Golden in Death (In Death 50)

He made it to the door ahead of her, hit a sensor that had eight square feet of glass sliding open. She had to admit it was impressive, as was the two-level lobby with its upscale shops, cafés, food marts, bars. She crossed the floor with its mosaic inlays depicting a sweeping river of serene blue, passed a central island of flowers white as snow circling a small blue pool with bright gold fish swimming.

She noted a wide curve of stairs leading to the second level, a bank of interior elevators, also glass—and a lot of discreet security, both live and electronic.

She stepped up to the desk where Carl, a distinguished fiftyish in his spiffy black uniform, beamed smiles.

“Lieutenant, welcome to Hudson Tower. You’re here to visit Mr. Greenwald.”

So the doorman gave the desk guy a heads-up. Efficient, she thought. But that was how Roarke ran things.

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Greenwald is currently in residence. Shall I announce you?”

“No. Just clear me up.”

“Of course.” Carl didn’t miss a beat. “Mr. Greenwald has the fifty-sixth floor. Let me escort you to the proper elevator to reach that level.”

He came around the counter, led her to a small, second lobby where glass tubes angling from a mirrored wall held strangely beautiful flowers of pale, pale pink and lavender.

Carl used a swipe to access one of the three elevators.

“Greenwald,” he ordered. “Main entrance.” Then he smiled at Eve again. “Enjoy your visit. Please let me know if you need anything else.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

The doors closed silently on an elevator that was, thankfully, not glass. Or not transparent glass, as the walls had a glassy sheen of quiet gold.

She appreciated the fact it rode smooth, and didn’t stop until it reached the top floor.

Greenwald residence, the comp announced as the doors opened.

Here the carpet ran thick and silvery gray. She saw the car had opened in a central location, a few feet from double white doors—with enough security to protect a major stash of gold bullion.

She walked to the door, pressed the bell.

Mr. Greenwald does not accept unannounced visitors. Please return to the main lobby to request admittance.

“I’m not a visitor.” She held up her badge for scanning. “I’m a cop, and this is police business.”

One moment please.

She continued to hold up the badge as the scanning light ran it, as the door cam recorded her. And as, she imagined, the security comp notified Greenwald he had NYPSD at the door.

Your identification has been verified, Lieutenant Dallas. Please wait.

Eve waited until the door opened.

The woman hit mid-twenties. She had milk pale, flawless skin, a sleek fall of hair the color of warm honey, eyes of Arctic blue, a wide mouth dyed as pale a pink as the flowers fifty-five floors below.

“Please to come in. Thank you for waiting.”

The careful English held an Eastern European accent. The diamond studs at her ears flashed fire as she stepped back into an entranceway flanked by statues of arty naked women who looked very stern.

“I am Iryna, Mr. Greenwald’s personal assistant.” She gestured with one graceful hand toward the living area. It had three conversation areas, all quiet, dignified colors with tables and chests of clear or mirrored glass. Heavy drapes fell over what Eve assumed would be glass doors leading out to a terrace. The art, interspersed with fancy mirrors, ran to more dignity in still lifes of vases or bowls of fruit.

It had the feel of a space rarely used.

“If you would please to sit. Mr. Greenwald will be shortly with you. Shall you have refreshment?”