Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(52)

“I don’t care how that sounds.” After folding her arms, Peabody jerked up her chin. “It’s true.”

“Maybe when we collar the killer, there’ll be an opportunity for you to engage in a bit of hand-to-hand. If you punch the killer, it should have some level of satisfaction.”

“It would. I think it would. Yeah, I feel better. Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Eve decided the fates had rewarded her for placating Peabody when she snagged a street-level slot half a block away. “Maybe you can lose that point-three pound walking to Asner’s office and back.”

11

SINCE ASNER’S OFFICE WAS SITUATED OVER A pierogi place in a pockmarked brick building that squatted between a dingy tattoo parlor and a particularly seedy-looking bar, they added a flight of stairs to the walk.

“Pierogies. Even smelling pierogies can offset weight loss. It’s a medical phenomenon.”

“Hold your breath,” Eve advised as they started the climb.

As the building squatted between bar and parlor, Asner’s office squatted between a law office Eve figured specialized in repping sleaze-balls and a bail bondsman who no doubt shared clients.

Eve opened the door into a claustrophobic reception area with barely enough room to hold the desk manned by a bored, busty blonde who sat painting her nails murderous red.

Clichés became clichés, Eve deduced, because they were rooted in fact.

“Good afternoon.” The blonde spoke in squeaky Brooklynese as she straightened at the desk. “How can we assist you today?”

Eve took out her badge. “We need to speak to Mr. Asner.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Asner is not in the office presently.”

“Where is he?”

“I’m sorry. I’m unable to give you that information.”

“Did you see this?” Eve tapped her badge.

“Uh-huh.” Cooperatively the blonde nodded, widened her eyes. “If you tell me the nature of your business I can tell Mr. Asner on his return.”

“When is he expected back?”

“I’m sorry. I’m unable to give you that information.”

“Listen, sister. We’re the police, get that? And we’re here on police business. We need your boss’s whereabouts.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t keep reading that same line.”

“But it’s true.” The blonde waved her red-tipped fingers in the air. “I can’t tell you, ’cause I don’t know. He said how he had some outside business, and I should hold the fort.”

“Can you contact him?”

“I tried, ’cause Bobbie came by and said why don’t we go out for a drink, but I can’t go out for a drink if I’m holding the fort. So I tried to tag him to ask when I could stop holding it, but I went right to v-mail.”

“Is this usual?”

“Well … it depends. Sometimes A’s outside business involves, um, wagering. When it does he maybe doesn’t answer his ’link for a while.”

“Do you know where he wagers?”

“Different places. They move around.”

“I bet. Do you have a name?”

“Uh-huh.”

Eve waited a beat. Then two. “What would your name be?”

“It’s Barberella Maxine Dubrowsky. But everybody calls me Barbie.”

“Really? Okay, Barbie, let’s try this. Do you have a client who resembles my partner here?”

Barbie caught her bottom lip between her teeth—a method, Eve assumed, of concentration. “Um, no, I don’t think.”

“One named K.T. Harris?”

Now the lashes fluttered, a reflex of anxiety. “Am I supposed to tell you?”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Okay. No, at least I don’t remember that name. There’s an actress who has that name. She used to go with Matthew Zank. He’s totally cute. I saw her in this vid about corporations and crime or something. I didn’t get it. But she looked good, plus it had Declan O’Malley in it, and he’s—”

“Totally cute,” Eve finished.

“Uh-huh.”

“How about a client named Delia Peabody?”

“Oh sure. She came in to see A about a week ago. Something like that. She was in with A for a long time, like maybe an hour, and he was really excited when she left. But …” She glanced over her shoulder, dropped her baby-doll voice to a whisper. “I thought she was kind of a beyotch—you know?”

“Is that so?”

“She, like, ordered me around. Like—” Barbie snapped her fingers, then frowned down at her nails. “Shoot. I smudged them. I’m really polite with clients, but I wanted to tell her, Listen, you, just ’cause you’re rich doesn’t mean you can snap your fingers at me and look at me like I’m dirt.”

“Why did you think she was rich?”

“She had on these mag-o-mag shoes. I’ve seen them in Styling, and they cost huge. And she wore this swank dress. Some redhead comes in here in a swank dress and mag-o-mag shoes, I know she’s rich. But that doesn’t mean she can boss me around and tell me to go out and get her a decent cup of coffee—cream no sugar—for which she didn’t even pay me. It’s not like I get an expense account working here, and that coffee cost me ten. A made it good a couple days ago, but she shouldn’t have done like that. Right?”