22
With Roarke behind the wheel, Eve used the drive time to the Upper East Side to dig into the data on Berkle.
“She fits. Wealthy widow, late sixties, one son, one daughter. Big charitable foundation—family run—lots of committees and causes, and plenty of fancy-dress functions. She lives in a three-level penthouse rather than a freestanding mansion like the book vic, but three levels equals stairs. She fits.”
“That’s good work by Callendar,” Peabody commented.
“Yeah, it is. If we connect Berkle to Smith, we’ll set things up. Berkle contacts Smith. Needs some alterations, and fast. If she’s already got some on the slate, we get Berkle to move up the appointment.”
“And if she’s not connected?” Roarke asked.
“Berkle did some hefty shopping at Dobb’s, used Smith as her fitter. Berkle fits the fictional vic profile. They’re going to connect. Dobb’s is a long trip from the Upper East. Why go there to shop?”
“I wondered that,” Peabody said from the back—between sips of hot chocolate. “I played around some. It turns out her sister-in-law lives in Brooklyn. They’re pretty tight. They probably go together, have lunch, that kind of thing. Girl day.”
“She’s sixty-eight.”
“A girl’s a girl,” Peabody said.
Eve looked at Roarke. “Is she a sensible, steady sort of girl?”
“I don’t know her particularly well, but my impression is yes. She has a reputation for being no-nonsense when it comes to business, and generous in her causes.”
“Good. Steady would be good.”
They pulled up to a pale gold tower, one that boasted a pair of doormen in dignified gray-and-silver livery.
Eve stepped out even as they marched, in tandem, toward the offending DLE.
“NYPSD.” She whipped out her badge. “That’s my ride, and it stays where it is.”
“Miss—” At her fierce stare, the doorman on the left looked at her badge again. “Lieutenant,” he wisely corrected. “If you could use our private garage—”
“Where it is,” Eve said and strode between them to the doors.
Behind her, Roarke pulled out a couple of bills. “Ease the sting a bit.”
Eve strode straight to the concierge desk in a deep lobby mirrored with the pale gold. The air smelled faintly of roses, and her boots sank into the red-and-gold carpet spread over the polished floor.
At the desk, which held the roses in a fat, clear vase, a woman in a suit of bold blue smiled politely.
“Good evening. How can I help you?”
Eve held up her badge. “Natalia Durban Berkle. Is she in?”
“Before I discuss a resident or guest, I’ll need to verify your identification.”
“Do it.”
From under the desk, the woman took a scanner, ran it over the badge.
“Yes, Lieutenant, Ms. Berkle is at home. Is she expecting you?”
“The badge makes that question irrelevant. Is she alone?”
“Her daughter is with her, and her staff. No other outside visitors have logged in.”
Eve lifted a hand for Peabody. Peabody handed Eve the photo of Smith.