“No. This is your call. Detective, your opinion on this matter?”
Peabody’s spine snapped straight. “Mine, sir? Ah . . . I might be more open to extrasensory gifts, Commander. We have sensitives in my family.”
“Would you be one of them?”
She relaxed enough to smile. “No, sir. I just have the basic five. I believe, as Lieutenant Dallas believes, that Celina Sanchez is worth at least a follow-up interview.”
“Then talk to her. If and when the eyes leak to the media, we’ll see this case blasted on and through every media outlet. We need to close it before the circus comes to town.”
Celina lived in a section of SoHo that ran to high-end art, trendy restaurants, and tiny one-room boutiques. It was the land of young, well-heeled, well-dressed urbanites who liked to hold intimate, catered brunches on Sunday mornings, voted Liberal Party, and attended esoteric plays they only pretended to understand, much less enjoy.
Street artists were welcome, and coffeehouses were abundant.
Celina’s two-story loft had once been part of a three-story sweatshop that had produced massive amounts of cheap, designer knockoff clothing. It, like other similar buildings in the sector, had been revitalized, rehabbed, and reclaimed by those who could afford the real estate.
From the street, Eve noted the windows were as wide as shuttle ports, and a long, narrow terrace with an ornate iron railing had been added to the third floor.
“You sure you don’t want to call for an appointment?” Peabody asked.
“She ought to know we’re coming.”
Peabody approached the sidewalk-level front entrance beside Eve. “That’s sarcasm, sir.”
“Peabody, you know me too well.” Eve rang the buzzer for Celina’s loft. Moments later, Celina’s voice drifted through the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”
There was another sound. It might have been a sigh. “Please come up. I’ll release the door and the elevator. Just ask for two.”
The little security light over the door went from red to green. Locks snicked open. Eve stepped inside the entryway, scanned and observed three first-level apartments. To her left, an elevator door opened. They stepped in, requested two.
When the door opened again, Celina stood on the other side of an ironwork gate. Her hair was up today, in some twisty coil that was secured by what looked like a couple of fancy chopsticks.
She wore skin-pants that were cropped a few inches above the ankle and a snug tank that left her midriff bare. She wore no shoes, no facial enhancements, no jewelry.
She opened the gate, stepped back. “I was afraid you’d come. We might as well sit down.”
She gestured behind her to a wide space furnished with a generous S-shaped sofa the color of good red wine. There was an oversized table on each curve, and on one stood a long, shallow bowl filled with what appeared to be rocks. Beside it, a tall pillar candle rose out of a hammered cup.
The floor was the original wood, by Eve’s guess, and had been sanded, sealed—whatever people did with old, original wood—to turn it into a glossy, honey-toned sea. Brightly patterned rugs were scattered over it, as brightly patterned art was scattered over the pale green walls.
Through archways, she spotted the kitchen, a party-sized dining area. There were open-tread, metal steps, painted a deeper green than the walls and boasting a railing that was fashioned to resemble a slim, slithering snake.
“What’s that?” Eve nodded toward the only door, shut and secured.
“My consultant space. It has another entrance. I like the convenience of working at home when I can, but I also value my privacy. I don’t take clients in this part of my house.”
She gestured again, toward the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink? I cancelled my consults today. I don’t think I’d do anyone any good. You caught me in the middle of a yoga session. I’d like some tea myself.”
“No, thanks,” Eve responded.
“I wouldn’t mind. If you’re making it anyway.”
Celina smiled at Peabody. “Have a seat. It won’t take long.”
Rather than sitting, Eve wandered. “You’ve got a big space here.”