Golden in Death (In Death 50)

She dealt with it, stuffed the cash in her pocket, then caught the eye of the guy eyeing her.

She showed her teeth first as he made a move toward her. Then flipped open the topper, the suit jacket, showed her weapon.

“Still want to try for it?”

He turned on his heel, beat feet in his airboots.

“Some muggers like to hang around the machines,” Peabody commented as they walked. “He sees a couple of helpless female types in their mag coats, and thinks easy score.”

“Yeah. If I didn’t want to get this done, I’d’ve let him try to mug me, then he’d be thinking about the error of his ways in a cell. Maybe next time.”

They hiked to another steel-and-glass tower, this one pale blue in the afternoon sun. The lobby here spread wide and deep, offering cafés, boutiques, trendy markets along with its moving maps, a large screen displaying the financial news in various languages.

They crossed the dark blue tiles to the security station.

“Stephen Whitt, the Whitt Group.” Eve held up her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD.”

“How’s it going, LT? I was on the job at Central when you came on as a rook.”

She judged him as teetering on eighty, and fit. He had a close-cropped cap of gray, a dark face lined like a creased map, steady brown eyes that had plenty of cop in them.

“Detective Swanson. It’s good to see you.”

That lined face creased deeper with a grin. “You got a good memory, if you can pull my name out of your hat.”

“Detective Peabody, the department lost a good cop when Detective Swanson turned in his papers. About ten years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Nine. Got tired of fishing, and my wife got tired of me poking around the house, so I keep out of her hair this way. You want the fifty-second floor.”

“Do you miss the job, Detective?” Peabody asked him.

“Every day. On a hot one, Loo?”

“Might be.” She leaned in. “Do you know Stephen Whitt?”

“Fancy-pants, and snooty with it. Comes by it natural, from

what I see. I’ve been on the desk here six years, and the father hasn’t said so much as kiss my ass to me. If you’re looking at him for something, I can keep a closer eye out.”

“It wouldn’t hurt. I appreciate it, Detective.”

“Not a problem. I’m gonna clear you right up to fifty-two. You give Feeney my best, will you?”

“I will.”

“Take the second bank. That’ll express you to twenty.”

“It meant something that you remembered him,” Peabody commented as they walked to the bank of elevators.

“I remember a good cop who used to sit at his desk making those—what are they—you catch fish with?”

“Lures?”

“Yeah. He said it helped him think. He helped close a lot of cases.” They stepped on the elevator. “If we get a buzz here, it won’t hurt to have him on that desk.”

Unlike the law firm, the financial one didn’t go for subdued.

Pale gold carpet spread over their lobby area with a wide semicircle reception counter in gold—darker, shinier. Six people worked busily at their stations.