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“I’m going to have one with you if you don’t clear us up to the Mira apartment, and now. It’s been a long day, pal, and now I’m wet and cold. I can make your life a living hell should I choose to do so.”
“Cops,” he mumbled under his breath and lumbered back to the doors. He stomped over to the lobby comp.
“Mrs. Mira or one of her people have to clear you. They bought a private elevator, and if I try to send you up without clearance, that trips an alarm. And it’s my job. You can make my life a living hell, but, sister, you’ve got nothing on my wife. I lose my job, she’ll make me wish I was in hell.”
“That’s Lieutenant Sister—and let them know the NYPSD needs to speak with Mrs. Mira.”
He tapped something on the screen, then put on an earpiece for privacy. “Yo, Hank, it’s Eugene on the door. I got the NYPSD down here needing to speak with the boss. Uh-huh. Yeah, that’s next. Got it.”
He turned to Eve. “Need to scan that for verification, and Mrs. Mira’s security is informing her you want to come up.”
“Scan away.”
Once he verified, he went back to the screen and Hank. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, verified. All right. Security wants to know what you want to talk to Mrs. Mira about.”
“I’ll discuss that with Mrs. Mira, in order to respect her privacy.”
“She said— Okay, you heard her. I got it.”
He turned away from the screen to gesture to the last elevator in a line of three. “That’s the private. I’m going to send you straight up. Security will meet you.”
“Dandy.” Eve strolled to the elevator with Roarke, waited for the doors to open.
They did so with barely a whisper. The car had soft gold walls, a bench padded with royal blue on each side, and a small table holding a vase of white roses on the back wall.
“Who does that?” Eve wondered. “Who puts flowers in an elevator?”
Roarke continued to work on his PPC. “They purchased the entire top floor—that’s four units and terraces—eight years ago.”
“The whole top floor.”
“Indeed they did, to the tune of twelve-point-three million. You did say to have a go at their finances.”
“I figured that for when we’re home.”
“The anticipation was too much for my fragile willpower. Oh, the car has ears and eyes as well, but I took the liberty of jamming both when we got in.”
“You do keep busy.”
“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
“Why? They’re idle when you’re sleeping—does he set up shop then? Are we all supposed to stay awake using our hands so the devil doesn’t make stuff? What if you broke your hand? Is he doing his workshop thing while you’re waiting to have it fixed?”
Roarke contemplated the pale gold ceiling. “Such a simple, if moralistic, phrase now thoroughly destroyed.”
“I keep busy, too.” Pleased with herself, she strode off when the doors whispered open.
A big, built black guy, who looked as if he should grace the cover of some men’s fashion mag, stepped forward in the wide entrance foyer. There were more white roses, more benches, subdued lighting—and double doors, firmly closed.
“Lieutenant, sir,” he said to them with a faint British accent. “I’ll need to stow and secure your weapons as well as any electronic devices before I let you in to see Mrs. Mira.”
“Not a single, solitary chance in hell.”
“Then I’m afraid, without a warrant, this is as far as you go.”
“All right. I’ll assume Mrs. Mira isn’t concerned about her husband being attacked and possibly kidnapped this evening. Any change there, she can contact me at Central tomorrow. I’m going off duty. Let’s go eat spaghetti,” she said to Roarke and turned back to the elevator.
“Just a minute. Are you claiming Mr. Mira’s been attacked?”
