“You’ve got to give them classy,” Peabody decided. “The colors, the furnishings—and those are real miniature orange trees over there. In blossom. What a great smell.”
Okay, Eve thought, so that was it.
Another woman came back—tall heels again, these with toes so pointed Eve imagined they could jab a hole in brick. A good two decades older than the desk girl, she had an air of what Peabody would have called class.
The dark suit with its short skirt showcased excellent legs; the fitted jacket, an excellent body. Her hair, a kind of caramel, coiled tidily at her nape. Her skin, a few shades lighter, all but glowed, and her eyes, sea green, showed only polite curiosity.
“I’m Araby Clarke. Why don’t we speak in my office?”
“Okay.”
She gestured, led them to a wide doorway, into a long hall. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your names, but I swear … have we met?”
“Don’t think so. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.”
“Oh, of course! No, we haven’t met until now.” She gestured again into a spacious office. “But I did see the vid, and admit I’ve followed you and Roarke, and you, Detective, whenever there’s media. Please sit.”
The office suited her, deep cushioned chairs in dull gold, glass tables holding glass vases and exotic flowers. Art of beautiful men and women—oddly romantic rather than sexual. And a view of command through the window behind the long, glossy desk.
“You gave Kerry quite a jolt.” She sat, crossed her killer legs. “She said someone was dead. Is it someone I know?”
“Thaddeus Pettigrew.”
That polite curiosity flashed away. Eve wouldn’t say the woman jolted, but she registered distress. “Oh no. Oh, I’m very sorry to hear this. He’s been a client for years.”
“Years. As in?”
“I’ll have to check, but I believe at least a decade.”
So, not a new habit, Eve thought. “I’m going to need you to check on that, and several other things.”
Araby sat back. “You put me in an interesting position. Under most circumstances we would refuse to answer any questions regarding a client. Even with a warrant, I would contact my legal department and do what could be done to void that.”
“He was murdered, Ms. Clarke.”
“I realize that, or why would Dallas and Peabody be in my office? And that’s precisely why I won’t demand a warrant. I do want just a moment to talk to my legal people. I’ve owned Discretion for sixteen years, and we’ve never had anything like this happen. I want to make certain I do the right thing for everyone involved. If you’d just give me a minute.”
When she hurried out, Eve nodded. “She’ll give us what we ask for.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, because she wants to. She liked him—at least the way you like a longtime, regular customer. We’ll get what we came for.”
So Eve settled back to wait.
11
Eve shoved her way over the bridge to Brooklyn, weaving through, leapfrogging over the thick river of vehicles heading in the same direction. The river clogged when neck-craners slowed to study the delivery truck and sedan with crunched fenders along with the police cruiser dealing with the encounter in the breakdown lane.
Eve cursed them all for idiots, hit lights and sirens, pushed into vertical for a whooshing half a mile. During which Peabody clutched the chicken stick like a lifeline.
“Do they hope to see blood and bodies?” Eve ranted. “Is it: Oh look, honey, an accident. Break out the freaking popcorn.”
Once they crossed the bridge, Eve eased back a bit to follow the computer prompts to the address in Cobble Hill—and Peabody flexed her aching fingers.
It proved to be a lively street with a scatter of restaurants, a few shops, a small park where a number of people walked dogs or watched kids risk broken bones on playground equipment.
Marcella’s mother had the ground floor of a triple-decker with its own little patio off the side. It also boasted a narrow driveway currently occupied by a dark blue town car.