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“You need to remember I’ve been on interviews with you before.”
Roarke got out. The doorman halted his quick march mid-stride. The sour expression the dingy police-issue brought to his face transformed into polite welcome.
Irritating, Eve thought. One look at Roarke wearing his power the same way he wore the perfectly cut suit and Italian shoes, and it went from “Get that piece of shit away from my building” to “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”
Eve nearly snorted. Roarke merely angled his head and sent her a very subtle smirk. “Lieutenant?”
She thought, Showoff. But said, “NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge for the doorman. “Here to see Alex Ricker. My ride stays where it is.”
The doorman’s eyes shifted from Eve to Roarke, and back again. The puzzlement was clear, but obviously he knew a man didn’t keep a primo gig on a door like this one by asking the wrong questions of the wrong people. “I’ll call up, see if Mr. Ricker is in and available. If you’d like to step into the lobby?”
He moved briskly to the door, held it open for them.
The outer dignity continued inside with the black-veined marble floor, the rich tones of wood that had likely been in place for a couple of centuries. The seating was red and plush, the tables topped by antique lamps with touches of gilt, all set off under a multitiered chandelier of dripping crystal.
The doorman opened a panel to reveal a wall ’link. After entering a code, he cleared his throat, squared his shoulders.
Eve studied the face that came on-screen. Not Ricker, she mused, but a man about the same age. What she’d call a slick character with an expensive haircut styled so the dark waves curved around a smooth, even-featured face.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Sandy. I have the police in the lobby asking to speak to Mr. Ricker.”
Nothing registered on Sandy’s face, and his tone was very cool, very authoritative, faintly European. And, Eve thought, just a little prissy.
“Verify their identification, please.”
Eve simply held up her badge again, waiting while the doorman ran his scanner over it, read the display. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, verified.” He turned to Roarke.
“Expert consultant, civilian. Roarke,” Eve said briskly. “With me.”
“Send them up, please.” Sandy ordered. “I’ll inform Mr. Ricker.”
“Yes, sir.”
The doorman started for an elevator as its dull gold door slid open. “Two passengers cleared for Ricker penthouse.”
Eve and Roarke stepped inside. The doors closed without a sound. “Nice building,” she said conversationally. “Yours?”
“No.” Knowing, as he was sure Eve did, the elevator’s security likely ran to audio as well as video, he leaned back casually against the wall. “I doubt he’d feel . . . comfortable living in a building I owned.”
“Guess not. Bet it’s a nice view from the penthouse.”
“No doubt.”
The elevator opened directly inside a foyer that smelled of roses from the forest of them madly blooming out of a Chinese urn on a pond-sized table. Slick Character stood beside it.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Mr. Roarke, I’m Rod Sandy, Mr. Ricker’s personal assistant. If you’d come with me?”
He led the way into a wide living space.
She’d been right about the view, it was a killer. The wall of windows and glass doors opened to a bricked terrace that jutted out toward the spires and towers of New York. Inside, the sunny, open space murmured with European dignity. Antiques mixed with deeply cushioned chairs and sofas, all in deep hues that translated wealth without flash.
A room, Eve mused, Amaryllis Coltraine would have approved of.
More flowers sat in the hearth in lieu of a fire, framed in marble. Paneled walls conc
ealed such mundane matters, she thought, as entertainment and mood screens, room security, data-and-communication centers.
