He stepped closer to give them a good study. “They’re charming.”

“But in a-”

“In a professional and intuitive police detective sort of way. You’ll be wonderful and look the same.”

“Thanks.” She grabbed her coat, scarf, hat. “I-”

“Peabody! Move your damn ass!”

“Gotta go,” Peabody finished on the heels of Eve’s shout. And fled.

With his fresh cup of coffee, Roarke sat behind Eve’s desk. He could spare twenty minutes now, he mused. “So, let’s see what we have here.”

AN ELEGANT, OLD, LOVINGLY RESTORED BUILDING on the Upper East Side housed the Plowder’s apartment. The quiet, rosy brick boasted a portico entrance with wide, beveled glass doors granting passersby a peek at the polished marble lobby. A doorman, in blue and silver livery, stood guard should any of those passersby need a little move-along.

Eve noted he gave her police issue the beady eye when she pulled up to park at the carpeted curb. She didn’t mind a bit. She didn’t just eat bagels for breakfast, but enjoyed a good bite of doorman.

He strode across the swatch of red carpet, shook his head.

“Cop rides never get any prettier,” he commented. “What house are you out of?”

She shifted her feet, and her prepared tone. “You on the job?”

“Was. Put in my papers after I did my thirty. My brother-in-law manages the place.” He jerked his head toward the entrance. “Tried golf, tried fishing, tried driving the wife crazy.” He flashed a smile. “Better pay, better hours on this door than doing the security guard thing. Dallas,” he said, shooting a finger at her. “Lieutenant Eve.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Shoulda made you sooner. Getting rusty, I guess. I didn’t hear about anybody getting murdered inside.”

“Not yet.” They exchanged quick cop grins. “Your tenants the Plowders have a guest I need to speak with. Ava Anders.”

“Hmm. Husband got dead yesterday. Didn’t know she was upstairs. She must’ve come in after I went off. She and the dead husband came around now and then. Her more than him, but he was friendlier.”

“Was Mrs. Anders unfriendly?”

“No. Just one of the type who don’t notice who opens the door for her ’cause she expects somebody to. On the snooty side, but not bitchy or anything. Him, he’d usually stop a minute going in or out, have a word, maybe ask if you caught the game-whatever the game was. Sorry to hear he got dead. I gotta call up. Worth my job if I don’t.”

“That’s no problem. What was your house?” Eve asked as they moved to the doors.

“Did my last ten at the one-two-eight. Cold Case Unit.”

“That’s a tough hitch. The cold ones can haunt you.”

“Yeah, they can.” He pulled off his glove to offer a hand. “Frank O’Malley, formerly Detective.”

“Nice to meet you, Detective.”

“Peabody, Detective Delia,” Peabody said when they shook. “I knew a uniform in the one-two-eight back when I was on patrol. Hannison?”

“Sure, I knew Hannison. He’s all right.”

Inside the lobby with its subtly fragrant air, Frank turned to an intercom screen. “Plowder penthouse,” he ordered, then waited until the screen shifted from waiting blue and the image of a woman with short brown hair swam on. “Morning, Agnes.”

“Frank.”

“I got a Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody in the lobby. They’d like to speak to Mrs. Anders.”

“I see. Hold a moment, Frank.”

“That was Mrs. Plowder’s personal assistant, Agnes Morelli. She’s okay.”

“How about the Plowders?”

“Seem like solid types to me. Not on the snooty side. Call you by name, ask after the family they got time for it. Don’t skimp on the tips.”

A moment later, Agnes flowed back on screen. “You can send them right up, Frank, lower parlor entrance.”

“Will do. Thanks, Agnes. First elevator,” he told Eve. “Thirty-nine East. That’ll take you straight to the lower parlor. It’s a hell of a space they got up there. Three floors, river view.”

“Appreciate the help, Detective.”

Inside the elevator, the hammered silver walls boasted a long, built-in bench, in case your legs got tired of riding up, or down. Since the trip took under thirty seconds, Eve couldn’t imagine the bench got much use.

The doors opened straight onto a wide room in pale and pretty colors, opening to a spectacular river view through a wall of glass doors and windows. Agnes stood, in a severe black suit given unexpected charm by the full-blown red rose on the lapel.

“Good morning, I’m Agnes, Mrs. Plowder’s PA. If you wouldn’t mind showing me some identification. We trust Frank, of course, but-”

“No problem.” Eve took out her badge, as did Peabody.

“Thank you. Please come in, have a seat. Mrs. Anders will be right down. Can I offer you some refreshment? Coffee?”

It was knee-jerk for Eve to refuse, but she decided coffee in the parlor could lend a tone of female intimacy that might be helpful. “Coffee’d be great. Black for me, coffee regular for my partner.”

“Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll just be a minute.”

The minute they were alone, Peabody let her eyes pop wide. “Can I just say: Woot, some digs. They’ve got a terrace out there bigger than my entire apartment.”

“I bet your apartment’s a lot warmer than that terrace right now.”

“Yeah, there’s that.” But unable to resist, Peabody started across the parlor to the glass. “It’s the kind of place that makes you feel you need to glide. I don’t glide very well. It must relate to my center of gravity, which would be my ass.”

“It’s the kind of place where birds probably splat their tiny birdbrains on the windows regular.”

“That’s an image, boy.” And Peabody took a couple cautious steps back. “Still, it’s a totally uptown view. Don’t you want to see?”

“I can see fine from here.” To Eve’s mind, lofty heights should be left to the birdbrains. In any case, her interest centered on what and who lived in the space, not what spread outside.

A moment later, Ava made her entrance. The widow wore black in a snugly fitted, high-collared shirt with slim pants and heels. Her hair coiled at the nape of her neck, pulled tightly back from a face with shadowed, exhausted eyes. Beside her, an arm supportively around Ava’s waist, Brigit Plowder conveyed boldness and challenge. She topped off at about five feet, with her tiny frame tucked neatly into a plum-colored sweater and stone-gray pants. Her hair, a pure white cap, set off laser-sharp green eyes and the arched black brows that framed them. Her mouth formed a deep bow Eve assumed could be charming when it smiled, but at the moment those lips clamped together in tight disapproval bordering on anger.

“I’m going to say this straight off.” Brigit’s voice was a throaty boom worthy of a woman twice her size. “This is outrageous.”

“I agree. Murder is always outrageous.”

A quick spark fired in those keen eyes. It might have been approval. “I understand you have a job to do, Lieutenant, and from everything I’ve been told about you and this one,” she said with a gesture toward Peabody, “you excel at your work. That’s admirable. However, bombarding Ava at such a time shows a distinct lack of sensitivity and compassion.”

“It’s all right, Bridge.”

“It’s not all right. Why can’t you give us all a few days, just a few days to grieve?”

“Because then I give Thomas Anders’s killer a few days.” Eve shifted her gaze back to Ava. “I apologize for disturbing you, Mrs. Anders. The investigation requires it.”

“I don’t see why-”

“Look, Mrs. Plowder, I’m a murder cop, and any murder cop will tell you time’s the enemy. The more time that passes, the cooler the trail. The trail goes cold, the killer can walk. When killers walk, it pisses me off. If you want to blame somebody for me being here, blame the killer. Now, the more time you stand there complaining, the more time we’re going to be here.”