“Lieutenant Dallas. Am I speaking to Lance Po
?”
“Well, yeah. Come on, seriously?”
“Seriously. We need to come up.”
Eve heard some cross talk, a laugh. “Says she’s Eve Dallas. It’s gotta be Carrie.”
But the buzzer sounded, the locks clicked open.
The tiny hallway held a skinny elevator Eve wouldn’t have trusted if Po had lived a mile up, and an equally skinny set of stairs.
As they climbed up, she heard the door open above. “You sounded pretty kick-ass, Carrie, but—”
The man in the doorway broke off.
He hit about five-eight of trim, slim, mixed-race Asian. He looked younger than his thirty-eight years in a natty metallic-blue suit, a red-and-blue-dotted tie, and with raven black hair in short, curly dreads tipped in gold.
His eyes, nearly as gold as the tips, popped wide.
“Holy shit! Holy shit, Wes! It’s fucking Eve Dallas.”
“Get real, Lance.” The second man, with a muscular, shaved head, black skin covered in faded jeans and a long-sleeved red T-shirt, stepped out. He blinked, laid a hand on Po’s shoulder, said, “Well, son of a bitch.”
Then he blinked again, and his dark eyes filled with worry. “Jesus, somebody’s dead.”
“Oh God. God. Is somebody dead?”
“Can we come in?”
“My mom. My mom—”
“It’s not about your mother, Mr. Po, or any family member. We’re here about your boss.”
“Sylvia?” He reached up, grabbed his partner’s hand.
“No, Nigel McEnroy.”
“Mr. McEnroy’s dead?”
“We’d like to come inside.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He stepped back. “Yes, please. I was—we were—just thrown off. We’re big fans, of both of you. Not just the book and vid, though totally mag there. But we’ve been following you since you and Roarke—big fans there, too—and it’s your work, and the fashion, and the no-prisoners interviews when they get you on camera. We’re just—”
“You’re babbling, honey.” Schupp nudged Po aside, reached for Eve’s hand, then Peabody’s. “Please, sit down. We don’t have your coffee, but—”
“We’re fine.”
The living space, though small, struck Eve as a lot more friendly and comfortable than the McEnroys’. A high-backed navy sofa ranged along one wall, topped with a long, interesting pencil sketch of the city. It faced a couple of easy chairs in bold, multicolored stripes. A bench padded with fake leather added more seating, and a jog to the left opened into a smart-looking little kitchen and eating area.
“I’m going to tag in, get a sub. I teach art and coach football,” Schupp explained. “High school. How about I make you some tea, Lance?”
“That’d be great. I’m just …It wasn’t an accident. Like I said, we’re fans, so I know you’re with Homicide. Was it a mugging?”
He gestured to a chair as he spoke, so Eve took one, Peabody the other, while Po lowered to the sofa.
“No. You were Mr. McEnroy’s admin?”