Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

He gestured them forward. Under full lights the floor sparkled. Whatever drinks or bodily fluids had spilled on it during the night’s revelry, not a sign remained.

Tables and booths gleamed, privacy shields swept back to reveal slick gel circles.

The air smelled just as spotless.

“You run a clean place, Mr. Snow.”

“In every way we know how. Of course, This Place really shines at night. May I take your coats?”

“We’re good,” Eve told him.

He led them to a table where the assembled staff sat.

“May we offer you refreshments? A coffee, a latte, some sparkling water?”

“We’re good,” Eve said again before Peabody could accept.

“Well then, let me make introductions. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody with the NYPSD. We have Tee DeCarlo, head server, Edmund Mi, who works the door, Lippy Lace and Win Gregor, bartenders on the level where Mr. McEnroy engaged a privacy booth last evening. Please have a seat.”

They made an odd if diverse group. Snow, the gangly urban scarecrow. DeCarlo, with her frizzy ball of blond hair popped over a scowling face and a small, compact body in ragged sweats. Beside her Mi, with skin the color of gold dust, wore a snug black tank over tattooed, linebacker shoulders. The two bartenders sat together: Lace, young, pretty, black, wore her hair pulled back in an explosively curly tail, and a running tank and shorts showed off good muscles; Gregor, even prettier, played up the pretty by smudging up his eyes to enhance already long lashes.

“We appreciate you coming in,” Eve began, and DeCarlo let out a snort.

“Now, Tee.” Snow patted her hand with obvious affection. “Be nice.”

“Don’t like cops.” Her voice, in opposition to his flute, sounded like a foghorn with allergies. “Gotta come into work on my time off ’cause cops say so. Don’t like cops.”

“Tee, a man’s dead.”

“People die every day, don’t they? Get themselves killed every day, too, or else these two wouldn’t have a job.”

Couldn’t argue the point, Eve decided.

“Why don’t we get on with doing our job so you can get back to your time off?” she suggested. “You knew Nigel McEnroy?”

“Didn’t say knew, did I? He don’t look twice at ones like me. He’d give somebody like Lippy a good look, but he liked the white ones. Redheaded white girls.”

“You saw him with women, redheads?”

“Not my job to see unless somebody wants service, but I ain’t blind, am I? He’d come in, always had a VIP booth reserved in advance, and he always used the auto-order. Tipped decent, I’ll say that, if he had cause to use a live server. He’d come in, troll the place, maybe send a drink over to one he had his eye on, or chat ’em up. Sooner or later, he’d take one back to his booth, and sooner or later, she’d leave with him.”

“Did you see the one who left with him last night?”

“Redhead.” DeCarlo shrugged. “Like always. Didn’t bother to leave any cash in the booth, either, even though we’ve got to clear it.”

“You saw him leave?”

“I caught a glimpse. We’ve got waiting lists for the VIP booths, so we need to turn ’em quick.”

“Who was in charge—McEnroy or the woman? You’re not blind,” Eve reminded her. “You’ve got a sense. You were keeping an eye, because once he gets a woman in the booth, they wouldn’t stay too long. A drink, maybe two, then he’d leave, isn’t that right?”

“Maybe. Maybe it seemed like she was leading him rather than the other way around like usual. But he was alive and kicking when he left, so what happened after isn’t any of mine.”

“Can you describe her?”

“A redhead, big tits.”

“Tall, short, white, mixed?”