Page 32 of Devoted in Death

There was an angry hiss, then the clunk of locks being disengaged.

Earnestina showed more flatteringly in her ID shot. In person, at the moment, her brown hair was scraped back from her long, edging toward horsey, face. She hadn’t bothered with facial enhancement, but obviously had enhancements of another sort.

Eve could smell the Zoner, could see its effects in the just-going-glassy look of her pale and narrow blue eyes.

“This is harassment.”

“File a complaint. Then I won’t feel obliged to ignore the illegals I can smell—along with the faint haze of Zoner smoke that’s not yet dissipated. Or you can let me in, we’ll have a conversation, then we can both go about our business.”

“A person is entitled to do as she likes in her own home.”

“No, a person isn’t entitled to engage in illegal activities, anywhere.” Feet planted, Eve met those just-getting-high eyes with cool contempt. “You want to push this one, Ms. Denton?”

“Oh, come in, then. Believe me, I’ve made a note of your name and badge number.”

“And I’ve made a note you’re uncooperative.”

The living area in the apartment showed a tendency for compulsive neatness. Nothing out of place, and a minimalist style that included no personal photos, no flowers or plants. A single sofa in dark gray faced a wall screen. A single chair in the same tone angled under a floor lamp.

Earnestina—as Eve would forever think of her—didn’t suggest they sit down, and Eve didn’t ask.

“You were acquainted with Dorian Kuper, and in fact, had an argument with him at a club called After Midnight.”

“I knew Dorian, yes. I heard today he’d been killed. That’s a great loss for opera, but has nothing else to do with me.”

“You were pretty angry with him.”

“Disgusted is a more accurate term, that a man of his considerable talents would waste them on the lowbrow.”

“He won’t be doing that anymore.”

“Nor will he transport those who value true music with his skills and comprehension.”

“Let’s move on to whereabouts. Where were you Sunday night between eleven p.m. and one a.m.”

“I was here, and would have been in bed by eleven.”

“Alone?”

“My personal life is none—”

“Alone?” Eve repeated, her tone hard as brick.

“Yes, alone. I attended an afternoon musicale, and was home by six. I had a meal, and worked until ten. You can’t possibly believe I had anything to do with Dorian’s death.”

“Last night, between ten p.m. and one a.m.”

“I attended a rehearsal of La Bohème, at Juilliard. I was there from seven until after ten. Two colleagues and I went for a drink afterward to discuss areas that required improvement or change. We met until a little after midnight, then we shared a cab, and I came home.”

“Names.”

“You’re insulting.”

“Yeah, add that to your notes. Names.”

She reeled them off, chin jutted high. “I want you to leave now.”

“Heading that way. Do you own a vehicle?”