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Then he turned as the chief of police stepped off the elevator.
Eve hadn’t been expecting a statuesque brunette in a tiny black dress with enough hair to stuff a mattress. As she clipped down the hall on towering high heels, Eve heard Morris’s reverent opinion.
“Hubba-hubba.”
“Jeez, try for dignity,” Eve scolded.
The brunette stopped, took a quick scan. “Roarke,” she said in a voice that evoked images of hot desert nights.
“Chief. Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. Dr. Morris, NYC Medical Examiner.”
“Yes. Darcia Angelo. Chief of Olympus Police. Excuse my appearance. I was at one of the welcome events. I’m told we have a possible homicide.”
“Verified homicide,” Eve told her. “Victim’s male, Caucasian, thirty-five to forty. Bludgeoned. The weapon, a metal bat, was left on scene. Preliminary visual exam indicates he’s been dead under two hours.”
“There’s been a prelim exam?” Darcia asked. Coldly.
“Yes.”
“Well, we won’t quibble about that. I’ll verify personally before my team gets here.”
“Messy down there.” Coolly, Eve handed over the can of Seal-It.
“Thanks.” Darcia stepped out of her evening shoes. Eve couldn’t fault her for it. She did the same thing herself, when she remembered. When she’d finished, she handed the can back to Eve. Darcia took a small recorder out of her purse, clipped it where the fabric of her dress dipped to hug her breasts.
Morris let out a long sigh as she walked into the stairwell. “Where do you find them?” he asked Roarke. “And how can I get one of my very own?”
Before Eve could snarl at him, Feeney hurried down the hall. “Got a snag with the disks,” he announced. “Stairway cams were overridden for a fifty-minute period. You got nothing but static there, and static for two sixty-second intervals on the twentieth-floor corridor. Somebody knew what they were doing,” he added. “It’s a complex system, with a fail-safe backup plan. It took a pro—with access.”
“With that time frame there had to be at least two people involved,” Eve stated. “Premeditated, not impulse, not crime of passion.”
“You got an ID on the victim? I can run a background check.”
“Police chief’s on scene,” Eve said flatly.
For a moment Feeney looked blank. “Oh, right. Forgot we weren’t home, sweet home. The locals going to squeeze us out?”
“You weren’t,” Darcia said as she came out of the stairwell, “ever—in an official capacity—in.”
“On the contrary,” Roarke told her. “I requested the assistance of the lieutenant and her team.”
Irritation flickered across Darcia’s face, but she controlled it quickly. “As is your privilege. Lieutenant, may I have a moment of your time?” Without waiting for an answer, Darcia walked down the corridor.
“Arrogant, territorial, pushy.” Eve glared at Roarke. “You sure can pick them.”
He only smiled as his wife’s retreating back. “Yes, I certainly can.”
“Look, Angelo, you want to bust my balls over doing a visual, you’re wasting your time and mine.” Eve tugged her lapel recorder free, held it out. “I verified a homicide, at the request of the property owner. Then I stepped back. I don’t want your job, and I don’t want your case. I get my fill of walking through blood in New York.”
Darcia flipped her mane of glossy black hair. “Four months ago I was busting illegal dealers in Colombia, risking my life on a daily basis and still barely able to pay the rent on a stinking little two-room apartment. In the current climate, cops are not appreciated in my country. I like my new job.”
She opened her purse, dropped Eve’s recorder inside. “Is that job in jeopardy if I refuse to hand over this case to my employer’s wife?”
“Roarke doesn’t fight my battles, and he doesn’t fire people because they might not agree with me.”
“Good.” Darcia nodded. “I worked illegals, bunko, robbery. Twelve years. I’m a good cop. Homicide, however, is not my specialty. I don’t enjoy sharing, but I’d appreciate any help you and your associates are willing to give in this matter.”
“Fine. So what was this dance about?”
