Festive in Death (In Death #39)(35)

The building didn’t boast a doorman, but it did include door and lobby security. At the swipe of Eve’s master, a computerized voice requested her badge number for verification. Once she’d given it, the same tinny voice asked the nature of her business.

“It shouldn’t be any of yours,” Eve shot back. “Police business. We’re here to speak with Kira Robbins.”

Thank you for your cooperation. Ms. Robbins will be notified of your visit. Please wait.

“It just pisses me off on principle,” Eve said, moving across the polished concrete floor to the polished silver of the elevator. “Having a bunch of chips and circuits tell me what to do.”

She jammed the up button, scowled when the voice said:

One moment please. Ms. Robbins requests the nature of your business.

“You can tell Ms. Robbins that if she doesn’t engage this elevator, we’ll come back with a warrant and a lot more cops.”

Thank you. Your message will be relayed.

“Fucking A,” Eve replied, but seconds later, the elevator door opened. Inside, before she could order the fifth floor, the voice spoke again.

This car will now take you directly to Ms. Robbins’s residence, where she is expecting you. Please enjoy your visit and the rest of your day.

“Good God, do they ever shut up?” Eve wondered as the elevator smoothly rose. “I don’t get why people tell you to enjoy your day, much less machines. If they don’t know you, what the hell do they care?”

“No man is an island?” Peabody suggested.

“Why would anybody say that? An island’s a scoop of land floating around on a bunch of water.”

“I think it means—never mind,” Peabody decided as the doors opened onto a wide foyer with a bunch of tall potted trees.

Kira Robbins stood between two flowering trees, a waterfall of blond hair spilling over the shoulders of a short, snug red dress. She wore matching heels and lips and a curious look in slanted blue eyes.

“I honestly thought it was a joke, but you are the cops. I know you,” she said, pointing a finger with a glossy red nail at Eve. “Eve Dallas. Roarke’s inamorata, and top cop of Icove fame. And Delia Peabody. My God,” she continued, moving toward Eve, “that’s a fabulous coat. Just fabulous. Italian leather, slightly masculine cut, which only makes it more female on you. And powerful. And I love the boots. Would you mind if I got a picture? ‘Lieutenant Dallas, Fashionable Cop.’ A great article for tomorrow’s blog.”

“Yes. I’d mind. We’re here on official business. We have some questions.”

“I’m always on official business. And speaking of boots.” She smiled down at Peabody’s. “Those are adorable. Well, come in. We can have a drink and get down to business, whatever it might be.”

She turned into a large open area with windows overlooking downtown—and a tall holiday pine decorated in gold and silver in the center.

A low-profile sofa in a buff color was mounted with bold, floral pillows. It faced a small arched fireplace. Glossy black tables topped with bright white lamps with blue shades flanked floral-print chairs—with buff-colored pillows.

“So what will it be?”

“Answers,” Eve told her.

“I meant to drink.” Robbins headed toward a high-gloss black bar. “I feel like some fizzy lemon.”

“We’re fine. You’re acquainted with Trey Ziegler?”

“Trey, of course.” Robbins opened the small, built-in friggie, took out a tall bottle. “I heard about what happened to him last night, and more when I went to the gym this morning. It’s terrible, of course. He was a terrific trainer. but I didn’t expect to have the cops come to my door about it.”

She plopped ice in a long, slim glass, poured the lemon drink over it. “Sure?”

Eve only shook her head. “You don’t seem too broken up about it.”

“Why would I be? He was a terrific trainer, but there are others. And he was kind of a shit otherwise.” She carried her drink to the sofa, sat down, leaned back. “Have a seat.”

“You didn’t like him?”

“Personally? Not really. He was great to look at. I mean that body was a killer. And he knew how to work me so I kept mine in shape. But he was smug, arrogant, and not terribly smart.”

“But you slept with him anyway.”

Robbins lowered the glass she’d started to bring to her lips. Her voice went as cold as the ice in her glass. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Sex can often lead to murder.”

“Is that so? I hadn’t thought of it. For me, it generally leads to release, or what’s the point. Am I actually a suspect? Seriously? Because I slept with him once, against my better judgment, I’ll add. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

“Day before yesterday, between five P.M. and seven. Where were you?”

“Here, working. I’m nearly finished with a new book, and I have the blog. I’ve been putting in a lot of day hours on both as I spend most evenings out. Holiday parties, events—they’re my fodder.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone.” She gestured. “I prefer to work alone, without distractions. I have an assistant, but I’ve got her out most days right now, scouting the stores and boutiques, sending me pictures.”