In Death 20 - Survivor in Death

pretty light. At two in the morning, she imagined the street was quiet as a grave.
    “Maybe you catch a break and somebody’s got insomnia and looks out the window at just the right time. Or decided to take a little stroll. But they’re going to tell the cops, if they spotted anything. A family gets wiped out on your block, you’re scared. You want to feel safe, you tell the cops if you saw anything off.”
    She rang the bell. There was a scratching sound from the intercom as someone inside cleared their throat.
    “Who are you?”
    “NYPSD.” Eve held her badge to the security peep. “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”
    “How do I know that for sure?”
    “Ma’am, you’re looking at my badge.”
    “I could have a badge, too, and I’m not the police.”
    “Got me there. Can you see the badge number?”
    “I’m not blind, am I?”
    “As I’m standing out here, that’s impossible to verify. But you can verify my ID if you contact Cop Central and give them my badge number.”
    “Maybe you stole the badge from the real police. People get murdered in their own beds.”
    “Yes, ma’am, that’s why we’re here. We’d like to speak with you about the Swishers.”
    “How do I know you’re not the ones who killed them?”
    “Excuse me?”
    Eve, her face a study in frustration, turned to look at the woman on the sidewalk. She was carrying a market sack and wearing a great deal of gold-streaked red hair, a green skin-suit, and a baggy jacket.
    “You’re trying to talk to Mrs. Grentz?”
    “Trying being the operative. Police.”
    “Yeah, got that.” She bounced up the stairs. “Hey, Mrs. Grentz, it’s Hildy. I got your bagels.”
    “Why didn’t you say so?”
    There was a lot of clicking and snicking, then the door opened. Eve looked down, considerably. The woman was barely five feet, skinny as a stick, and old as time. On her head was perched an ill-fitting black wig only shades darker than her wrinkled skin.
    “I brought the cops, too,” Hildy told her, cheerfully.
    “Are you arrested?”
    “No, they just want to talk. About what happened with the Swishers.”
    “All right then.” She waved a hand like she was batting at flies and began to walk away.
    “My landlady,” Hildy told them. “I live below. She’s okay, except for being--as my old man would say--crazy as a shithouse rat. You ought to go on in and sit down while she’s in the mood. I’m going to stick her bagels away.”
    “Thanks.”
    The place was jammed with things. Pricey things, Eve noted as she made her way between tables, chairs, lamps, paintings that were tilted and stacked against the walls.
    The air had that old-lady smell, what seemed to be a combination of powder, age, and flowers going to dust.
    Mrs. Grentz was now perched in a chair, her tiny feet on a tiny hassock and her arms crossed over her nonexistent breasts. “Whole family, murdered in their sleep.”
    “You knew the Swishers?”
    “Of course I knew the Swishers. Lived here the past eighty-eight years, haven’t I? Seen it all, heard it all.”
    “What did you see?”
    “World going to hell in a handbasket.” She dipped her chin, unfolded one of her bony arms to slap a gnarled hand on the arm of the chair. “Sex and violence, sex and violence. Won’t be any pillar of salt this time out. Whole place, and everything in it, is going to burn. Get what you ask for. Reap what you sow.”
    “Okay. Can you tell me if you heard or saw anything unusual on the night the Swishers were killed?”
    “Got my ears fixed, got my eyes tuned. I see and hear fine.” She leaned forward, the tuned-up eyes avid. “I know who killed those people.”
    “Who killed them?”
    “The French.”
    “How do you know that, Mrs. Grentz?”
    “Because they’re French.” To emphasize her point, she slapped a hand on her leg. “Got their der-re-airs kicked the last time they made trouble, didn’t they? And believe me, they’ve been planning a payback ever since. If somebody’s murdered in their own bed, it was the French who did it. You can take that to the bank.”
    Eve wasn’t sure the little sound Peabody made was a snicker or a sigh, but she ignored it. “I appreciate the information,” Eve began, and started to rise.
    “Did you hear someone speaking French on the night of the murders?”
    At Peabody’s question, Eve sent her a pitying look.
    “You don’t hear them, girl. Quiet as snakes, that’s the French for you.”
    “Thank you, Mrs.