Connections in Death (In Death 48)

She supposed she expected more of the ornate from a stripper and a sleazy ex-lawyer. But the walls, a quiet, muted green, held a few cheerful floral prints. The furniture ran to the simple, even tasteful in the wide, U-shaped sofa in cream—covered with bright, fussy pillows, of course. The chairs had a geometric design that picked up the green and cream.

A lot of matchy, sort

of studied, but … average, she decided.

“Not your usual den of iniquity,” Roarke commented, smiling at her. “I think you’re a bit disappointed.”

“No, but it’s interesting. The fact it comes off ordinary.”

She turned when she heard Eldena hurrying back in her house skids. “He’s on the ’link—just wrapping up. Please, have a seat.”

She sat herself, crossed her excellent legs. “Is there anything I can help with? I hope there hasn’t been any trouble in the neighborhood. We haven’t had any.”

“I’d like to talk about your business partnership with Marcus Jones.”

“Who?”

“Marcus Jones,” Eve repeated. “Maybe you know him as Slice.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t have any business partnerships.” She smiled, obviously puzzled but willing. “I’m a dancer.”

“During the course of an investigation, I’ve read the documents, your business connection with Jones, the ownership—Jones, Mr. Cohen, yourself—of several buildings in New York.”

She actually laughed. “Oh, that’s not right. I’m sorry. We don’t own any buildings. I wish!”

Not lying, Eve thought. More interesting. She pulled out her PPC, keyed up the file with the papers for Banger HQ. Rising, she offered it to Eldena. “Is that your signature?”

“I … It sure looks like it.”

Eve scrolled to papers on another property. “And this?”

“I don’t understand. This is…” She looked up at Eve.

Wide eyes, sure, Eve thought, but not stupid. “I need to know what this is about, all right? What investigation?”

“Murder, Ms. Vinn. Two of them.”

Every ounce of color drained. “Murder. Who? How? It can’t have anything to do with me and Sam. It just can’t. I don’t understand.”

Someone else came hurrying down the hall. “Now, who’s here, cutie-pie, who’s so special?”

Sam Cohen’s big white smile died away the instant he turned into the room. He struggled to put it back in place. “El, you should’ve told me the police were here.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” She stared at him with those wide eyes gone cold. “Surprise.”

12

He kept the smile going, though it looked a little sickly to Eve’s eye. He hit about five-eight, carried a soft belly under a white shirt and navy sport coat. His gilded hair showed no gray as it swept back from a high forehead. His eyes, blue, looked both worried and calculating.

He said, “Ha ha!” Then seemed to recover his balance as he strode into the room. “El, sweetie, how about you get the house droid to make some coffee for our guests.”

“We’re not here for coffee.”

At Eve’s flat statement his balance teetered a bit, but he kept up the jovial tone. “Well then! Let’s take this back to my office.”

“Here’s good. We’re here, Mr. Cohen, to discuss your business relationship with Marcus Jones.”

“Business is business. Excuse us, El.”