Inherit the Dead

his daughter and probably cost more than Perry made in a week. His mother always used to say, Money will buy what money will buy . And that never made any sense to him then. But lately, he got it. Some people were just barely making it, while others were drifting on a cushion of money high above the rest. And you knew ’em when you saw ’em. They spent money on flowers, while you clipped coupons and bought the day-old bread.
    There was a woman wrapped in a black shearling coat in the lobby. Her golden hair flowed long and shimmering; her jeans tried hard to look tattered. She had a black standard poodle on a long leather leash, and she and the dog shared a kind of lean, aloof look. They were waiting for something, something important. The woman stared at her smartphone, tapping with a single, perfectly square pink fingernail. Tap, tap, tap .
    “May I help you, sir?” The voice bounced off the walls and the hard floor. The young woman didn’t even look up.
    Had the doorman leaned on the word sir with just a touch of irony? Perry didn’t like to think so. But the guy had the same lookas the poodle, owned by wealth. Pampered, in a sense, manicured by association, well kept. Perry strode over to the desk and locked the other man in his hardest, nowhere-to-hide cop stare, and was gratified to see the other man squirm. A poodle, while smart enough, was no match for a pit bull. And there was much less blood shed if everyone knew this going in.
    The woman and her dog left in a cloud of Chanel No. 5—which Perry recognized because it was the scent Noreen used to wear. Even though he could ill-afford it, he always made sure Santa left a bottle of the cheaper eau de toilette in her Christmas stocking, and she made sure to use it only sparingly. And that’s how normal people afforded little luxuries. Thinking of it, how he’d never been able to give her what she wanted, not really, made something inside him go hollow and angry. After so many years, one would think he could move on. But that was the thing about a pit bull; when he sunk his teeth in, you might have to break his jaw before he could let go.
    Suddenly, he felt self-conscious about the fray on the collar of his trench, his old dress shoes, the jagged conditions of his cuticles. But he wouldn’t show it. No, never. A real man didn’t feel bad about his appearance.
    “She’s something,” Perry said. He’d watched the doorman’s dark brown eyes drift after the young woman and her poodle. “Man. For real.”
    The young Latino gave Perry a polite half smile. “May I help you?” he said again.
    “I saw her checking you out,” said Perry. “You didn’t notice?”
    The doorman issued a little snort, but Perry saw the color come up in his cheeks. “Not likely.”
    “I don’t know,” said Perry. He let the sentence trail, singsong and light. It was the same doorman from his first visit, though the guy didn’t seem to recognize or remember him. Perry noticed he hadmanicured nails, not polished but shaped and buffed. His skin was so dewy and fresh that he might have just come from a facial.
    “Anyway,” Perry went on. “I’m here for Mrs. Drusilla. She in? Name’s Christo. I’ve been here before.”
    The doorman looked him over again, then picked up the phone and dialed.
    “ Detective Perry Christo.” He saw the kid’s eyes brighten a bit. Everyone thought he was living in a Law & Order episode when you said you were a detective. It was definitely a pop-culture advantage. People just loved to talk—about themselves, about everybody else.
    “There’s a Detective Christo here for you, Mrs. Drusilla.” A pause followed by an obedient nod. “Of course.”
    Of course. It was in the lilt of his words that Perry picked up on something he’d missed. The doorman probably hadn’t been checking out the girl. He might have been admiring her shoes or her hair—but not her ass.
    “You may go up, sir,” he said. “Twenty-fourth floor. That’s the penthouse. Penthouse A.”
    “Thanks,” said Perry. “I know.” He started to move toward the elevator.
    “Be careful,” said the doorman. He lowered his voice to a sly whisper. “She bites . But maybe you know that, too.”
    Oh, an invitation to dish. Sometimes, Perry thought, you just get lucky.
    “Is that so?” He moved back slowly. Somewhere outside a siren wailed.
    “Um- hmm, ” the doorman said. Perry leaned in close. He knew that he might not have polish—he needed a shave, could stand