It reminded her to grab her own.
A sidewalk sleeper with a harmonica and a pointy-eared dog settled down for a day of musical begging.
A street LC in a skinny top and crotch-skimming skirt that showed off the tattooed snake coiled over her midriff hailed a cab—which told Eve she’d had a successful night.
A couple of street artists chatted away as they set up their easels and canvases. On the next block a sidewalk vendor yawned hugely as she unfolded her table.
Zero-seven-thirty, she thought, and already the city hummed.
She tagged Peabody with a two-minute warning, then braked at a light.
A Black guy, skin shining with sweat, stopped running in place to dash across the intersection. He had legs like a giraffe and wore tiny, red, ball-hugging shorts and bright white running shoes.
By the time Eve made the turn, he’d streaked down the entire crosstown block.
“Fast,” she murmured. “Fast feet.”
As she pulled up in front of her old apartment building, opera poured out of an open window. Peabody came out the main door. Pink cowboy boots and jacket, khakis, white tee, and her red-streaked hair in bouncy waves.
It occurred to Eve that when Peabody had moved into the apartment, she’d worn a uniform, shiny black cop shoes, and a non-streaked bowl cut.
She climbed into the car.
“What the hell,” Eve said, and pointed out and up.
“Oh, that’s Ms. Gambini. She’s visiting from Italy—her son. Do you remember Mr. Gambini?”
“Yeah, little guy, big mustache. A tailor.”
“That’s him. This is his mom, staying with him for the summer. She does this every morning. You could set your wrist unit by it. She’s a hundred and six, so we’re letting it go. Plus, she cooks like a god, and shares. So basically the whole building’s letting it go.
“Thanks for the lift,” she added. “It was a holy shit moment when you sent the connection to Leah Rose. Coffee, please? I held off because I knew you’d have the good stuff.”
“Go. Anything on Novak re Bernstein’s death?”
“No statements. She’d’ve been about eleven, so not surprising.” She programmed black for Eve, coffee regular for herself. “Most articles didn’t list all the sibs, but I found an obit from Chicago that did. And a lot of dirt dished up on Bernstein’s priors, her rehabs, her struggle with addiction. Her mother—Bernstein’s—gave a crapload of interviews, but that mostly dried up after a couple months.”
She inhaled the scent of the coffee, then drank as Eve drove.
“More interviews after Lane’s Tony win, and her dedicating it to Bernstein—well, Leah Rose. They didn’t use her legal name, which she was—I dug up—in the process of changing legally anyway.”
“Novak has connections to a sib who works for a chemist, a sib who’s a photographer, and from the overnights, a sib who’s cohabbing with a metal artist. Cyanide plays into all of those professions. Or can.”
“Yeah, which equals potential means. Hey, there’s Speedo.”
Eve spotted the mostly naked runner eating up the sidewalk.
“You know that guy?”
“He runs most mornings. Word is marathon training. We call him Speedo for the tiny, tiny shorts, and because he’s, you know, speedo.”
“I’ll give him that.”
She continued crosstown—Speedo outpaced her—then zipped around a corner while she hunted for parking.
She found a space she calculated she could just squeeze into, so went vertical, jigged, jogged, then dropped down between an aging Mini and a shiny sedan.
“There can’t be a full inch to spare.”
“I got us in, didn’t I?” And pleased, Eve stepped out to the sidewalk. “Corner building down the block.” Eve pointed when Peabody joined her.
“Nice neighborhood. You can smell the bakery. I wish I couldn’t smell the bakery. Oh, oh! Home decor! Look at that lamp. That lamp would really work in my craft room, by the divan I’m doing.”
“Stop it.”
“They’re not even open, so it’s not like I’m going to…” But she yanked out her ’link, took a quick picture. “It probably costs too much anyway, considering. I’m still walking,” she pointed out.
“I want to hit her with the dead sister. Routine follow-up interview. Blah blah, bang! I want her reaction. Not one wit statement mentioned the connection, and that’s bogus. That she didn’t tell anyone. You’re working with the woman who replaced your dead sister, and you don’t say anything? She doesn’t come out with it when we took her statement that night? Bogus.”
“She’d’ve been smarter to come out with it, right up front.”
“Not if she’s counting on twenty-five years, that gap, and the multiple marriages involved.”
She stopped outside the building. A snooty-looking wine bar and a snootier-looking boutique took street level. Above, generous white-trimmed windows broke up the rosy brick for two stories.
“No apartment number listed. It must be all theirs.”
Eve considered, then mastered through the street-level door, one with a cam, an intercom, and good security.
“Let’s surprise them.”
“The husband’s got to know, right? It’s possible she didn’t tell him, but really unlikely.”
“Cela Ricardo’s statement—from her view from the steps. He’s standing behind her, a hand on her shoulder. Sounds like support to me.”
On the second floor, double doors stood open on the right to a large space with mirrored walls.
“Dance studio.” Peabody nodded toward a ballet bar.
“And his place.” Eve studied the space directly across, the piano, the sound system. “Work quarters here, living quarters upstairs.”
She continued up to a wide landing and double doors painted cheerfully blue. A domed skylight overhead must have fed the flowers flanking the doors enough sun to keep them thriving.
Eve pressed the buzzer.
She heard locks click and a male voice. “Kacie, thank God you’re early. We—”
He broke off when he pulled the door open, and stood in cotton pants, a baggy tee, and a toddler on one bony hip.
“Oh, I thought— Sorry, can I…” He blinked at the badge Eve held up.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. May we come in, Mr. Furrier?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry. I’m scattered. Didn’t recognize you right off. I thought it was the nanny. I’m a little desperate.”
He jiggled the toddler, who grinned while she wrapped a hunk of his tousled mane of brown hair around her hand.
She said, “Hi!” and with great enthusiasm launched herself at Eve, who caught her in self-defense. And ended up in the next thing to an embrace with Malcomb, as the kid still clutched her father’s hair.
“Sorry!” He tried to pull her back, but she’d gotten a fistful of Eve’s hair. “Really sorry. Come on, Ari. Please. It’s like she dug up ten pounds of chocolate and ate it.”
He managed to free Eve’s hair, stepped back. “I’m so sorry. Ariella decided three-thirteen this morning was the perfect time to party. Minx—my wife—dealt with that and finally got her back down a little after five. And about six, she’s up and going again. My turn. I have coffee,” he added. “I have lots and lots of coffee if you’d like.”