Page 29 of Concealed in Death

“Give me the address. I’ll meet you.”

•••

She beat Roarke there, but opted not to wait. Instead she used her master to buzz her way into a sturdy four-level building, veered past the gate of the elevator, and took the stairs up to the third floor, southwest corner unit.

And knocked.

When the door opened, Eve adjusted her eyeline down.

The kid—male—was in the neighborhood of ten, she calculated, and boasted a solar system of freckles over his round face—and some sort of purple goo at the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t know you,” he said, firmly, and started to close the door.

Eve stuck her foot in, which resulted in causing the kid to holler, top of impressive lungs: “Mom! Mom! Some lady’s breaking in!”

“I’m not a lady. See?” Eve jerked out her badge as running footsteps pounded from the upper level of what she saw was a spacious loft-style that took up two floors.

“Mom! There’s a police lady!”

“Trilby, get back!” The woman, blond ponytail, carpenter pants, plaid work shirt, nudged the kid away as she glanced at Eve’s badge. “Go wash your face, for God’s sake, Trilby, you’ve got grape jelly everywhere. And go finish your homework. Leave your sister alone.”

“Jeez! I gotta do everything!”

“Yeah, your life stinks. Sorry,” she said to Eve as the boy sulked away. “Can I help you?”

“I need to talk to Brodie Fine.”

“We just got in, and he beat me to the shower.” She glanced around to check on her son, lowered her voice. “Is this about the building on Ninth? The bodies? We heard on the news,” she said when Eve said nothing. “Brodie and I were sort of half-ass dating when he did handiwork there. We’ve been talking about it most of the day. I’m one of his carpenters,” she explained. “And his wife. And the mother of his children.”

“I’d still like to talk to him.”

“Sure. Sorry. I don’t mean to keep you out in the hall. You can—” She paused as Roarke walked up to Eve.

“My consultant,” Eve explained.

“Nice. If you don’t mind me saying. Come on in. I’d rather talk about this when the kids aren’t around, but what’s the point? Kids hear everything anyway. I was just about to have a beer. You want?”

“I wouldn’t mind one,” Roarke said, sliding into the ambiance of the homey loft the way Eve imagined he slid into a boardroom.

“Civilian consultant,” he reminded Eve. “She won’t have one, being a cop on duty. You’ve a lovely space here—is it Mrs. Fine?”

“Yeah, I went traditional, but you can call me Alma. Brodie and I did the place ourselves. It’s taken us six years so far, but it’s coming along.”

“Beautiful workmanship.” Roarke ran his fingers down some beaded trim. “It’s chestnut, isn’t it?”

“You know your wood.” She studied him. “My grandpa had a farm down in Virginia. Had a bunch of chestnut, so we stockpiled it, me and Brodie, cleaned it up, planed it down. Worth the work, we figure. Not many opportunities to work with real wood. Sure is a pleasure.”

“I imagine so.”

“Have a seat. I’ll get the beer. You want something else?” she asked Eve. “I’ve got water, sure, but I can make coffee, or I got some Coke stashed away—hidden from the kids.”

“Actually, a Coke would be great.”

“You got it.”

Eve glanced around. Roarke had it right: It was an impressive space. Family-with-kids messy maybe, but that added to it. They’d fashioned an open floor plan, using clever placements of counters or breakfronts to define living area from dining, dining from kitchen, and all of it from a play area.

A second floor circled three sides, again open with a decorative rail that looked sturdy, and was formed with pickets too close together to allow even a small head to shove through.