It held two waiting areas on either side, both done in chocolates and gold, with all seating fitted with individual screens and comm devices. Flanking the wall of glass with its bird’s-eye view of New York, two ornamental trees speared out of huge gold urns.
Behind the reception counter, the company’s logo showed a bull—again gold—with its hoof on the throat of a brown bear.
No, Eve thought, no sign of subdued here.
Despite the variance of race and gender, those manning the counter struck Eve as the same. Mid-twenties, attractive, sharp-eyed, and pissy.
Still, maybe Roarke had a point about the topper—the whole outfit —as every one of them gave her a look, then a practiced smile. She could almost see dollar signs dancing in their heads.
She walked to the center, and the Asian male.
“Stephen Whitt.”
“Good afternoon. Do you have an appointment, Ms.…?”
“Lieutenant.” She wiped the practiced smile off his face when she held up her badge. “Dallas. Detective Peabody. NYPSD. We need to speak to Mr. Whitt on police business.”
“I’ll need to check with his administrative assistant to see if he’s available. If you’d like to have a seat—”
“We’re fine right here. When you check,” she continued, making sure her voice carried to those in the waiting areas, “be sure to tell the admin we’re here investigating two homicides, and are prepared to wait until Mr. Whitt becomes available.”
“Yes, ma’am, of course.”
“Lieutenant.” She tapped her badge, then put it away.
Rather than use the headset, the receptionist swiveled to his comp, used a keyboard.
Texting the admin, Eve thought, and gave him points for finding a way to keep her from hearing the conversation. After a couple minutes of back-and-forth, the receptionist cleared his throat.
“Mr. Lauder, Mr. Whitt’s admin, will be with you shortly.”
“Great.”
It didn’t take long. Eve figured they didn’t want a couple of murder cops despoiling their gilded lobby area.
The man who came through the double frosted glass doors on the right had about two decades on the receptionist. His well-cut suit fit over a compact body. He wore his nut-brown hair brushed back from a sternly handsome face—and didn’t bother with the practiced smile.
“If you’d come with me.”
He led them through the doors—no cubes here. More gold carpet, art framed in gold on the walls, offices with their chocolate-brown doors closed.
Lauder approached an open one.
Two women worked at opposite sides behind glass panels—cubes by another name, Eve thought. Lauder’s desk held the center.
He closed the door, walked to the desk, sat. Gestured, rather imperiously, for Eve and Peabody to take chairs.
They stood.
“I’m Ernest Lauder, Mr. Whitt’s administrative assistant. I’ll need more information regarding the purpose of your visit.”
“As we informed the receptionist, who no doubt informed you, we’re investigating two murders.”
“Yes, and?”
Eve gave him an imperious look right back. “Two dead people aren’t enough for you?”
“It fails to tell me why you’d wish to speak to Mr. Whitt.”