Dorian Kuper had lived in a two-level apartment in a meticulously rehabbed building – one that had survived the Urban Wars. It stood, bright white brick and long sheets of glass gleaming, in a tony area of the Upper West Side.When the doorman, wearing a classic black topcoat over his livery, greeted her by rank instead of snooty insults on the bland appearance of the DLE she drove, she knew Roarke owned the building. Obviously Doorman Frank had gotten the memo.“How can I help you today, Lieutenant?”“We need access to Dorian Kuper’s apartment.”His round, almost cherubic face fell. “I was afraid of that. Please, come inside, out of the wind. I heard Mr. Kuper was missing. I guess you found him, and I guess it’s not good.”She stepped inside, into warmth and white marble veined with gray, into the strangely spicy scent of whatever the masses of bold flowers cast off from their silver urn on the central table.“We found him. It’s not good,” she confirmed.“This will crush Ms.
