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“Well, it gives us a window.” Peabody glanced up from her palm unit, caught the coldly narrowed stare Eve aimed at her. “What? What did I say?”
“Next person says that, I’m throwing them out the goddamn window.” She started the car. “Peabody, am I an ass-kicker?”
“Are you asking to see my scars, or is that a trick question?”
“Shut up, Peabody,” Eve suggested, and headed back to Central.
“Quim had a hundred on tonight’s arena ball game.” Peabody’s smile was thin and self-satisfied. “McNab just relayed the data. A hundred’s his top bet. Odd he’d place a bet a few hours before offing himself, then not even wait around to see if he won. I’ve got the name and address of his bookie here. Oh, but I’m supposed to shut up. Sorry, sir.”
“You want more scars?”
“I really don’t. Now that I have a sex life, they’re embarrassing. Maylou Jorgensen. She’s got a hole in the West Village.”
• • •
Peabody loved the West Village. She loved the way it ran from bohemian chic to pinstriped drones who wanted to be bohemian chic. She liked to watch the street traffic stroll by in ankle dusters or buttoned-up jumpsuits. The shaved heads, the wild tangles of multicolored curls. She liked watching the sidewalk artists pretend they were too cool to worry about selling their work.
Even the street thieves had a veneer of polish.
The glide-cart operators sold veggie kabobs plucked fresh from the fields of Greenpeace Park.
She thought longingly of dinner.
Eve pulled up in front of a tidy, rehabbed warehouse, double-parked, and turned on her On Duty sign.
“One of these days, I’d like to live in one of these lofts. All that space and a view of the street.” Peabody scanned the area as she climbed from the car. “Look, there’s a nice, clean deli on the corner there, and a 24/7 market on the other.”
“You look for living quarters due to the proximity of food?”
“It’s a consideration.”
Eve flashed her badge at a security screen in working order, then entered the building. The tiny foyer boasted an elevator and four mail slots. All freshly scrubbed.
“Four units in a building this size.” Peabody heaved a sigh. “Imagine.”
“I’m imagining a bookie shouldn’t be able to afford a place in here.” On a hunch, Eve bypassed the buzzer for 2-A and used her shield to gain access to stairs. “We’ll go up this way, surprise Maylou.”
The building was utterly silent, telling her the soundproofing was first-rate. She thought of Quim’s miserable flop a few telling blocks away. Bookies apparently did a lot better than the majority of their clients.
“Never bet against the house,” Morse had said.
Truer words.
She pressed the buzzer on 2-A, waited. Moments later, the door swung open in front of an enormous redhead and a small, white, yapping dog.
“About time you—” The woman blinked hard
gold eyes, narrowed them in a wild and striking face the tone and texture of alabaster. “I thought you were the dog walker. He’s late. If you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
“Maylou Jorgensen?”
“So what?”
“NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge then found her arms full of barking fur.
“Well, hell.” Eve tossed the yelping dog at Peabody, then charged into the loft. Leaping, she tackled the redhead as the woman scrambled for a wide console, studded with controls and facing a wall of busy screens.
They went down like felled trees.
