In Death 17 - Imitation in Death

eats promptly at seven, and I was told I'd have to respect that.
     
     
"People of a certain age tend to develop routines?"
     
     
"And she called me Miss Dallas. Repeatedly."
     
     
Companionably, Roarke swung an arm around her shoulders. "You already hate her."
     
     
"I do. I really do. But the job's the job. No snuggling on the job," she added.
     
     
"I keep forgetting that." Still he gave her a friendly squeeze before removing his arm.
     
     
Eve stepped up to the security grid, gave her name, displayed her badge, stated her business. She was cleared so quickly she assumed Gable had been waiting for her..
     
     
"I'm going to intro you as my associate," she said as they walked into the tiny foyer. One look at his gorgeous face, the elegant suit, and the shoes that probably cost more than Gable's monthly rent had Eve sighing. "And unless she's blind and senile, she won't buy it, but we'll try to brush by that."
     
     
"It shows a definite bias to assume that cops can't be well dressed."
     
     
"Your shirt lists for more than my weapon," she chided. "So once in, you keep it buttoned, the lip as well as the shirt, and look firm and stern."
     
     
"And I was counting on shooting you quiet, adoring looks."
     
     
"Burst that bubble. Second floor." They took the steps, turned into a short hall- with two doors on either side.
     
     
The absolute silence told her the building had excellent soundproofing, or everyone in the place was dead. Eve pressed the buzzer beside 2B.
     
     
"Miss Dallas?"
     
     
At the- sound of the voice through the speaker, Roarke firmed his lips against a grin and stared dutifully at the door. "Lieutenant Dallas, Ms. Gable."
     
     
"I want to see your identification. Hold it up to the peep." After Eve complied there was a long silence. "It appears to be in order. There's a man with you. You didn't indicate there would be a man with you."
     
     
"My associate, Ms.. Gable. May we come in, please? I don't want to take up any more of your time than necessary." "Very well."
     
     
There was another stretch during which Eve assumed various locks were being turned. Roberta Gable opened the door, and scowled.
     
     
Her identification photo was, if anything, flattering. Her thin face had the sort of hard edges Eve judged came from not only avoiding any of the softer areas of life but disparaging them. The grooves around her mouth indicated that the scowl was a' regular feature. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it gave Eve a headache just to look at it.
     
     
She was dressed in gray, like her hair -a crisp shirt and skirt that hung on her bony body. Her shoes were black and thick soled, with laces tied in very precise knots.
     
     
"I know you," she said to Roarke, and sucked in so much air her nostrils flared visibly.: "You are not a police officer."
     
     
"No, ma'am."
     
     
"Civilian consultants are often utilized by the police department," Eve put in. "If you have any questions about this procedure, you can call my commanding officer in New York. We can wait outside until you verify."
     
     
"That won't be necessary." She stepped back until they entered the living area. It was ruthlessly clean, and spartan. None of the frilly business Eve generally expected from older women living alone was in evidence.
     
     
No pillows or dust-catchers, no framed photos or flowers. There was a single sofa, a single chair, two tables, two lamps. It was as soulless, and just as welcoming, as a cage in a high-security prison.
     
     
One would not, she was sure, hear the dulcet sounds of a Carmichael Smith CD within these walls. That, at least, was one small mercy.
     
     
"You may sit, on the sofa. I will not offer refreshments this close to mealtime."
     
     
She took the chair, sat with her back straight as, a poker, her feet flat on the floor with her knees pressed so tightly together they might have been glued. She folded her hands in her lap.
     
     
"You indicated you wished to speak to me regarding one of my former charges, but refused to give me a name. I find that quite rude, Miss Dallas."
     
     
"I find murder quite rude, and that's what I'm investigating."
     
     
"There is no need for sass. If you can't conduct yourself with respect, this interview is over."
     
     
"Respect's a two-way street. My name is Lieutenant Dallas."
     
     
Gable's mouth folded in; but she inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Very well. Lieutenant Dallas. I assume since you've attained that rank