“Sure. Thanks.”
The doors closed silently on an elevator that was, thankfully, not glass. Or not transparent glass, as the walls had a glassy sheen of quiet gold.
She appreciated the fact it rode smooth, and didn’t stop until it reached the top floor.
Greenwald residence, the comp announced as the doors opened.
Here the carpet ran thick and silvery gray. She saw the car had opened in a central location, a few feet from double white doors—with enough security to protect a major stash of gold bullion.
She walked to the door, pressed the bell.
Mr. Greenwald does not accept unannounced visitors. Please return to the main lobby to request admittance.
“I’m not a visitor.” She held up her badge for scanning. “I’m a cop, and this is police business.”
One moment please.
She continued to hold up the badge as the scanning light ran it, as the door cam recorded her. And as, she imagined, the security comp notified Greenwald he had NYPSD at the door.
Your identification has been verified, Lieutenant Dallas. Please wait.
Eve waited until the door opened.
The woman hit mid-twenties. She had milk pale, flawless skin, a sleek fall of hair the color of warm honey, eyes of Arctic blue, a wide mouth dyed as pale a pink as the flowers fifty-five floors below.
“Please to come in. Thank you for waiting.”
The careful English held an Eastern European accent. The diamond studs at her ears flashed fire as she stepped back into an entranceway flanked by statues of arty naked women who looked very stern.
“I am Iryna, Mr. Greenwald’s personal assistant.” She gestured with one graceful hand toward the living area. It had three conversation areas, all quiet, dignified colors with tables and chests of clear or mirrored glass. Heavy drapes fell over what Eve assumed would be glass doors leading out to a terrace. The art, interspersed with fancy mirrors, ran to more dignity in still lifes of vases or bowls of fruit.
It had the feel of a space rarely used.
“If you would please to sit. Mr. Greenwald will be shortly with you. Shall you have refreshment?”
“No, thanks.” Personal assistant, my ass, Eve thought. Unless they were talking very personal. “Do you live here? On the floor?”
“Yes. I am available to Mr. Greenwald at all times.”
I bet.
“How long have you worked for him?”
“It is now three years.”
“About the same amount of time you’ve been in the country?”
“Yes. I should—”
“Do you know Mr. Greenwald’s ex-wife? Lotte Grange?”
“I am sorry. I do not.” Relief washed over her face as Greenwald walked in. “Lieutenant Dallas, Mr. Greenwald.”
“Yes, Iryna, that’s fine.”
The little pat he gave her said, clearly, her assistance was very personal. It was meant to.
He held a lowball glass in one hand, offered Eve the other. “Roarke’s cop.”
He had a boom of a voice, almost jocular, that suited his waving mane of pewter hair, the amused dark eyes, the perfectly trimmed goatee.
A well-built man of about six-two, he’d dressed for an at-home evening in trousers and a sweater a few shades lighter than his hair.
He took a seat on a high-backed sofa in quiet gray, gestured for her to sit, then sat back at his ease. As if amused, he patted the cushion beside him for Iryna.
She sat primly, and obviously ill at ease.
“And what brings Roarke’s cop to my door?”
“I’m the NYPSD’s cop, Mr. Greenwald, and murder brings me to your door.”
Iryna let out a little mouse squeak; Greenwald lifted his eyebrows. “Whose?”
“Kent Abner, Elise Duran.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know either of those unfortunate people.”
“Both individuals were killed with a home-brewed chemical agent. You deal in chemicals.”
His brows went higher, then lowered again as he took a casual sip of his drink. “I deal in cleaning supplies. I hardly think you’re visiting everyone in the city who has some association with chemicals.”
“Both victims also had a connection with your ex-wife.”
“Which?” He smiled a bit. “I have two.”
“Lotte Grange.”
“Lotte? Well, this is interesting. Is she a suspect?”
“You and Dr. Grange were married when she served as headmaster at the Theresa A. Gold Academy.”
“For a few years, yes. We’ve been divorced longer than we were married.”
“When is the last time you saw or spoke to her?”
“That would be the day our divorce was finalized, with our lawyers present. As far as I know she lives in East Washington. The simple fact is, my marriage to Lotte was a small blip in my life. While we didn’t part in a friendly manner, I stopped giving her a thought once that blip ended.”
“You ended it.”
“Yes, I did. Iryna, my sweet, why don’t you freshen this for me?”
“Of course.” She popped right up, took the glass, hurried away on heels that showed off excellent young legs.
“Can you tell me where you were last night and the night of April twenty-seventh? Between ten and eleven P.M.?”
“My.” The eyebrows arched again, but the eyes beneath them hardened, just a little. “So official. I’m tempted to contact my lawyer, but at the moment, I’m still entertained. Last night we entertained. A dinner party here, for six guests. We sat down to the meal at eight. I believe the last guest left sometime after eleven. On the twenty-seventh…”
For this he took a small book out of his trouser pocket. “Ah yes. We were in Chicago, the second night of a two-day business trip.”
“‘We’?”
“Iryna and I.” He smiled. “She’s invaluable to me.”
“I’m sure. Do you ever visit your company labs, Mr. Greenwald?”
“On occasion. I try to make an appearance now and then in all departments. It’s good for interpersonal relations. After all, my grandfather founded the company. And before you ask, I do know a little of chemistry, just as I know a little about organic solutions. Why do you suppose I’d kill people I don’t know?”
“Kent Abner was the spouse of Martin Rufty. Dr. Rufty replaced your ex-wife as headmaster.”
“Rufty, of course. Of course.” Interest lit on his face again. “I never actually met him, but I leaned toward liking him, as Lotte didn’t like him at all.”
“Is that so?”
“My sense is that he was very critical of her.” He took the glass Iryna brought in, patted the cushion beside him again. “Lotte didn’t—I assume still doesn’t—take criticism well. Of course, at the time Lotte and I had our own … issues.”
“What were they?”
“Perhaps I should not be here,” Iryna began.
“Don’t be silly.” And Greenwald laid a hand, possessively, on her thigh. “Lotte and I married on a whim. A sexual whim. She was, again I assume still is, a highly sexual creature. I enjoy sexual creatures. She was also striking physically, intelligent, ambitious. Money wasn’t a particular issue, as she had her own. I had more, considerably more, and that appealed to her.”