Kindred in Death (In Death #29)(55)

“If you’ve got something to say, say it. The boss knows I had some trouble a while back. I haven’t had any since. He knows that, too. I did the terms of my deal.”

“Your brother got a harder deal.”

He shrugged, then head jerked her toward the rear of the shop. “He screwed me up. Fed me illegals before I’m ten, got me hooked. I worked for him, sure. What else was there? And when it came down, he ran, and he left me for the cops. He ran, trying to save his own ass, and didn’t do anything to help me. So he got what was coming to him, as far as I can see. And I’m not shedding any tears over it. I got straight, I got work. Cops like to come around giving me the fish eye, fine. I’m clean.”

“If you give me the right answer to one question, I walk out. No harm, no foul.”

“Depends on the question.”

“You got attitude, Risso. I have to admire that. Saturday from six p.m. to Sunday, three a.m.”

“We close at six on Saturday. Me and the boss closed up, left about quarter after. You can ask him.”

“And after?”

He gave a jerky shrug that she interpreted as annoyance rather than nerves. “Went home, got cleaned up some. Eight o’clock me, the boss, and three other guys played cards like we do Saturday night, once a month. Game was at my place this round.” He grinned, with that hint of smirk. “Friendly stakes.”

“I’m not worried about the stakes. Is that your boss?” She gestured toward the potbellied man trying to sell a customer a new PPC.

“Yeah. And the guy in the back, Carmine, he was at the game.”

“Hold on a minute.”

She crossed to the potbelly, held up her badge. “Quick one. Who closed with you Saturday night, and at what time?”

“Risso, he’s over there. We closed it up about six.”

“When did you see him next?”

“At his place, a couple hours later. We had a card game. Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem. Thanks.”

“He’s a good boy,” the man said as Eve started to turn away. “He comes in on time, does the work, and doesn’t complain. I gave him a raise last week ’cause he earned it.”

Eve nodded. “He’s not in any trouble.”

She walked back to Risso, handed him her card. “Cops come in giving you the fish eye, let me know.”

He stared at the card. “Why?”

“Because I asked a question and you gave me the right answer. Because you’re not your brother.”

Eve walked out while he continued to stare at the card.

“That was well done,” Mira told her.

“Elimination. Just crossing the lines.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Eve shrugged and walked with Mira back to the car.

11

KARLENE ROBINS PUNCHED IN HER CODE, swiped her realty ID in the slot. She hummed to herself as security recognized both. A perfect day, she thought, shaking back her curling mane of glossy black hair. She had hopes to make it spectacular by closing the sale on the very frosty loft with her very young and well-heeled client.

It was just what he was after. She could hardly believe her luck, and the timing. The property had fallen into her lap, just the night before, when the previous buyers broke contract.

Their loss, and she really hoped her gain.

She stepped inside the tiny lobby area, coded in for the elevator.

The commission would be a whopper, and couldn’t come at a better time. She was getting married on Saturday, and thinking of it, she did a little spin into the elevator.

She could close this deal, have all the paperwork in order in a snap, snap, snap. When she and Tony got back from their honeymoon, they’d go to settlement, she’d present the happy new loft owner with a big-ass gift basket full of fancy wines and eats—and most important—collect her big, beautiful commission.

She scanned the little elevator car, nodded approval. Good security, smooth ride, privacy. And the openwork iron doors, she thought when she reached the loft, added that funky retro touch.

They opened soundlessly into a high-ceilinged space with wide, wide windows and a double trio of skylights.

The original wood floors—and how often did you find that—were stylishly distressed. The walls, neutral tones chosen to sell, were fully soundproofed. Kitchen, she mused, wandering through, totally up-to-date. Compact, shining appliances with the fun and funky zebra-striped counters configured for maximum use of space.

The client probably wouldn’t cook for himself. He was from money, and currently trying to make a name for himself as an artist. He’d entertain though, and this was a fine space for that.

Add two bedrooms—one that would stand in very well as studio space with more skylights, more windows—and southern exposure—and what she considered a dream bathroom with jet tub, jet shower, drying tube, smoked glass walls—and he’d never do better.

The place said—no cheered, she corrected—it cheered young, fun, hip, and well-off.

She fluffed her hair, turned to check herself out in the mirror. Appearance mattered. She’d dressed carefully, groomed carefully to suit the client and the location.

He wanted SoHo, arty, a hot spot amid plenty of galleries, restaurants, clubs. And this was it. Karlene figured his real estate agent should reflect the same at a showing. She’d chosen the short black skirt, the high leopard-print heels, and the bold red top with its silver beading rather than a more sedate suit very deliberately.