She studied Hobe’s building. Decent, but right on the edge of it. The street-level door required buzzing in from the inside or a code swipe. Even without a master she calculated she could—thanks to Roarke’s tutelage—gain access in under two minutes.
Though tempted, she used her master. “Tag up the super.”
“Doing that now. Hobe’s on four.”
Eve gave the single elevator a suspicious glance and pushed open the door to the stairs. “He can meet us there, or just give verbal permission for us to enter.”
The stairway didn’t hit disgusting, but it came close. No smell of piss or puke—her line of disgust—but it held a stale, sour stench. And the lack of soundproofing meant she heard someone trying—and failing—to play a keyboard, some kid screeching he wanted Mongo, now! Mongo, now!, and the blast of someone’s screen—a comedy, she assumed, given the hysterical laughter.
“He’s on his way up,” Peabody said as her boots clomped on the steps. “Sounds like he just wants to nose his way in.”
“He’ll be disappointed.”
They came out on four. No keyboard, no screeching kid or hysterical laughter. But she clearly heard someone behind a door talking—on a ’link, she assumed, as the conversation was one-way—in a voice that screamed Brooklyn, to someone named Margie about someone named Sylvie, who, apparently, was a queen bitch.
“I was okay living in an apartment,” Eve remembered. “You’re okay living in one.”
“Sure, but it’s a solid building, clean building, and it has good soundproofing.”
“Still, you start thinking about all the people breathing and farting and banging together in the same group space. I had a neighbor who poisoned her husband with a pie she told him not to eat because she knew he would if she told him not to. Stuff like that.”
“I never really thought about stuff like that until now—thanks—and find myself only more grateful I won’t be living with the breathing, farting, banging, and poisoning in a few months.
“What kind of pie?”
“Cream of cyanide. It did the job.”
The elevator squeaked open after giving a distinct creak and rumble that she felt justified her choice of stairs.
The man who stepped out still had a scatter of teenage acne on his pointy face, and a lot of brown hair falling over his forehead into his eyes. He wore a tight white T-shirt and black skin pants over thick, bulging muscles.
“You the cops?”
“We’re the cops.” Eve held up her badge. His eyes told her he’d recently enjoyed some Zoner, the smoke from which still clung to his clothes like a sickly-sweet body spray.
“You’re not the cops who were here before.”
“Because we’re different cops. You can let us in, or you can make us get a warrant. If you choose the second option, I’ll get a second one for your place.”
“What for?”
“Because we’re the cops, and you were stupid enough to come up here still stinking of Zoner smoke. Between that and the ’roids you’re popping, it’ll really screw up the rest of your day. Let us in, go away, and we won’t have to waste our time or the city’s resources.”
“Try to do somebody a favor.” He unlocked the door, but when he started to open it, Eve blocked him.
“We’ll take it from here.”
“Rent comes due, I can haul her stuff outta there.”
“Try it, and I’ll screw up more than one of your days.”
He gave her a hard look, then turned to stalk off. He lost the impact, as the elevator door had creaked closed again. He stomped to the stairs, let the door bang shut behind him.
“There’s a dumbass for you,” Eve commented, and opened the door.
It smelled stale—not like the stairwell, but from disuse. A fine layer of dust thinly coated a small table by the door where a vase held flowers that had withered and died.
A dark green couch, one Eve assumed opened into a bed, faced a large wall screen. Two stands with drawers, one on either side of the couch, held lamps.
On a long, low cabinet under the screen sat photos, a decorative bowl, a small pink stuffed bear. She’d set up an eating area outside a galley kitchen—a café-style table, two chairs. A trio of candles sat in the center.
Art ran to posters of music artists, and Mavis rocked out of one of them. On closer inspection Eve saw Mavis had signed it.
Sing Out, Anna!
Mavis Freestone
“Aw, man.” Peabody blew out a breath. “Why does that make it harder?”