Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

“We’ll state our business with Mr. and/or Mrs. Markin. Open the door or we’ll arrange to have one or both of them transported to Cop Central for interview.”

One moment.

“Why are comps always so damn nosy?” Eve wondered.

It took more than a moment, but the double doors opened. Since the woman inside hit about forty, wore what Eve thought of as domestic black, she deduced housekeeper.

“Lieutenant, Detective, if you’ll wait in the anteroom, I’ve notified Mrs. Markin’s admin. She’ll be with you very shortly.”

The housekeeper walked away, leaving them outside another set of open doors. The private elevator Eve had assumed stood to the right with fancy, decorative ironwork over a door of dull gold. On the opposite wall wide, sliding doors reflected the same tone. For coats and wraps, Eve assumed.

Through the open doors, the living area spread big as a ballroom with floor-to-ceiling glass offering the stupendously rich person’s view of the city, the great park, and on this clear day, the Hudson. Staircases swept in fluid curves on either side of the glass.

An enormous mirror ornately framed in that dull gold ranged over a flickering fireplace with a surround of polished stone the color of tropical seas.

Sofas, chairs, benches reflected the fluid curves of the staircases, the colors of the surround and the mirror frame. A piano, blizzard white, stood under the curve of the right staircase. It held a large, clear glass ball filled with blue stones and flowers from the palest blue to a purple so deep it read black.

From the high ceiling hung a many-tiered chandelier formed with hundreds of dripping glass teardrops. Eve decided if it ever fell, it could easily kill a good fifty people standing under its spread.

A woman came down the right sweep. Dark skin, a curling mass of bronze-tipped dark hair, a voluptuous figure in a suit of poppy red. Early thirties, Eve judged. Not beautiful, but arresting.

She crossed the wide space on towering heels of blue and green swirls over the poppy red.

“Lieutenant, Detective, I’m Amelia Leroix.” Her voice carried a faint accent. European, Eve thought, as she shook the extended hand. Probably French.

“Mrs. Markin is in a meeting. She’s working from home today, and is still in a meeting. I hope I can help you.”

“We’ll wait until she’s out of the meeting.”

“I see. Then allow me to take your coats.”

“We’re good.”

“Perhaps I can arrange for coffee? Tea?”

“You could arrange for us to speak to Mr. and/or Mrs. Markin.”

“I’ll let Mrs. Markin know you’re waiting. I’m afraid I don’t have Mr. Markin’s schedule. I believe he’s also working from home today, but I’ll have to check.”

“We’d appreciate it.”

“Please, come in, sit down. I’ll need a moment.”

Eve didn’t miss the flicker of resignation on Amelia’s face as she turned toward the left sweep of stairs.

Different wings, Eve thought. For business meetings, or altogether?

Peabody wandered over to the glass wall. “That’s one serious view. And the terrace has to add another two hundred square feet of living space in good weather.”

“Making ankle-breakers pays.”

“Did you see the assistant’s shoes? I bet those were from the hand-painted collection.”

While Peabody enjoyed the view, Eve studied the room. Some framed photos—but none of the married couple together. The art struck her as safe and tasteful, and she didn’t see anything wrong with that. Despite the size of the room, it felt comfortable, at least marginally welcoming.

She turned as the man she recognized as Hugo Markin came down the stairs. He wore a silver-blue sweater to match his eyes and casual, well-tailored black trousers. He wore skids—pricey ones the same color as the sweater. His hair, waves of streaky blond, flowed back from a vid-handsome face.

His smile held buckets of charm. A blue stone ring shot fire from his extended hand.