Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

She rang the bell. There was a scratching sound from the intercom as someone inside cleared their throat.

“Who are you?”

“NYPSD.” Eve held her badge to the security peep. “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”

“How do I know that for sure?”

“Ma’am, you’re looking at my badge.”

“I could have a badge, too, and I’m not the police.”

“Got me there. Can you see the badge number?”

“I’m not blind, am I?”

“As I’m standing out here, that’s impossible to verify. But you can verify my ID if you contact Cop Central and give them my badge number.”

“Maybe you stole the badge from the real police. People get murdered in their own beds.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s why we’re here. We’d like to speak with you about the Swishers.”

“How do I know you’re not the ones who killed them?”

“Excuse me?”

Eve, her face a study in frustration, turned to look at the woman on the sidewalk. She was carrying a market sack and wearing a great deal of gold-streaked red hair, a green skin-suit, and a baggy jacket.

“You’re trying to talk to Mrs. Grentz?”

“Trying being the operative. Police.”

“Yeah, got that.” She bounced up the stairs. “Hey, Mrs. Grentz, it’s Hildy. I got your bagels.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

There was a lot of clicking and snicking, then the door opened. Eve looked down, considerably. The woman was barely five feet, skinny as a stick, and old as time. On her head was perched an ill-fitting black wig only shades darker than her wrinkled skin.

“I brought the cops, too,” Hildy told her, cheerfully.

“Are you arrested?”

“No, they just want to talk. About what happened with the Swishers.”

“All right then.” She waved a hand like she was batting at flies and began to walk away.

“My landlady,” Hildy told them. “I live below. She’s okay, except for being—as my old man would say—crazy as a shithouse rat. You ought to go on in and sit down while she’s in the mood. I’m going to stick her bagels away.”

“Thanks.”

The place was jammed with things. Pricey things, Eve noted as she made her way between tables, chairs, lamps, paintings that were tilted and stacked against the walls.

The air had that old-lady smell, what seemed to be a combination of powder, age, and flowers going to dust.

Mrs. Grentz was now perched in a chair, her tiny feet on a tiny hassock and her arms crossed over her nonexistent breasts. “Whole family, murdered in their sleep.”

“You knew the Swishers?”

“Of course I knew the Swishers. Lived here the past eighty-eight years, haven’t I? Seen it all, heard it all.”