In Death 18 - Divided in Death

the public entrance of Bissel Gallery. This elevator is for private use only.
    “Maybe she gave you the wrong code,” Peabody suggested.
    “I don’t think so.”
    Eve walked to the main security station. “Who used that elevator last?”
    The young, prim woman in black curled her lip. “I beg your pardon?”
    “Don’t bother,” Eve told her and slapped down her badge. “Just answer the question.”
    “I’ll need to verify your identification.” With her nose still in the air, she scanned Eve’s badge, then slid over a palm plate. When Eve’s ID was verified, she tucked the palm plate away again. “Is this about what happened to Mr. Bissel?”
    Eve merely smiled. “I beg your pardon?”
    The woman sniffed, then turned to her log book. “Mr. Bissel himself was the last to use that elevator. It goes directly to his studio. His employees and clients use the one to the right. That will go to the gallery.”
    “You have the code for the studio elevator.”
    “Of course. It’s required that all tenants file their security and passcodes with us.”
    “What is it?”
    “I’m not permitted to give out that data, not without proper authorization.”
    Eve wondered if stuffing her badge up the woman’s snooty nose would qualify as proper authorization. Instead, she shoved her own memo book onto the desk, tapped the screen. “Is this it?”
    Once again, the woman turned to her data unit, keyed in a complex series of numbers. She glanced at her screen, then Eve’s. “If you have it, why are you bothering to ask me?”
    “It doesn’t work.”
    “Of course it works. You just didn’t do it properly.”
    “Why don’t you show me how to do it properly?”
    Heaving a sigh, the woman gestured to a coworker. “Watch the station,” she snapped, then clipped her way over to the elevators on hair-thin heels.
    She coded in, and when she got the same result as Eve, coded in again. “I don’t understand it. This is the proper code. It’s registered. Building security checks all passcodes twice a week.”
    “When was the last check?”
    “Two days ago.”
    “How long will it take maintenance to bypass?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Is there access from the gallery to the studio?”
    Obviously aggrieved, she marched back to her station, called up the diagram for the top level. “There is. There’s a security door between them. I have the passcode for that.”
    “Which, I imagine, is about as much good as the one you have for the elevator. Give it to me anyway.”
    Eve pulled out her pocket ‘link as she walked to the gallery elevator. “I need you at the Flatiron Building,” she said the minute Roarke answered. “Bissel Gallery, top floor. The security code for the direct elevator to his studio has been changed, so I can’t access it. I’m going to try to get through the door between the gallery and the studio, but I’m figuring I’ll find the same block.”
    “Leave it be. If someone tampered with it, using the original code could add another block. I’m on my way.”
    “What could Bissel have in his studio he didn’t want his wife to see?” Peabody wondered.
    “Doesn’t make sense.” Eve shook her head. “Nothing in his file to indicate he’s that security-savvy. It takes savvy to alter a code without building security sniffing it out. And a guy who risks an affair with his wife’s friend, all but under her nose? Why’d he do that? For the sex, sure, but also for the thrill. Look what I can get away with. Why does a man who goes for the thrill take such extensive precautions with his home office unit, his art studio. What does one have to do with the other?”
    She stepped off the elevator, into a space filled with sculpture, paintings, both static and animated. In the midst of the softly lighted room, a woman sat on the floor, sobbing her heart out.
    “Man,” Eve said under her breath. “I hate when this happens. You take her.”
    Pleased to have a concrete assignment, Peabody approached the woman, crouched in front of her. “Miss.”
    “We’re closed.” She wailed into her own hands. “Due to a de-de-death.”
    “I’m Detective Peabody.” Under the circumstances, she tried not to display too much glee in being able to say just that. “This is my partner, Lieutenant Dallas. We’re investigating the deaths of Blair Bissel and Felicity Kade.”
    “Blair!” She all but screamed it, and threw herself facedown on the floor. “No, no, no, he can’t be dead. I can’t