“What did he peel them with?”
“His pocketknife usually, I guess. But Gary—”
“Did you get prints off the pocketknife from the body, Detective?”
“Yes, sir. The victim’s.”
“We have work yet to do, but I’m going to tell you that—with the evidence and statements given thus far—this doesn’t look like a homicide. It reads, at this point, like an accident. Mr. Adler was drunk, he was using his pocketknife to peel an apple as he started down the stairs. Your elevator’s out of order.”
“For four days now,” Mildred said bitterly. “The landlord—”
“Ma’am, save that,” Eve advised. “He trips, loses his balance, takes a bad fall. When he lands, breaking his neck, fracturing his skull, he also has the misfortune of landing on his open pocketknife.”
“It sounds just like him,” the woman with the baby muttered.
“Why don’t you all go back in your apartments, let us do our job.”
“I’m glad I didn’t punch him,” Gary said quietly. “I’m sorry I called him an asshole last night, but I’m glad I didn’t punch him.”
* * *
Accident or not, death had to be investigated, evidence gathered, statements taken. All that took a bite out of the morning. By the time Eve sat back down at her desk in Cop Central to write the report, Roarke’s admin, Caro, led Rochelle into his office in Midtown.
Rochelle tried not to goggle. She’d never seen an office so big, so classy. When the man himself stood up from his really important desk, with that heart-stopping framework of New York behind him, and crossed that plush carpet to shake her hand, she let out a breathless laugh.
“I never expected to meet you at all, much less twice in a matter of days.”
“I appreciate you coming in, and so quickly.”
“Curiosity’s a big motivator.”
“How about some coffee? Or tea?”
“Whatever you’re having’s fine. Thanks.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
The admin looked as classy as the office, to Rochelle’s mind, with her gorgeous hair the color of fresh snow, the sharp suit that made Rochelle’s—now in its third season—feel just sad.
“Let’s have a seat.” Roarke steered her to a sofa as plush as the rest of the place.
Wilson had assured her Roarke was “a regular dude,” but come on! This was Roarke. Billionaire businessman, philanthropist, innovator. And toss in the outright mouthwatering.
His eyes really were as blue as they looked on-screen.
“You enjoyed the party.”
“So much! I saw Avenue A in concert when I was in college. Nosebleed seats, but it was wonderful. As wonderful as it was, that impromptu concert on Nadine’s terrace? Well, I run out of words. I’ve seen Mavis in concert, too, and now it’s an entirely different perspective.”
“You like music.”
“All kinds.” She looked at Caro as the admin brought over a tray of coffee, cups, cream, sugar. “Thanks so much.”
“You’re very welcome. How do you take it?”
“A little cream, one sugar.” Of course, both were fake in her world.
“Thank you, Caro,” Roarke said after she’d doctored the coffee.