“I don’t believe Ms. Mars is currently in residence.”
“No, and she won’t be, as she’s currently in residence at the morgue.”
Now the mouth, dyed a soft, conservative neutral, dropped open. “I’m sorry, are you saying Ms. Mars is dead?”
“Since she’s residing and not working at or visiting the morgue, yeah, I’m saying she’s dead. I need to get into her unit.”
“I…” She streamed out a breath the wind whisked away, sucked another in. “I can help you with that.” Though she gave the DLE another pained glance, she said nothing, led the way to the curved glass doors.
Inside was warm air and a blinding plethora of gold. Gold urns full of spiky, lethal-looking vegetation and flowers red and glossy enough to have been painted with blood, gold tables, a central chandelier formed of snaking twists of metallic gold. More bloodred, topped with gold marble, for the security counter.
The woman behind it offered a polite, professional smile that turned into a rounded O when she spotted Roarke.
“Give me a second,” the doorman said, going to consult with the lobby clerk.
The lobby clerk let out a gasp that edged close to a squeal, hissed out a bunch of questions. The doorman merely shook her head, then signaled Eve over.
“We’re going to need to scan and verify your identification, Lieutenant.”
Eve took out her badge, held it out for the mini-scanner.
“Okay. Um.” The clerk gave Eve a wide-eyed stare.
“How about you clear us up?” Eve suggested.
“Oh, yeah, sure. But … is Ms. Mars really dead and all?”
“She’s really dead and all.”
“Golly.”
“Did she get many visitors?”
“Well, we’re not really supposed to discuss our residents or their guests.”
“Police investigation.” Eve waved the badge in front of the clerk’s wide eyes.
“I guess she did. I mean, she had some, and she had parties and stuff. Deliveries. A lot of deliveries, right, Becca?”
“Plenty,” the doorwoman confirmed.
“How about regulars?”
“Well … I think she was dating Mitch L. Day. He’s the host of Second Cup on Seventy-Five. He’s kind of dreamy. But I guess, mostly, she gave parties and got deliveries.”
“Did she ever have any trouble here? Altercations, arguments?”
Now the clerk bit her bottom lip. “Well … I guess I don’t think she and the Wilburs got along very well. They have the penthouse opposite hers. She and Mrs. Wilbur wouldn’t speak or even ride up in the same elevator if they came into the lobby at the same time. And she—ah, Ms. Mars—lodged two complaints with the management that the Wilbur kids were disruptive. They’re really not, and the units are fully soundproofed.”
“They’re good kids,” the doorwoman put in. “She’s half a bitch.”
“Becca!”
In response, Becca shrugged. “You know she is—was—Roxie.”
Eve turned to Becca. “Only half?”
“I know it’s not chill to say bad things about the dead, but police investigation, right?”