Connections in Death (In Death #48)(55)

She walked up to the door, pressed the buzzer.

Seconds later the intercom hummed, then let out a cheerful female voice. “Wow, Jimmy, that was fast! Be right there.”

“Might be Vinn,” Eve said. “Eldena. The stripper.”

“You must’ve flown. I didn’t—Oh.”

She had the body for the job, Eve thought. At the moment a snug black tank and cropped black skin pants covered the curvy inches. She had her hair, roasted chestnut, scooped back in a tail from a face dominated by wide brown eyes and currently devoid of enhancements.

Her bare feet had the toenails painted bright green.

She looked young and dewy, and surprised.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were Jimmy with the Chinese.”

“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with the NYPSD.”

Eldena frowned at the badge Eve offered. “Can I help—” She broke off, wide eyes going even wider as they focused on Roarke. “Oh, oh! Dallas. Dallas and Roarke. God, I loved The Icove Agenda. I mean, you think, that couldn’t happen, but it did. This is even better than Red Dragon’s noodles, and they’re mag. Do you want to come in?”

“As a matter of fact.”

“Sorry, I was working on some choreography, so I’m a mess. I’m a dancer. Come in and sit down. I’ll take your coats. Can I get you a drink?”

“We’re good. Ms. Vinn—”

“Oh, please, call me El.”

“We’re here on police business, and would like to speak with you and Mr. Cohen.”

“Oh. Sure. Sorry, I’m just thrown off. Sam’s back in his office. I’ll go get him. Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”

“We’re good,” Eve said again.

“Well, make yourselves at home. I’ll be right back.”

As she hurried out, chestnut ponytail bouncing, Eve shook her head. “See? See? What did I say? The Oscar thing just makes it worse. Cop at your door, and you’re all, Oh, I loved the vid. Jesus.”

In mock sympathy, Roarke patted her back. “A brutally heavy cross to bear.”

“Bite me,” she muttered and took stock of the living area.

She supposed she expected more of the ornate from a stripper and sleazy ex-lawyer. But the walls, a quiet, muted green held a few cheerful floral prints. The furniture ran to the simple, even tasteful in the wide, u-shaped sofa in cream—covered with bright, fussy pillows, of course. The chairs had a geometric design that picked up the green and cream.

A lot of matchy, sort of studied, but . . . average, she decided.

“Not your usual den of iniquity,” Roarke commented, smiling at her. “I think you’re a bit disappointed.”

“No, but it’s interesting. The fact it comes off ordinary.”

She turned when she heard Eldena hurrying back in her house skids. “He’s on the ’link—just wrapping up. Please, have a seat.”

She sat herself, crossed her excellent legs. “Is there anything I can help with? I hope there hasn’t been any trouble in the neighborhood. We haven’t had any.”

“I’d like to talk about your business partnership with Marcus Jones.”

“Who?”

“Marcus Jones,” Eve repeated. “Maybe you know him as Slice.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t have any business partnerships.” She smiled, obviously puzzled but willing. “I’m a dancer.”

“During the course of an investigation I’ve read the documents, your business connection with Jones, the ownership—Jones, Mr. Cohen, yourself—of several buildings in New York.”

She actually laughed. “Oh, that’s not right. I’m sorry. We don’t own any buildings. I wish!”

Not lying, Eve thought. More interesting. She pulled out her PPC, keyed up the file with the papers for Banger HQ. Rising, she offered it to Eldena. “Is that your signature?”

“I . . . It sure looks like it.”

Eve scrolled to papers on another property. “And this?”

“I don’t understand. This is . . .” She looked up at Eve.

Wide eyes, sure, Eve thought, but not stupid. “I need to know what this is about, all right? What investigation?”

“Murder, Ms. Vinn. Two of them.”

Every ounce of color drained. “Murder. Who? How? It can’t have anything to do with me and Sam. It just can’t. I don’t understand.”

Someone else came hurrying down the hall. “Now, who’s here, cutie-pie, who’s so special?”

Sam Cohen’s big white smile died away the instant he turned into the room. He struggled to put it back in place. “El, you should’ve told me the police were here.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” She stared at him with those wide eyes gone cold. “Surprise.”





12

He kept the smile going, though it looked a little sickly to Eve’s eye. He hit about five-eight, carried a soft belly under a white shirt and navy sports coat. His gilded hair showed no gray as it swept back from a high forehead. His eyes, blue, looked both worried and calculating.

He said, “Ha ha!” Then seemed to recover his balance as he strode into the room. “El, sweetie, how about you get the house droid to make some coffee for our guests.”