“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.