by J. D. Robb
She walked Roarke through, step by step, as she had done. “It’s cold, vindictive, ugly—you don’t just want him dead, you want to mess him up after he’s dead. But something’s missing in that. Where’s the springboard? You’re that vindictive, there has to be anger or hate. If you’re controlled enough to strap those down, why aren’t you controlled enough to handle the details? The hefty dose of barbs—it’s off. You want to humiliate him, but you don’t have anything to say to him. You’re alone in the house—a light tranq would be enough, give you enough to wrap him up. Don’t you want him to hear why—don’t you have something to say, don’t you want him to know?
“So that’s the third hand. The sham. The killer didn’t care if the stage fell apart after the curtain. The killer had nothing to say to Anders. But that’s missing something. Why put on the show if you can’t take the bows with a captive audience? What do you gain? What’s the damn point?”
“He’s dead. Whatever the window dressing, mission accomplished.”
“Yeah.” She nodded, gesturing with her fork. “And what have I got? A devoted nephew, a loving wife, steadfast friends, the efficient housekeeper. Somebody’s hiding something. That somebody knew he’d be alone in the house that night. Had to be sure of it. So…I dig deeper into financials—see if Anders was paying for it, or if I can find he paid for a subscription to Bondage Weekly. See if the wife, the nephew had any money troubles. Gambling, illegals. Sports betting’s big,” she considered. “Maybe Ben got in too deep.”
“It won’t be Ben.”
“Doesn’t feel like Ben. Doesn’t mean it won’t be connected to Ben.” Eyeing him, she polished off her wine. “You want to sign on, expert consultant, civilian, and poke into some bank accounts?”
“I live for these moments.”
“Take the wife. I’ll take Ben. Then maybe we’ll split up Anders.”
“Assignments, always exciting. I’ve one for you. Tend to the dishes. I’ll get the coffee.”
It was hard to argue, especially since he’d come up with the pot pie idea. She carted the dishes, stacked them in the little washer in her office kitchen, then turned and found him studying her.
“What?”
“Awfully domestic, isn’t it? A moment. Dish duty, coffee fetching, the two of us in the kitchen after a meal.”
Eve glanced down to where Galahad was sniffing his bowl, obviously hoping for seconds. “That would be the three of us.”
“Ah yes. Our little family.” Reaching out, he brushed the tips of her choppy hair. “A nice settled moment between the business of the day and the puzzle of the evening. It occurs to me these are moments I live for.”
Her heart simply melted. “I always wonder why they’re enough for you.”
He laid his lips on hers, soft, sweet. “You shouldn’t.”
The cat bumped between them, shot a leg up in the air, and began to wash his butt. With a laugh, Roarke shook his head. “And so the moment ends. Your coffee, Lieutenant,” he said and handed her a mug.
She sat at her desk, and waited to settle as Roarke walked into his adjoining office. It remained an amazement, her personal miracle, that he loved her. Loved her because of or in spite of everything. In all the world, with all its misery, after all the pain, they’d found each other. He was right, of course. It was more than enough.
“Computer,” she began, and ordered the next layer in the search of Anders’s financials.
The rich were complicated, Eve thought, with all their many pockets inside which they tucked their booty. Stocks, bonds, trusts, tax-deferred, tax-free, liquid money, futures. Long-term, short-term. Subsets, and arms and divisions.
But under it all, somehow, someway, even the rich paid bills and bought toilet paper.
She scraped and she dug, searching for something to tie her victim to a lover or to licensed companions, running a secondary search for medications and/or sexual aids.
“Eve.”
“What?” She looked away from the data crowding her wall screen. “I’ve barely started. You can’t have found something already. It’s not natural.”
“I have, and I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“What?”
“In Ava Anders’s financials. There are regular bimonthly payments, going back for eighteen months.”
“For what?” Her eyes narrowed. “To who?”
“To Charles Monroe.”
“Charles.” As it slapped at her out of left field, Eve dragged a hand through her hair. “Son of a bitch.” This was the trouble, she thought, this was the damn problem with making friends. It came back and bit you in the ass. “She’s getting her pipes snaked twice a month by a licensed companion?”
“One would assume she wasn’t paying for a bridge partner.”
“And it just damn well has to be Charles.” She sat back, let it simmer. “Why does a woman who claims to love her husband need to diddle or be diddled by an LC every two weeks?”
“You’re not that naive. You know there are endless reasons for it.”
“Maybe, maybe, but I’m only interested in her reasons.” She rose, thinking she was about to be pried out of the warmth after all. “So I’ll go ask him what they are.”
“Now? Eve, it’s after ten.”
“LCs have flexible hours.”
“And he’s very likely to be out with a client.”
“Or in with one.”
“If you contact him first—”
“He’d have time to prepare. I want him off guard.”
And she had a point. “I’ll drive.”
5
“IF HE’S IN, ISN’T WITH A CLIENT, BUT WITH Louise?” Roarke stepped into the elevator in the elegant lobby of Charles’s apartment building.
Eve shrugged. “It’s not like she doesn’t know what he does for a living.” While she didn’t have any problem seeing how the smart, dedicated Dr. Dimatto fell for Charles—and he for her—she couldn’t quite work out how Louise so easily accepted his work.
“Why doesn’t it bother her? Seriously, it doesn’t. She’s not putting on a front. She’s in a serious relationship with a guy who has sex with other women for a living, and it doesn’t matter to her.”
“I married a cop.” Roarke smiled at her. “We all have our levels of acceptance. He was an LC when they met, just as she was a doctor, and one who often works in dangerous areas of the city.”
She shot him the same easy smile. “So…if I’d been an LC when we met, you wouldn’t have any problem with me banging other guys. Professionally.”
“None at all, as I’d kick your ass and murder all of them. But that’s just my level of acceptance.”
“Yes.” Pleased, she jabbed a finger into his chest. “That makes sense to me.”
“Which is why we’re suited, darling Eve, and neither of us with Charles or Louise. If Louise is here,” he added when the doors opened, “would you like me to take her off somewhere for a bit?”
“Let’s see how it plays.”
“And if he’s with a client—as I believe he only takes females—I’d be happy to engage her elsewhere while you work.”
“Sure, no problem. Remembering those acceptance levels, how suited we are, and how much you like having your balls kicked up to your throat.”
He put an arm around her waist for a sideways hug. “It is true love with us, isn’t it?”
“Hearts and flowers, every day.” She pushed the buzzer on Charles’s apartment door. In less than a minute, she saw the security light blink, flicked her gaze up to the camera. The light steadied to green; the door opened.
“This is a nice surprise. Roarke. Lieutenant Sugar.”
He stepped back in welcome. Charles Monroe was vid-star handsome, with a sheen of urban polish even in the casual at-home loose pants and sweater. His apartment with its strong colors, bold art, deep cushions reflected his easy sophistication and affection for comfort. Music, what Eve thought might’ve been vintage jazz, flowed through the air.
&n
bsp; “What can I get you? Some wine? Or how about some Irish coffee?” He glanced around the room as he spoke, as if checking for something he’d misplaced. “God knows it’s cold enough out there.”
“We’re good. You alone, Charles?”
“Yes. Louise is doing a run with the medi-van tonight. These kind of temps make it rougher than usual on street people.”
“No client tonight?”
Something came and went in his eyes, but his smile stayed easy. “Actually, I had a cancellation. So it’s especially nice to see friends. Have a seat.”
“It’s police business, Charles.”
“I was getting an inkling.”
“About your client, Ava Anders.”
“Is she all right?” Concern, and hints of alarm sounded in his voice. “She’s not—”
“No, but her husband is.” Eve angled her head. “It’s been all over the media since this morning. You hadn’t heard?”
“No.” He closed his eyes a moment. “No, I hadn’t. I’ve been busy today, and had…things on my mind. I haven’t turned on the screen or looked at any reports. Thomas Anders is dead? Murdered since you’re here. Surely you don’t think Ava’s responsible.”
“Let’s backtrack. Ava Anders is a client.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“Her financials did.”
“Then, as you have the information already, yes, she’s a client.”
“And the services you provide her?”
“Dallas, you know I can’t. You know there has to be confidentiality between me and a client. I can’t discuss the arrangement without her consent. Sit down, will you?” He said it wearily. “I’m getting a drink. Do you want anything?”
“We’re fine, Charles.” Roarke nudged Eve to a chair while Charles crossed to a sleek wet bar.
“How was he killed?”
“In bed, in what appears to be a sexual bondage and erotic asphyxiation accident.”
“Oh Christ.” Charles dropped ice into a short glass, poured whiskey over it. “Ava—”
“Wasn’t there,” Eve finished, and waited while he took the first sip. “It doesn’t seem to surprise you—the manner of death, that his wife wasn’t there. Would that be because she wasn’t into the kink, or was too good at it to mess it up?”
“You’ll want to ask her that. You’re putting me in a position, Dallas.”
“How many did you put Ava in?”
He laughed, quick and amused, and the tension in his face dissolved. “You’ll have to ask her that, too.”
“How about this? How did she come to be a client?”
“Referral.” With the whiskey, he crossed back over, slid into a chair. “And no, I’m not going to tell you who. Not without consent. Dallas, my reputation and integrity hinge on consent, and on trust.”
Eve sat back, debated different angles. “You’d be, arguably, an expert on relationships.” When he laughed again, shook his head, she lifted her hands. “What? You trade in relationships. You told me once it’s not only the sex, but the relationship the client pays for.”
“True enough.” And the strain was back on his face. “Yes, that’s true enough.”
“Charles, it’s not my business,” Roarke interrupted, “but as a friend I’ll ask if everything’s all right between you and Louise?”
Charles looked at Roarke. “Yes, thanks. Everything’s very all right between me and Louise.”
“Now that we cleared that up,” Eve said, “let’s try it this way. Hypothetically, why would a woman, in a long-term, ostensively happy marriage seek the services of a licensed companion? And seek them on a regular basis.”
“Hypothetically.” Charles nodded. “It might be that the woman has needs, desires, even fantasies that aren’t or can’t be met within the marriage.”
“Why?”
Now he blew out a breath. “It might be that a woman isn’t comfortable seeking those needs and so on from her spouse, or the spouse isn’t comfortable or able to fulfill them. It might be by satisfying those needs with a professional, safely and confidentially, the marriage partners are more content. Not every marriage, however successful, gives both partners complete emotional or sexual satisfaction.”
“So what, they stay together to have conversation over dinner?”
“It might be as simple as that, but it’s usually considerably more complex. The fact is, sex, particularly a certain type of sex, is only one part of a relationship. I can’t give you details, Dallas. Not without Ava’s consent. If you get it, I’ll be happy to talk to you again.”
“Okay.” That would have to do. “Don’t contact her, Charles. If she tries to contact you, I’d appreciate it if you’d dodge until I’ve had a go with her on this.”
“All right. I can do that.”
“Good enough.” Eve rose. “I’ll be in touch. Hi to Louise and all that.”
“I’ll tell her.” He stood, leaned over to kiss Eve’s cheek.
I don’t get it. I don’t get it.” Eve frowned through the windshield as Roarke drove home. “I know he’s right, I know it’s true, but I don’t get it.”
“Precisely what would it be?”
“How you can have the sex outside marriage, and that’s just hunky with everybody involved? Why bother with the marriage thing?”
“Finances, companionship, habit, security, status.”
“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”
“You really should learn to form more definite opinions.”
“And the other thing, that she can’t get all her jollies from within the marriage? Okay, true—I hear this all the time, especially after he kills her or vice versa, but what crap.” Sheer annoyance had her slumping down in her seat. “If you didn’t have the sex buzz, you shouldn’t have hooked up.”
“Sometimes the buzz changes frequencies for one of the partners.”
“Okay. All right. Say I want to change frequencies. I decide I want you to suck your thumb and call me Mommy while I paddle your cute ass.” She shifted her gaze to his profile. “What do you say?”
“I would probably suggest a reasonable compromise, such as I’d like to suck on something else, preferably something attached to you, and I’ll call you whatever you like. If spanking must be involved, we’ll just have to take turns there.”
“See.” She poked his shoulder. “That works for me.”
“I sincerely hope not, but we can see.”
“No.” She snorted out a laugh. “I mean it works for me that you’d say let’s modify a little if I came up with something weird.”
“Remember that the next time I want to tie you up with your own underwear and slather your naked body with raspberry sauce.”
She slid her eyes toward him again. “Was there a first time?”
“Could be.”
The man, she mused, continued to surprise her. “Back to the point. I can’t see a marriage staying solid if one or both partners enters into an intimate relationship elsewhere. And profession aside, the LC–client relationship is intimate.” She considered, mulled, as Roarke drove through the gates. “Maybe, for instance, you’re married to this guy, everything’s frosty, then he turns out to be gay as an Easter basket. You got a problem. Maybe you stick it out because of those reasons you named—money, habit, whatever. And maybe you go to a professional to get off. But is that a marriage or just an arrangement?”
“Is there love? Your view on this is narrow. That’s how you’re built.”
It didn’t feel narrow to her. It felt right. “Marriage is a promise. That’s one of the ways you talked me into it. If you break one part of the promise, it’s going to crack other parts.”
“Even if both parties agree?”
“I don’t know.” She got out of the car. “But I’m interested to hear how Ava Anders explains it.”
Inside, they started upstairs together. “It seems to me,” Roarke said, “that if she’d wanted to hide the payments to Charles, she’d have paid in cash. And speaking of C
harles, did he seem distracted tonight? Even before he understood why we were there?”
“Yeah, something. Maybe some trouble in paradise, even though he said everything was fine.”
“That would be a pity. They work together very well.”
When she started to turn toward her office, he took her hand, tugged her in the opposite direction. “What? I’ve got work.”
“We both always have work. Now, it’s nearly midnight, and you’ve had a very long day.”
“I just want to—”
“So do I. I’m thinking of ordering up some raspberry sauce.”
“Funny guy. You’re a funny guy. Look, I just want another hour to—”
“I have other plans for your next hour.” Shifting position, he began to back her into the bedroom. “Here’s that compromise. That…modification.” He depressed the release on the weapon harness she’d strapped back on to go out.
“Maybe I’m not in the mood.”
“Then…” He trailed a finger down her throat, flipped open the first button of her shirt. “I suppose you’re going to be bored. Fire on.” He opened the next button as the flames flashed in the hearth. “Lights off.”
He continued to back her toward the platform, and the lake-sized bed it held, watching her eyes when her harness and then her shirt fell to the floor. “Step up,” he warned when they reached the platform. “And again.” Then he gave her a light shove so she fell back on the bed.
“I guess I’ll just lie here and take it.”
“You do that.” He lifted her leg, pulled off her boot.
“Don’t take it personally if I nod off.”
“Of course not.” He tossed the second boot aside. He ran his hands up her legs, smiling at her quiver when they stroked over her center on the way to the hook of her trousers. He drew them down her legs, let them drop.
Eve faked a yawn, tapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”
He cocked a brow. There wasn’t another woman in the world, he thought, who could amuse, challenge, and arouse him as she did. He pulled off his sweater, tossed it aside, then sat on the side of the bed to remove his own boots. Behind him, she made exaggerating snorting sounds until he pinched her.
