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party. And minutes before the security for the elevators and lobby cleared. We have to look at that. She could’ve been forced, threatened.”
“There are fail-safes.” He shook his head. “She’s smart. She’s too damn smart to get herself trapped that way.”
Better to let it lie, Eve decided, until they spoke to the woman in question.
Security paid well enough, in Roarke’s domain, to warrant a tidy duplex in a tony neighborhood. People clipped along the sidewalk wearing suits and style while they sipped what she assumed was fancy fake coffee out of go-cups. Pretty women with bouncy hair herded pretty children toward what, she assumed again, would be private schools. A couple of teenagers whizzed by on airboards while a third chased after them on street blades.
Eve climbed the short steps to the door. “You can take the lead with her,” she told Roarke, “but when I step in, you have to step back.”
Rather than respond, he rang the bell.
Privacy screens shielded the front windows, and the security lock held a steady red. As the seconds ticked away, Eve wondered how a woman might go into the wind with a husband and a kid. They had a weekend home in Connecticut, she mused, and relatives in Japan. If . . .
The security light blinked green.
Mika Nakamura was a stunner. Eve had seen that from the ID shot. But at the moment, she looked hard used. Sallow skin, dull, bloodshot eyes, the tangled mess of ebony hair all spoke of a hard night, or an illness.
“Sir?” the voice rasped. Mika cleared her throat, opened the door a bit wider. She wore a long scarlet robe messily tied at the waist.
“I need to speak with you, Mika.”
“Of course. Yes. Is something wrong?”
She stepped back. Eve noted the house was dim, that the privacy screens had been boosted up to block the light. Even so, the interior was splashed with vibrant colors from rugs and art.
“Please come in. Won’t you sit down? Can I get you some coffee? Tea?”
“Aren’t you well, Mika?”
“I’m just a little off. I had my husband take Aiko out for breakfast because I can’t seem to pull it together.”
“Long night?” Eve asked, and Mika gave her a puzzled look.
“I . . . sorry?”
“My wife, Lieutenant Dallas, and her partner, Detective Peabody. I’ve been trying to reach you, Mika.”
“You have?” She pushed her hands at her hair in an absent attempt to straighten it. “Nothing’s come through. Did I . . .” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Did I turn the ’links off? Why would I do that?”
“Sit down.” Roarke took her arm, led her to a chair in as bold a red as her robe. He sat on the glossy black coffee table to face her. “There was an incident at the hotel last night.”
“An incident.” She repeated the words slowly, as if learning the language.
“You were on the com, Mika. You ordered Paul to cover the main hotel, though it was already covered. And you dismissed the tech from the screen room, telling them you’d be running some maintenance on the cameras.”
“That doesn’t sound right.” She rubbed at her temple again. “It doesn’t sound right.”
Eve touched Roarke’s shoulder, and though impatience flashed into his eyes, he rose. Eve took his place. “Just before sixteen hundred, you shut down the cameras in the VIP lobby and the private elevator for Suite 606. They remained off until approximately twenty-three hundred.”
“Why would I do that?”
Not a denial, Eve noted. A sincere question. “A group checked into that suite. The Asant Group. Do you know them?”
“No.”
“During the time the cameras were shut down, from your com, a woman was murdered in that suite.”
Even the sickly color faded from Mika’s cheeks. “Murdered? Oh, God. Sir—”
