Page 34 of Concealed in Death

“It’s not like me,” Eve murmured. “There was never a home in the first place, and maybe that was an advantage. I didn’t expect someone to look out for me. And I didn’t know, until he was dead, I could run. Even after, I didn’t manage to run far. Running’s what killed her, or put her on the path to being a victim.”

She yanked her ’link when it signaled, read the text from Peabody.

“Shelby Ann Stubacker. She’s got a name now.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She was thirteen. Father’s doing a dime in Sing-Sing—his second for assault. Mother’s got a sheet, mostly for illegals. They didn’t file a report, so we wouldn’t have found her there. She was picked up a few times. Truancy, shoplifting, did some juvie time, and some court-ordered rehab as she was picked up stoned, and in possession of illegals. She was nine the first time she got busted. Born here, died here. She’d have a file with CPS, but what’s the point. The system failed her, everybody failed her.”

“You won’t.”

Roarke pulled up in front of a gold-trimmed white building with seas of glass sparkling. Considering the low-end look of the vehicle, it wasn’t a surprise to Eve to see the doorman’s chin jut up, his mouth tighten, and his feet beat across the royal blue carpeting that stretched from sparkling glass door to curb.

Now, she thought, Roarke would get a load of what she put up with. Looking forward to it, she squeezed her way out on the street side.

The minute Roarke stepped out on the sidewalk, the doorman went from protective terrier to welcoming hound.

“Sir! Are you visiting someone at The Metropolitan this evening?”

“As it happens, I’m accompanying Lieutenant Dallas inside. I’m sure she’ll appreciate you keeping her vehicle in place until she’s completed her business.”

“I’ll see to it personally. Can I notify anyone for you?”

“If you’d let Ms. Bittmore know Lieutenant Dallas is here to see her on NYPSD business.”

“I’ll let her know. You’ll want the first bank of elevators, on the left side of the lobby. Mr. Bittmore’s main entrance is on the fifty-third floor, number fifty-three hundred.”

“Thank you.”

Eve scowled her way inside. “How much did you slip him?”

“A fifty.”

“I don’t bribe doormen,” she said with some righteousness.

“No, darling, you reduce them to quivering puddles of fear and awe, but this seemed quicker and cleaner.”

“He recognized you anyway. I saw it. You don’t own the damn place, do you?”

“I don’t, no.” He glanced around the spacious gold and white lobby, turned to the elevators. “Pity. It’s quite nice.”

“Next time I want the quivering and the awe.”

He let her step in the elevator first, so he could give her a light pat on the ass. “Next time.”

A house droid met them at the door of an elegant little foyer with a lush grape arbor, complete with rustic stone benches, cleverly painted on its walls and ceiling. The droid, sober in a simple gray dress and low heels, requested identification.

Eve held out her badge, watched the droid scan it.

“Please come in. Mrs. Bittmore and Ms. Brigham are in the living area.”

The area couldn’t be called spacious, but it hit those elegant notes again with the play of light-colored fabrics against walls the color of good burgundy. Art leaned toward the old world with classy depictions of misty forests, quiet lakes, blooming meadows.

Two women rose from a wheat-colored love seat backed by a pair of glass doors and a short terrace—then the view of the great park.

The older one stepped forward. Tiffany Bittmore had allowed her hair to go white, but Eve decided the decision had elements of vanity as the perfect sweep of it resulted in the same sort of classy elegance as the decor.

Her eyes might have been a dreamy shade of blue, but they held a sharp shrewdness. Her face, dewy and smooth despite her years, wouldn’t have been called beautiful, but arresting.