In Death 29 - Kindred in Death

Because you’re not your brother.”
    Eve walked out while he continued to stare at the card.
    “That was well done,” Mira told her.
    “Elimination. Just crossing the lines.”
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    Eve shrugged and walked with Mira back to the car.

11
    KARLENE ROBINS PUNCHED IN HER CODE, swiped her realty ID in the slot. She hummed to herself as security recognized both. A perfect day, she thought, shaking back her curling mane of glossy black hair. She had hopes to make it spectacular by closing the sale on the very frosty loft with her very young and well-heeled client.
    It was just what he was after. She could hardly believe her luck, and the timing. The property had fallen into her lap, just the night before, when the previous buyers broke contract.
    Their loss, and she really hoped her gain.
    She stepped inside the tiny lobby area, coded in for the elevator.
    The commission would be a whopper, and couldn’t come at a better time. She was getting married on Saturday, and thinking of it, she did a little spin into the elevator.
    She could close this deal, have all the paperwork in order in a snap, snap, snap. When she and Tony got back from their honeymoon, they’d go to settlement, she’d present the happy new loft owner with a big-ass gift basket full of fancy wines and eats—and most important—collect her big, beautiful commission.
    She scanned the little elevator car, nodded approval. Good security, smooth ride, privacy. And the openwork iron doors, she thought when she reached the loft, added that funky retro touch.
    They opened soundlessly into a high-ceilinged space with wide, wide windows and a double trio of skylights.
    The original wood floors—and how often did you find that —were stylishly distressed. The walls, neutral tones chosen to sell, were fully soundproofed. Kitchen, she mused, wandering through, totally up-to-date. Compact, shining appliances with the fun and funky zebra-striped counters configured for maximum use of space.
    The client probably wouldn’t cook for himself. He was from money, and currently trying to make a name for himself as an artist. He’d entertain though, and this was a fine space for that.
    Add two bedrooms—one that would stand in very well as studio space with more skylights, more windows—and southern exposure—and what she considered a dream bathroom with jet tub, jet shower, drying tube, smoked glass walls—and he’d never do better.
    The place said—no cheered, she corrected—it cheered young, fun, hip, and well-off.
    She fluffed her hair, turned to check herself out in the mirror. Appearance mattered. She’d dressed carefully, groomed carefully to suit the client and the location.
    He wanted SoHo, arty, a hot spot amid plenty of galleries, restaurants, clubs. And this was it. Karlene figured his real estate agent should reflect the same at a showing. She’d chosen the short black skirt, the high leopard-print heels, and the bold red top with its silver beading rather than a more sedate suit very deliberately.
    It transmitted young and frost—which she was, she thought with a laugh—but for some clients you wanted to project maturity, stability, sobriety.
    This guy was younger than she was.
    Must be nice, she thought as she glanced at her wrist unit, and continued to wander, to fluff some of the wildly patterned pillows on the furniture staged in the living area. Barely twenty-two and able to afford a prime SoHo loft.
    She and Tony had a nice place, she reminded herself. And with her eye for decorating and bargains she’d squeezed plenty of juice in it. But one day—and with commissions like this one—they’d be able to afford a big, sunny loft.
    She dug into her bag, took out the scent tube she’d chosen. In the kitchen again, she crouched to plug it into the air system. In moments, the loft would smell, subtly, of sugar cookies. A good choice, she felt, for a younger client.
    She crossed to the living area’s mood screen, switched it on to a lively, energetic mix of colors and shapes, then ordered the music system on—not too loud.
    “Set the tone,” she said, turning in a circle to take it all in, “make it home.”
    She considered opening the wall panel to display the security monitors, then decided against it. He was too young to worry overmuch there—and she’d make a point of showing him when they did the tour. Instead she walked to the wide front windows, stood looking out on what she hoped—for herself