“I’m sorry. We don’t know the neighbors.”
“Could I have your name?” Eve glanced back as Peabody mounted the steps, her cheeks pink with cold. “My partner. Peabody show the woman your badge.”
“Sure. Morning,” Peabody said as she pulled out her badge.
Somewhere behind the woman a young male voice shouted out, “Maman, dépêche-toi!’
“Elles sont les officiers de police!”
That caused some rapid-fire responses Eve couldn’t interpret. “Ma’am, if we could come in for a minute. We have some questions about the individual who lives next door.”
“Yes, come in. It’s cold. We don’t know the next-door person.”
She let them in a narrow foyer where a coatrack with cubbies held various and colorful outdoor gear. The young male voice belonged to a gangly teenager with dark, fascinated eyes.
“You are police? Someone has been murdered!”
He said it with a kind of relish that had his mother—Eve assumed—giving him a look that translated in every language.
Shut up.
A girl a few years younger than the boy with flyaway blond hair and feet in pink bunny slippers ran in, with a man—a less gangly, taller version of the boy—following. Since he wore pajama pants, like the boy, and a New York City sweatshirt, Eve concluded the family hadn’t gotten a full start on their day.
“Is there a problem?” he asked in perfect English, with the charm of the accent.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We’re looking for information on the individual who lives next door. Angela Terra.”
“I’m sorry. We arrived only last week.”
“I like your coats very much,” the girl piped in. “I would like the long like you, but in the pink like you.”
The mother stepped back, stroked a hand over the girl’s head, and whispered something that had the kid shrugging.
“I don’t know how we can help,” the man said.
“Could we have your names?”
“Of course, excuse me. I’m Jean-Paul Laroche. My wife, Marie-Clare, our son, Julian, and our daughter, Claudette.”
“Would you like to sit?” Marie-Clare asked.
“If we could, for a minute.”
They trooped, the entire group, into a living area with colorful disorder—a couple of stuffed animals, a tossed sweater, some striped house skids—over what struck as bland furnishings.
They’d brightened them a bit with bowls and vases of flowers and some framed photos.
“We haven’t settled in.” Marie-Clare gestured to chairs. “May I offer you the coffee?”
“No, thanks. We won’t take much of your time.”
The entire family sat on the couch, looked expectantly at Eve.
“You’re moving to New York?”
“For three months,” Jean-Paul said. “I have business, and Marie-Clare has family.”
“My aunt and my cousins. It’s an opportunity to experience. The children will start school here on Monday.”