“Eve.” Mira stood up, and the look in her eyes had Eve’s stomach sinking. “I’ve been trying to contact an Ariel Greenfeld. She’s a baker at a place called Your Affair downtown. She doesn’t answer the ’link numbers listed on her information. I’ve just spoken with her emergency contact, a neighbor. Greenfeld hasn’t been back to her apartment since she left for work this morning.”
“Get me the address.” She started to tell Peabody to get moving, then stopped. She’d made a mistake with Feeney, there was no point in giving out another personal slap. “Roarke and I will check it out. Unless notified, all team members are to go the hell home by twenty-three hundred or hit the crib. Report back at oh-eight-hundred for first briefing. Anything, absolutely anything pops meanwhile, I’m the first to know.”
A s they headed toward Ariel’s apartment, Eve glanced at Roarke. His face was unreadable, but she understood it. Guilt, worry, questions.
“What’s Your Affair?”
“An event shop. Ah…upscale, everything you might need under one roof. A variety of specialty boutiques-attire, floral and planting, bakery, catering, decor, event planners. It was something I thought of when we were dealing with our wedding. Why go to all these places, all these people, if you can go to one location and find effectively everything you’d need. And if you want something else, there are consultants who’ll find that something else for you.”
Eve thought she might actually shop in a place like that. If she fell out of a three-story window, cracked her head on the sidewalk, and suffered severe brain damage. But she said, “Handy.”
“So I thought, yes. It’s doing quite well. She’s worked there eight months. Ariel Greenfeld.”
“And right now, she could be boinking some guy she picked up in a bar.”
He turned his head to look at her. “You don’t think that. I should contact her supervisor, find out what time she left work.”
“Let’s wait on that. Let’s check out her place, talk to her neighbor. Look, do you know why I’m keeping the team on another two hours? She might not be the one. We pull off, push everything into this, maybe somebody else gets taken. First, we get a clearer view of the situation.”
“Yes, a clearer view. How’s the headache?”
“Sulking behind the blocker. I know it’s there, but it’s pretty easy to ignore.”
When they’d parked, he laid a hand over hers. “Where are your gloves?”
“Somewhere. Else.”
He kept her hand in his, opened the glove box. And took out the spare pair he’d bought her on a recent shopping trip. “Wear these. It’s cold.”
She pulled them on, and was grateful for them as they hiked a block to the apartment building. “You never got that sandwich,” she pointed out.
“Neither did you.”
“At least I didn’t shell out hundreds of dollars and not even end up with a pickle chip or a splat of veggie hash.”
“I’ve never understood the appeal of anything referred to as ‘hash.’” Appreciating her, he draped an arm over her shoulders as they walked.
Rather than wait to be buzzed in, she used her master on the front entrance door.
Decent building, she noted. What she thought of as solid working class. Tenants with steady employment and middle-class income. Tidy entranceway, standard security cams, single elevator.
“Third floor,” she requested. “She could walk to work from here, if she didn’t mind a good hike. Catch the subway and save five blocks in crappy weather or if she’s running late. Bakers, they start early, right? What time does the store open?”
“Seven-thirty for the bakery, the café. Ten to six for most of the retail, with extended hours to eight on Saturdays. But yes, I’d think the bakery section would start work before opening hours.”
“Couple hours maybe. So if she had to be there by six…” She trailed off as they reached the third floor. “Neighbor’s 305.”
She walked to it, had just lifted a fist to knock when the door opened. The man who answered was late-twenties, sporting spikey hair of streaked black and bronze. He wore a baggy sweater and old jeans, and an expression of barely controlled worry.
“Hey, heard the elevator. You the cops?”
“Lieutenant Dallas.” Eve held up her badge. “Erik Pastor?”
“Yeah, come on in. Ari’s not home yet. I’ve been calling people, to see if anybody’s seen her.”
“When did you see her last?”
“This morning. Early this morning. She came in to bring me a couple of muffins. We went out last night, a group of us. Ari went home before midnight, because she had to be at work at six this morning. And she figured-correctly-I’d be hungover.”
He lowered to the arm of the couch. The area reflected the debris of a man who’d spent the bulk of the day nursing a long night. Soy chips, soft-drink tubes, a bottle of blockers, a blanket, a couple of pillows were scattered around.
“I only made it as far as the couch,” he continued. “So I heard her come in, groaned at her. She razzed me a little, and said she’d see me later. If I wasn’t dead, she’d pick up a few things on her way home and fix me some dinner. Has something happened to her? They wouldn’t tell me anything on the ’link.”
“You’re tight? You and Ariel?”
“Yeah. Not, you know, that way. We’re friends. We hang.”
“Could she be out with someone she’s more than friendly with?”
“There’s a couple of guys-casual, nothing serious. I checked with them, hell, with every damn body. Plus, she’d have told me.” His voice shook a little, telling Eve he was struggling with that control. “If she says she’s going to come back and fix dinner, that’s what she does. I was starting to worry before you guys called.”
“What time did she get off work today?”
“Ah…give me a minute. Four? Yeah, I think four. It’s her long Sunday, so it’s four. Usually she heads straight back. Short Sundays she might do some shopping, or some of us would meet up for lunch or something.”
“We’d like to look in her apartment.”
“Okay, sure. She wouldn’t mind. I’ll get the key. We’ve got keys to each other’s places.”
“Did she say anything about having an appointment today? About meeting someone?”
“No. Or, God, I don’t know. I had my head buried under the pillow and was praying for a quick, merciful death when she popped in this morning. I didn’t pay attention.” He dug a set of keys out of a drawer. “I don’t understand why she’s not answering her pocket ’link. I don’t understand why you’re asking all these questions.”
“Let’s take a look at her place,” Eve suggested. “Go from there.”
I t smelled of cookies, Eve realized. Though the kitchen was small, it was organized and equipped by someone who knew what they were doing.
“Some women buy earrings or shoes,” Erik said. “Ari, she buys ingredients and baking tools. There’s a specialty shop in the meatpacking district called Baker’s Dozen? She’ll have an orgasm just walking in there.”
“Is there anything missing that would normally be here if she was just going to work?”
“Uh, I don’t know. I don’t think so. Should I look around?”
“Why don’t you?”
While he did, Eve studied the little computer on a table just outside the kitchen. Couldn’t touch it, she thought, not until there was an official report.
Bending the line of probable cause.
“He might be on there,” Roarke murmured. “Something to do with this might be on there.”
“And she could walk in the door in the next thirty seconds, and I’d have invaded her privacy, illegally.”
“Bollocks to that.” He started to move past Eve to open the computer himself.
“Wait, damn it. Just wait.”
“Her shoes.” Erik stepped out of the bedroom, his face radiating both confusion and concern.
“What about them?”