In Death 10 - Witness in Death

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 tumbling, boyish curls. As his eyes darted from Eve to Peabody and back, he streamed long fingers through the mass of it, slicking it back before he tried out a hesitant smile.
    "Um... Lieutenant Houston."
    "Dallas."
    "Right. I knew it was somewhere in Texas." Nerves had his voice jumping over the words, but he stepped back, widening the opening. "I'm still pretty shaken up. I keep thinking it's all some kind of mistake."
    "If it is, it's a permanent one." Eve scanned what there was of the apartment. The single room held a ratty sleep chair Proctor hadn't bothered to make up for the day, a skinny table that held a low-end tele-link/computer combo, a pole lamp with a torn shade, and a three-drawer wall chest.
    For some, she supposed, acting wasn't lucrative.
    "Um... let me get... um." Coloring slightly, he opened the long closet, fumbled inside, and eventually came out with a small folding chair. "Sorry. I don't do much more than sleep here, so it's not company friendly."
    "Don't think of us as company. Record on, Peabody. You can sit, Mr. Proctor, if you'd be more comfortable."
    "I'm..." His fingers danced with each other, tips to tips. "I'm fine. I don't really know how to do this. I never worked in any police dramas. I tend to be cast in period pieces or romantic comedies."
    "Good thing I've worked in a number of police dramas," Eve said mildly. "You just answer the questions, and we'll be fine."
    "Okay. All right." After glancing around the room as if he'd never seen it before, he finally sat on the chair. Crossed his legs, uncrossed them. Smiled hopefully.
    He looked, Eve thought, like some schoolboy called down to the principal's office for a minor infraction.
    "Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in interview with Proctor, Michael, in subject's residence. Peabody, Officer Delia, as aide."
    Watching Proctor, she recited the revised Miranda. As he listened, he tapped his fingers on his knees and succeeded in looking as guilty as a man with six ounces of Zeus in each pocket.
    "Do you