Golden in Death (In Death 50)

Pediatrics

The rails up the short steps glowed deep, dark bronze. Two white pots flanked the white door and held sunny little daffodils, some purple flower she couldn’t identify, and some greens that trailed over the pots.

The windows sparkled.

The result, from Eve’s view, equaled classy, safe, welcoming.

Another layer of safe came from excellent security, including a door cam.

She turned, again to get a sense of the area where there would have been interaction, routine, certainly deliveries. And spotted Peabody on the opposite corner.

She wore her pink coat—surely with the winter lining zipped out for spring—her obviously beloved cowboy boots, navy pants that may or may not have been loose, and a scarf, silky rather than knit, that held flowers not unlike those in the white pots.

The sun bounced off the lenses of her sunshades, making Eve wish she’d remembered her own.

Peabody crossed over, hoofed down to Eve.

“Mag morning! It should always be spring.”

“You’re wearing flowers.”

“Spring. I just ran this up last night.” Peabody patted the scarf.

“Ran it up where?”

“On my sewing machine. I don’t see the car.”

“I parked back at the crime scene so I could walk Kent’s usual route.”

“Oh. Well, damn, I should’ve

had that apple turnover. I bet McNab gets one on the way to Central, because nothing sticks to his skinny ass. He’s on tap when and if you need him to deal with the electronics. Oh, look how pretty those mini irises are with the daffs and those sweet potato vines.”

Puzzled, Eve stared down at the pots. “They’re growing potatoes outside the office?”

“No, those are just decorative vines.”

“How do you know these things?” Eve wondered as she started up the steps. “Wait, Free-Ager. Never mind.” She pressed the buzzer.

The woman who answered had deep gold skin, dense black hair wound into a wide knot at the nape of her neck. Her eyes, richly brown, wide, thickly lashed, showed signs of recent weeping and considerable fatigue.

She wore a simple black suit, sensible black shoes.

“You are the police,” she said in precise English with the faintest of accents.

“Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve said, offering her badge. “Detective Peabody.”

“Yes, Detective Peabody and I spoke. I am Seldine Abbakar, Dr. Abner’s office manager. Please come in.”

The reception/waiting area had walls of cheerful green holding cheerful art. Photos of babies, toddlers, older kids covered an entire wall. It offered thickly cushioned chairs in primary blue in the main area, with another section offering crayon-red tubs of toys.

An alcove had rods—regular height, and lower ones she supposed smaller humans used—to hang up coats.

No one currently manned the long L-shaped workstation with several comps and screens behind the reception counter.

“I asked everyone to come by seven-fifteen, to be sure,” Seldine said. “We are all here, and I thought it best to have you speak to everyone in our conference room. You will excuse us.…”

She paused, pressed her carefully dyed lips together. “We are, all of us, shocked and saddened. Dr. Abner, he was very loved.”