo. “Is this woman in the house?”
“Y-y-yes. Upstairs, with Ms. Felicity.”
“Where?” Eve demanded. “Exactly where?”
“But-but-but—”
“Your employer’s at risk. Where are they?”
“Second floor, west wing, double doors at the end of the hallway.”
“Go back into the kitchen. Stay there.”
As Eve started up the stairs, Felicity turned in front of the triple mirror. “I’m so glad you called, Ann. Getting all these pieces fitted tonight takes the rush off, doesn’t it? And it makes me think of spring.”
She turned again. “And the fact that my new trainer’s helped me take off six pounds! And I really wanted you to do the alterations. The seamstress at my boutique just doesn’t have your touch.”
Well used to dominating the conversation during fittings, Felicity sipped some wine and rambled on.