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“Maybe he continues to botch it,” Roarke said quietly. “Loses both, and keeps trying.”
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s one we won’t mention to Mavis. Could be a moral fanatic. Except one of the vics that coordinates for me got married to the baby’s father.”
“If you’re fanatical enough, she still conceived out of wedlock.”
“Can’t rule it out.” She glanced idly at a corner glide-cart, grill smoking. “But the fact we’ve got echoing vics in three countries points me to profit. A business. Snatch, grab, deliver, sell. Destroy evidence.”
“Cold.”
“The coldest,” she agreed, then straightened as Roarke parked on East End Avenue. “But I’m thinking this ranks up there on the ice scale, too.”
It was a little palace of glass and stone, built on the ashes of the Urban Wars. There were a few like it—in size and style—along New York’s rivers, affording lofty views of the waterways. The glass reflected gilded bronze to any who stood outside its walls to admire it. Since the sun had set at the end of the long day, the security lights beamed that same rich color over the blind glass and warm brown stones.
It spired up, with generous terraces on the riverside, and a tall, wide arch at the entrance.
After pressing the buzzer, Eve held her badge up to the security screen. The red beam of the laser scanned it before the door opened.
She made the attractive, uniformed maid as a droid even before it spoke. “May I help you?”
“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD, and associate, to see Ms. Bullock and/ or Mr. Chase.”
“Neither Ms. Bullock nor Mr. Chase is at home to callers. Would you care to leave your card?”
“When I show you this,” Eve held the badge up in the droid’s face, “it means I’m not here to socialize. Do you think Ms. Bullock and/or Mr. Chase would prefer to call on me at Cop Central?”
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll inform Ms. Bullock.”
Here was a formal foyer with gold and silver tiles for the floor, complex shapes in thin red glass dripping light from the ceiling. There were paintings in sleek gold frames—all flash and color, and to Eve’s mind, no substance or sense.
Benches, tables, chairs were all ebony and trimmed in deep, dark red.
She wandered away from the entrance, glancing up a sweep of silver stairs and looking east into a spacious room where the decor colors had been reversed—black and red for the floor, gold and silver for the furnishings.
A fire roared away in the ruby hearth, and beyond the wall of gilded glass was the long, dark river.
Nothing soft, she thought, nothing quiet or feminine or comforting. Just meticulous, somewhat regimented decor—the sort that gave her a mild headache.
No one would dare put their feet up on the gleaming silver table, or curl up for a nap on the gold cushions of the straight-lined sofa.
She heard the click of heels on the tiles and turned to study Madeline Bullock, in the flesh.
The ID photos hadn’t done her justice, Eve decided. She was a presence. Tall, stately, handsome, with silver-blonde hair sleeked back from a youthful face and rolled smooth at the nape of her neck.
Her eyes were arctic blue, her lips painted red as the hearth. She wore a sweater and full-legged pants that matched her eyes, and diamonds glittered like drops of ice from her ears and her throat.
“Lieutenant Dallas.” She crossed the room the way a well-appointed yacht sails a calm sea. Smooth and important. The hand she offered sparkled with both diamonds and rubies. Eve wondered if she’d accessorized to match the room.
“I spoke with your associate a few days ago,” Madeline continued, “about that terrible tragedy at Sloan, Myers, and Kraus.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re Roarke.” Her smile warmed several degrees. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met. How odd, considering.”
“Ms. Bullock.”
“Please, please, sit. Tell me what I can do for you both.”
“I was under the impression you’d left the country, Ms. Bullock,” Eve began.
