Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(24)

“This?” Since she’d already forgotten what she was wearing, Eve looked down.

“I love those earthy tones. I can’t wear them, but they’re so perfect for you. I don’t want to keep you,” Mira said as she gathered up her things. “I’m available when you need me on this—and I want to add we’re looking forward to Bella’s party. It’ll be so good for Dennis. That kind of color and joy.”

Eve shuffled the actual party out of her mind. “How’s he doing?”

“He’ll grieve for the cousin he loved, even though that man ceased to exist, if he ever did, long before his death. But he’s doing well. I was going to nudge him into taking a trip, a little time for us away, but realized he needs home and routine right now. So the party adds to it. What’s happier than a first birthday party?”

“I could make a list.”

On a laugh, Mira shook her head. “Good luck today.”

With Peabody, Eve drove back toward Midtown and Michaelson’s practice right off Fifth Avenue at East Sixty-Fourth.

A healthy walk to the rink, she thought, and an easy walk to his residence only a couple blocks away on Sixty-First.

She accepted the challenge of finding a parking slot, vertical lifted into a tight second level on the street. Peabody didn’t breathe until the car clunked into place.

Then she cleared her throat. “Office manager is Marta Beck. In addition, he has a receptionist, a billing clerk, a physician assistant, a midwife, two nurses, and a pair of part-time rotating nurse’s assistants.”

“Good-sized staff for one doctor.”

“He’s been in this location for twenty-two years, and does a stint at the local free clinic twice a month.”

Together they walked down, clanging on the metal steps, to street level while sleet slickened every surface.

“Basic background shows a good rep, professionally, and nothing that pops out personally.”

On the main door of the trim townhouse was a simple plaque that read DR. BRENT MICHAELSON, and beneath his was one that read FAITH O’RILEY.

“O’Riley’s the midwife,” Peabody said as Eve stepped inside the quiet, surprisingly homey reception area.

The area was occupied by three pregnant women—one with a toddler perched on what was left of her lap, a thin woman in her mid-twenties, who looked bored as she scrolled through her PPC, and a couple who huddled together, hands clasped.

Eve went straight to the reception counter and, considering all the hormones in the room, kept her voice low.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Officer Peabody to see Marta Beck.”

The receptionist, a pretty woman with skin the color of melted gold, bit her lip. Her eyes filled. “If you’d come through the door on the right, please.” She swiveled in her chair to speak to a man in a blue lab coat. “George, would you tell Marta the . . . her appointment is here?”

The man had eyes the same color as his coat. He didn’t bite his lip as his eyes filled, but pressed them together and slipped away.

The door led to a corridor with exam rooms—the sort of rooms that always tightened the muscles of Eve’s stomach. The receptionist stepped into the corridor.

“I’ll show you back. We—all of us, we’re . . . It’s a hard day.”

“You didn’t close.”

“No, we have Dr. Spicker taking Dr. Michaelson’s patients, and Ms. O’Riley seeing hers and others. We’re going to try to see everyone who’s booked. Dr. Michaelson and Dr. Spicker were talking about Dr. Spicker joining the practice, so Marta felt . . .”

They passed an offshoot with a couple of chairs, counters with clipboards and tubes and cups, and a scale where someone else in a lab coat—with flowers all over it—weighed another pregnant woman.

“How long did Dr. Michaelson know Dr. Spicker?”

“Oh, since Dr. Spicker was a boy. They’re family friends, and Dr. Spicker just finished his residency. Marta—Ms. Beck’s office is . . .”

She trailed off as a tall, broad-shouldered woman in a black suit stepped out of a doorway.

“Thank you, Holly.” She stuck out a hand. “Marta Beck.”

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Eve accepted the brief shake. “Detective Peabody.”

“Please come in. Would you like some tea? I can’t offer coffee. We don’t have any in the offices.”

“We’re fine.”

Marta quietly closed the door. “Please sit.”

Eve took one of the straight-backed chairs in the ruthlessly organized room. Not unfriendly, she supposed, with a couple of thriving green plants, a row of fancy teacups, even a small sofa with fancy pillows.

But you knew business was king here.

Marta sat behind her desk, folded her hands. “Do you have any suspects?”

“The investigation is ongoing. Did Dr. Michaelson have any problems with anyone on staff, any patients, anyone you know of?”

“Brent was well liked. He was a good doctor, a caring one, and his patients loved him. We have some who’ve moved to Brooklyn, New Jersey, Long Island. They still come here because he forged relationships. The patient mattered, Lieutenant. The wall in our break room is covered with photos of the babies he helped bring into the world. Photos of them as they’ve grown up. I worked for him for twenty years. He was a good doctor and a kind man.”