Witness in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

rusted sedan and a battered air bike.
    "Nice job." Peabody thumped a fist on her heart to get it going again.
    Eve flipped on the On Duty light to keep the meter droids at bay, then jogged down the ramp to street level. "This guy had something tangible to gain by Draco's death. He's got a good shot at the starring role -- if only temporarily. That gives him an ego, a career, and a financial boost all rolled into one. Nothing popped on his record, but every criminal has to start somewhere."
    "I love your optimistic view of humanity, sir."
    "Yeah, I'm a people-lover all right." She glanced at the street hustler on air skates, eyed his wide canvas shoulder bag. "Hey!" She jabbed a finger at him as he hunched his shoulders and sulked. "You set up that game on this corner, I'm going to be insulted. Take it off, two blocks minimum, and I'll pretend I didn't see your ugly face."
    "I'm just trying to make a living."
    "Make it two blocks over."
    "Shit." He shifted his bag, then scooted off, heading west through the billowing steam from a glide-cart.
    Peabody sniffed hopefully. "Those soy dogs smell fresh."
    "They haven't been fresh for a decade. Put your stomach on hold."
    "I can't. It has a mind of its own." Glancing back wistfully at the glide-cart, Peabody followed Eve into the grimy building.
    At one time the place had boasted some level of security. But the lock on the outer doors had been drilled out, likely by some enterprising kid who was now old enough for retirement benefits. The foyer was the width of a porta-john and the color of dried mud. The old mail slots were scarred and broken. Above one, in hopeful red ink, was M. Proctor.
    Eve glanced at the skinny elevator, the tangle of raw wires poking out of its control plate. She dismissed it, and headed up the stairs.
    Someone was crying in long, pitiful sobs. Behind a door on level two came the roaring sounds of an arena football game and someone's foul cursing at a botched play. She smelled must, urine gone stale, and the sweet scent of old Zoner.
    On level three there was classical music, something she'd heard Roarke play. Accompanying it were rhythmic thumps.
    "A dancer," Peabody said. "I've got a cousin who made it to the Regional Ballet Company in Denver. Somebody's doing jetes. I used to want to be one."
    "A dancer?" Eve glanced back. Peabody's cheeks were pretty and pink from the climb.
    "Yeah, well, when I was a kid. But I don't have the build. Dancers are built more like you. I went to the ballet with Charles a couple of weeks back. All the ballerinas were tall and skinny. Makes me sick."
    "Hmmm." It was the safest response when Peabody mentioned her connection to the licensed companion, Charles Monroe.
    "I'm built more like an opera singer. Sturdy," Peabody added with a grimace.
    "You into opera now?"
    "I've been a few times. It's okay." She blew out a relieved breath when they reached the fourth floor and tried not to be irritated that Eve wasn't winded. "Charles goes for that culture stuff."
    "Must keep you busy, juggling him and McNab."
    Peabody grinned. "I thought there was no me and McNab in your reality."
    "Shut up, Peabody." Annoyed, Eve rapped on Proctor's door. "Was that a snort?"
    "No, sir." Peabody sucked it in and tried to look serious. "Absolutely not. I think my stomach's growling."
    "Shut that up, too." She held her badge up when she heard footsteps approaching the door and the peephole. The building didn't run to soundproofing.
    A series of clicks and jangles followed. She counted five manual locks being disengaged before the door opened.
    The face that poked into the crack was a study of God's generosity. Or a really good face sculptor. Pale gold skin stretched taut and smooth over long cheekbones and a heroic, square jaw that boasted a pinpoint dimple. The mouth was full and firm, the nose narrow and straight, and the eyes the true green of organic emeralds.
    Michael Proctor framed this gift with a silky flow of rich brown hair worn with a few