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“You bet. This guy was a serious abuser, who continued to pay to have his body put back in shape. This kind of cycle eventually takes its toll, but even at this rate, he likely had another twenty good years in him.”
“Not anymore. Thanks, Morse.”
“Any chance of getting me seats when this play goes back on? You got the connections,” he added with a wink.
She sighed a little. “I’ll see what I can do.”
*** CHAPTER FOUR ***
The trip from Stiles’s rarified uptown air to Alphabet City’s aroma of overturned recyclers and unwashed sidewalk sleepers was more than a matter of blocks. They left the lofty buildings with their uniformed doormen, the pristine glide-carts and serene air traffic for prefab, soot-scarred complexes, blatting maxibuses, and sly-eyed street thieves.
Eve immediately felt more at home.
Michael Proctor lived on the fourth floor of one of the units tossed up haphazardly after the devastation of the Urban Wars. At election time, city officials made lofty speeches about revitalizing the area, made stirring promises to fight the good fight against neglect, crime, and the general decay of that ailing sector of the city.
After the elections, the entire matter went back in the sewer to rot and ripen for another term.
Still, people had to live somewhere. Eve imagined a struggling actor who managed bit parts and understudy roles couldn’t afford to pay much for housing.
Eve’s initial background check revealed that Michael Proctor was currently six weeks behind on his rent and had applied for Universal Housing Assistance.
Which meant desperation, she mused. Most applicants to UHA became so strangled, so smothered in red tape reeled out by the sticky fingers of bureaucrats, they stumbled off into the night and were pitifully grateful to find a bed in one of the shelters.
She imagined that stepping into Draco’s bloody shoes would considerably up Proctor’s salary. Money was an old motive, as tried as it was true.
Eve considered double-parking on Seventh, then, spotting a parking slot on the second level street side, went into a fast vertical lift that had Peabody yelping, and shot forward to squeeze in between a rusted sedan and a battered air bike.
“Nice job.” Peabody thumped a fist on her heart to get it going again.
Eve flipped on the On Duty light to keep the meter droids at bay, then jogged down the ramp to street level. “This guy had something tangible to gain by Draco’s death. He’s got a good shot at the starring role—if only temporarily. That gives him an ego, a career, and a financial boost all rolled into one. Nothing popped on his record, but every criminal has to start somewhere.”
“I love your optimistic view of humanity, sir.”
“Yeah, I’m a people-lover all right.” She glanced at the street hustler on air skates, eyed his wide canvas shoulder bag. “Hey!” She jabbed a finger at him as he hunched his shoulders and sulked. “You set up that game on this corner, I’m going to be insulted. Take it off, two blocks minimum, and I’ll pretend I didn’t see your ugly face.”
“I’m just trying to make a living.”
“Make it two blocks over.”
“Shit.” He shifted his bag, then scooted off
, heading west through the billowing steam from a glide-cart.
Peabody sniffed hopefully. “Those soy dogs smell fresh.”
“They haven’t been fresh for a decade. Put your stomach on hold.”
“I can’t. It has a mind of its own.” Glancing back wistfully at the glide-cart, Peabody followed Eve into the grimy building.
At one time the place had boasted some level of security. But the lock on the outer doors had been drilled out, likely by some enterprising kid who was now old enough for retirement benefits. The foyer was the width of a porta-john and the color of dried mud. The old mail slots were scarred and broken. Above one, in hopeful red ink, was M. Proctor.
Eve glanced at the skinny elevator, the tangle of raw wires poking out of its control plate. She dismissed it, and headed up the stairs.
Someone was crying in long, pitiful sobs. Behind a door on level two came the roaring sounds of an arena football game and someone’s foul cursing at a botched play. She smelled must, urine gone stale, and the sweet scent of old Zoner.
On level three there was classical music, something she’d heard Roarke play. Accompanying it were rhythmic thumps.
“A dancer,” Peabody said. “I’ve got a cousin who made it to the Regional Ballet Company in Denver. Somebody’s doing jetes. I used to want to be one.”
