Free Delusion in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

it. It’s what we have.”
    “And sometimes what we have sucks. Let’s spread the joy, and go talk to Shelby Carstein.”
    Shelby Carstein’s third-floor walk-up boasted a claustrophobic lobby and a stairwell that smelled, not unpleasantly, of roasted garlic. On the way up Eve heard a baby’s fretful cry, the rolling laugh of a comedy on screen, and the weeping notes she thought came from a violin.
    She noted the security light blinking red on apartment 3-C, and the lack of palm plate or camera.
    “Security’s not a top priority,” Eve commented.
    “It’s a decent enough neighborhood.”
    “There was an illegals deal going down on the corner.”
    “I said decent enough.” He smiled at her. “You didn’t bother to ruin the dealer’s night.”
    “Busting up a Zoner push isn’t my top priority.” She knocked briskly, and was about to knock again when she saw the shadow pass over the Judas hole. “NYPSD.” She held up her badge.
    Locks clicked and clunked before the door opened.
    Shelby Carstein looked like a woman who’d just rolled out of a very active bed. The robe she was still tying hit mid-thigh, and her bare feet sported toes painted pumpkin orange. Her hair, nearly the same color, tumbled around a face lax from sex.

    She tugged the robe a little closer, but didn’t cover the stubble burn down the right side of her throat.
    “Is there a problem, Officer?” Her voice came out husky and thick as she looked from Eve to Roarke with a mix of annoyance and curiosity in sleepy green eyes.
    “Ms. Carstein?”
    “Yes. What’s this about?”
    “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is my consultant. We’d like to talk to you.”
    “About what?”
    “The incident this evening at On the Rocks.”
    “The—oh for—look, so we had a fight. It’s not like we threw things or broke up the place. And I didn’t punch that stupid slut, even though I wanted to. I just told her to back off before I slugged her. And so I used harsh language, but I never laid a hand on her.”
    “What stupid slut was that, Ms. Carstein?”
    “I don’t know, just some big tits. Rocky said she was just drunk and silly, but she came on to him. Right in front of my face.” Shelby pointed two fingers at her face, in case Eve missed its location. “I don’t have to take crap like that from some drunk big tits.”
    “Ms. Carstein, if we could come in.”
    “Oh for God’s sake.” She backed up, temper burning the sex haze off her face. “Rocky! Rocky, you get out here. I’ve got cops at my door because of that blond bimbo from the bar.”
    “Come on!” Exasperation colored the voice from a room off the smartly decorated living area. And articles of clothing—men’s pants, shirt, a woman’s skirt, jumbled shoes, littered their way toward that room.
    Eve decided she didn’t have to be a cop to detect the scenario.

    A man, dark hair standing in spikes, a love bite on his bare shoulder, shuffled out, still adjusting cotton lounge pants.
    So Rocky had closet and drawer space, Eve further deduced. “What the hell, Shel?”
    “Let’s make this simple,” Eve decided. “Your name?” she asked Rocky.
    “Rockwell Detweiler.”
    Seriously? she thought. Rockwell?
    “You and Ms. Carstein were in On the Rocks this evening. You left the bar at seventeen-twenty-nine.”
    “Seventeen-twenty-nine? Jesus!” Shelby threw up her hands. “What the fuck? Is this a military state now? I didn’t do anything.”
    “She didn’t,” Rocky began.
    “You thought it was funny.” She rounded on him, jabbed out a finger. “That bimbo poured herself all over him when Rocky went up to the bar. He thought it was funny. Even when she wiggled her way over to our table, put her fricking number on the table, he thought it was funny.”
    “Men have juvenile senses of humor,” Eve offered.
    “We do,” Roarke agreed. “It’s part of our charm.”
    “Charm my ass,” Shelby muttered.
    “I didn’t take it!” Rocky held out his hands in