by J. D. Robb
“I’ll pay him a visit.”
“You’ll be lucky to get within a mile of him.”
“I’m feeling lucky.” Eve crossed over to the body to slip her hands under the sheets.
“The man’s got powerful friends, Dallas. You can’t afford to so much as whisper he’s linked to this until you’ve got something solid.”
“Feeney, you know it’s a mistake to tell me that.” But even as she started to smile, her fingers brushed something between cold flesh and bloody sheets. “There’s something under her.” Carefully, Eve lifted the shoulder, eased her fingers over.
“Paper,” she murmured. “Sealed.” With her protected thumb, she wiped at a smear of blood until she could read the protected sheet.
ONE OF SIX
“It looks hand printed,” she said to Feeney and held it out. “Our boy’s more than clever, more than arrogant. And he isn’t finished.”
Eve spent the rest of the day doing what would normally have been assigned to drones. She interviewed the victim’s neighbors personally, recording statements, impressions.
She managed to grab a quick sandwich from the same Glida-Grill she’d nearly smashed before, driving across town. After the night and the morning she’d put in, she could hardly blame the receptionist at Paradise for looking at her as though she’d recently scraped herself off the sidewalk.
Waterfalls played musically among the flora in the reception area of the city’s most exclusive salon. Tiny cups of real coffee and slim glasses of fizzling water or champagne were served to those lounging on the cushy chairs and settees. Headphones and discs of fashion magazines were complementary.
The receptionist was magnificently breasted, a testament to the salon’s figure sculpting techniques. She wore a snug, short outfit in the salon’s trademark red, and an incredible coif of ebony hair coiled like snakes.
Eve couldn’t have been more delighted.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said in a carefully modulated voice as empty of expression as a computer. “We serve by appointment only.”
“That’s okay.” Eve smiled and was almost sorry to puncture the disdain. Almost. “This ought to get me one.” She offered her badge. “Who works on Sharon DeBlass?”
The receptionist’s horrified eyes darted toward the waiting area. “Our clients’ needs are strictly confidential.”
“I bet.” Enjoying herself, Eve leaned companionably on the U-shaped counter. “I can talk nice and quiet, like this, so we understand each other—Denise?” She flicked her gaze down to the discreet studded badge on the woman’s breast. “Or I can talk louder, so everyone understands. If you like the first idea better, you can take me to a nice quiet room where we won’t disturb any of your clients, and you can send in Sharon DeBlass’s operator. Or whatever term you use.”
“Consultant,” Denise said faintly. “If you’ll follow me.”
“My pleasure.”
And it was.
Outside of movies or videos, Eve had never seen anything so lush. The carpet was a red cushion your feet could sink blissfully into. Crystal drops hung from the ceiling and spun light. The air smelled of flowers and pampered flesh.
She might not have been able to imagine herself there, spending hours having herself creamed, oiled, pummeled, and sculpted, but if she were going to waste such time on vanity, it would certainly have been interesting to do so under such civilized conditions.
The receptionist showed her into a small room with a hologram of a summer meadow dominating one wall. The quiet sound of birdsong and breezes sweetened the air.
“If you’d just wait here.”
“No problem.” Eve waited for the door to close then, with an indulgent sigh, she lowered herself into a deeply cushioned chair. The moment she was seated, the monitor beside her blipped on, and a friendly, indulgent face that could only be a droid’s beamed smiles.
“Good afternoon. Welcome to Paradise. Your beauty needs and your comfort are our only priorities. Would you like some refreshment while you wait for your personal consultant?”
“Sure. Coffee, black, coffee.”
“Of course. What sort would you prefer? Press C on your keyboard for the list of choices.”
Smothering a chuckle, Eve followed instructions. She spent the next two minutes pondering over her options, then narrowed it down to French Riviera or Caribbean Cream.
The door opened again before she could decide. Resigned, she rose and faced an elaborately dressed scarecrow.
Over his fuchsia shirt and plum colored slacks, he wore an open, trailing smock of Paradise red. His hair, flowing back from a painfully thin face echoed the hue of his slacks. He offered Eve a hand, squeezed gently, and stared at her out of soft doe eyes.
“I’m terribly sorry, officer. I’m baffled.”
“I want information on Sharon DeBlass.” Again, Eve took out her badge and offered it for inspection.
“Yes, ah, Lieutenant Dallas. That was my understanding. You must know, of course, our client data is strictly confidential. Paradise has a reputation for discretion as well as excellence.”
“And you must know, of course, that I can get a warrant, Mr.—?”
“Oh, Sebastian. Simply Sebastian.” He waved a thin hand, sparkling with rings. “I’m not questioning your authority, lieutenant. But if you could assist me, your motives for the inquiry?”
“I’m inquiring into the motives for the murder of DeBlass.” She waited a beat, judged the shock that shot into his eyes and drained his face of color. “Other than that, my data is strictly confidential.”
“Murder. My dear God, our lovely Sharon is dead? There must be a mistake.” He all but slid into a chair, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. When the monitor offered him refreshment, he waved a hand again. Light shot from his jeweled fingers. “God, yes. I need a brandy, darling. A snifter of Trevalli.”
Eve sat beside him, took out her recorder. “Tell me about Sharon.”
“A marvelous creature. Physically stunning, of course, but it went deeper.” His brandy came into the room on a silent automated cart. Sebastian plucked the snifter and took one deep swallow. “She had flawless taste, a generous heart, rapier wit.”
He turned the doe eyes on Eve again. “I saw her only two days ago.”
“Professionally?”
“She had a standing weekly appointment, half day. Every other week was a full day.” He whipped out a butter yellow scarf and dabbed at his eyes. “Sharon took care of herself, believed strongly in the presentation of self.”
“It would be an asset in her line of work.”
“Naturally. She only worked to amuse herself. Money wasn’t a particular need, with her family background. She enjoyed sex.”
“With you?”
His artistic face winced, the rosy lips pursing in what could have been a pout or pain. “I was her consultant, her confidant, and her friend,” Sebastian said stiffly and draped the scarf with casual flare over his left shoulder. “It would have been indiscreet and unprofessional for us to become sexual partners.”
“So you weren’t attracted to her, sexually?”
“It was impossible for anyone not to be attracted to her sexually. She . . .” He gestured grandly. “Exuded sex as others might exude an expensive perfume. My God.” He took another shaky sip of brandy. “It’s all past tense. I can’t believe it. Dead. Murdered.” His gaze shot back to Eve. “You said murdered.”
“That’s right.”
“That neighborhood she lived in,” he said grimly. “No one could talk to her about moving to a more acceptable location. She enjoyed living on the edge and flaunting it all under her family’s aristocratic noses.”
“She and her family were at odds?”
“Oh definitely. She enjoyed shocking them. She was such a free spirit, and they so . . . ordinary.” He said it in a tone that indicated ordinary was more mortal a sin than murder itself. “Her grandfather continues to introduce bills that would make prostitution illeg
al. As if the past century hasn’t proven that such matters need to be regulated for health and crime security. He also stands against procreation regulation, gender adjustment, chemical balancing, and the gun ban.”
Eve’s ears pricked. “The senator opposes the gun ban?”
“It’s one of his pets. Sharon told me he owns a number of nasty antiques and spouts off regularly about that outdated right to bear arms business. If he had his way, we’d all be back in the twentieth century, murdering each other right and left.”
“Murder still happens,” Eve murmured. “Did she ever mention friends or clients who might have been dissatisfied or overly aggressive?”
“Sharon had dozens of friends. She drew people to her, like . . .” He searched for a suitable metaphor, used the corner of the scarf again. “Like an exotic and fragrant flower. And her clients, as far as I know, were all delighted with her. She screened them carefully. All of her sexual partners had to meet certain standards. Appearance, intellect, breeding, and proficiency. As I said, she enjoyed sex, in all of its many forms. She was . . . adventurous.”
That fit with the toys Eve had unearthed in the apartment. The velvet handcuffs and whips, the scented oils and hallucinogens. The offerings on the two sets of colinked virtual reality headphones had been a shock even to Eve’s jaded system.
“Was she involved with anyone on a personal level?”
“There were men occasionally, but she lost interest quickly. Recently she’d spoken about Roarke. She’d met him at a party and was attracted. In fact, she was seeing him for dinner the very night she came in for her consultation. She’d wanted something exotic because they were dining in Mexico.”
“In Mexico. That would have been the night before last.”
“Yes. She was just bubbling over about him. We did her hair in a gypsy look, gave her a bit more gold to the skin—full body work. Rascal Red on the nails, and a charming little temp tattoo of a red-winged butterfly on the left buttock. Twenty-four-hour facial cosmetics so that she wouldn’t smudge. She looked spectacular,” he said, tearing up. “And she kissed me and told me she just might be in love this time. ‘Wish me luck, Sebastian.’ She said that as she left. It was the last thing she ever said to me.”
chapter two
No sperm. Eve swore over the autopsy report. If she’d had sex with her killer, the victim’s choice of birth control had killed the little soldiers on contact, eliminating all trace of them within thirty minutes after ejaculation.
The extent of her injuries made the tests for sexual activity inconclusive. He’d blown her apart either for symbolism or for his own protection.
No sperm, no blood but for the victim’s. No DNA.
The forensic sweep of the murder site turned up no fingerprints—none: not the victim’s, not her weekly cleaning specialist, certainly not the murderer’s.
Every surface had been meticulously wiped, including the murder weapon.
Most telling of all, in Eve’s judgment, were the security discs. Once again, she slipped the elevator surveillance into her desk monitor.
The discs were initialed.
Gorham Complex. Elevator A. 2-12-2058. 06:00.
Eve zipped through, watching the hours fly by. The elevator doors opened for the first time at noon. She slowed the speed, giving her unit a quick smack with the heel of her hand when the image bobbled, then studied the nervous little man who entered and asked for the fifth floor.
A jumpy john, she decided, amused when he tugged at his collar and slipped a breath mint between his lips. Probably had a wife and two kids and a steady white-collar job that allowed him to slip away for an hour once a week for his nooner.
He got off the elevator at five.
Activity was light for several hours, the occasional prostitute riding down to the lobby, some returning with shopping bags and bored expressions. A few clients came and went. The action picked up about eight. Some residents went out, snazzily dressed for dinner, others came in to keep their appointments.
At ten, an elegant-looking couple entered the car together. The woman allowed the man to open her fur coat, under which she wore nothing but stiletto heels and a tattoo of a rosebud with the stem starting at the crotch and the flower artistically teasing the left nipple. He fondled her, a technically illegal act in a secured area. When the elevator stopped on eighteen, the woman drew her coat together, and they exited, chatting about the play they’d just seen.
Eve made a note to interview the man the following day. It was he who was the victim’s neighbor and associate.
The glitch happened at precisely 12:05. The image shifted almost seamlessly, with only the faintest blip, and returned to surveillance at 02:46.
Two hours and forty-one minutes lost.
The hallway disc of the eighteenth floor was the same. Nearly three hours wiped. Eve picked up her cooling coffee as she thought it through. The man understood security, she mused, was familiar enough with the building to know where and how to doctor the discs. And he’d taken his time, she thought. The autopsy put the victim’s death at two A.M.
He’d spent nearly two hours with her before he’d killed her, and nearly an hour more after she’d been dead. Yet he hadn’t left a trace.
Clever boy.
If Sharon DeBlass had recorded an appointment, personal or professional, for midnight, that, too, had been wiped.
So he’d known her intimately enough to be sure where she kept her files and how to access them.
On a hunch, Eve leaned forward again. “Gorham Complex, Broadway, New York. Owner.”
Her eyes narrowed as the date flashed onto her screen.
Gorham Complex, owned by Roarke Industries, headquarters 500 Fifth Avenue. Roarke, president and CEO. New York residence, 222 Central Park West.
“Roarke,” Eve murmured. “You just keep turning up, don’t you. Roarke?” she repeated. “All data, view and print.”
Ignoring the incoming call on the ’link beside her, Eve sipped her coffee and read.
Roarke—no known given name—born 10-06-2023, Dublin, Ireland. ID number 33492-ABR-50. Parents unknown. Marital status, single. President and CEO of Roarke Industries, established 2042. Main branches New York, Chicago, New Los Angeles, Dublin, London, Bonn, Paris, Frankfurt, Tokyo, Milan, Sydney. Off-planet branches, Station 45, Bridgestone Colony, Vegas II, FreeStar One. Interests in real estate, import-export, shipping, entertainment, manufacturing, pharmaceuticals, transportation. Estimated gross worth, three billion, eight hundred million.
Busy boy, Eve thought, lifting a brow as a list of his companies clicked on-screen.
“Education,” she demanded.
Unknown.
“Criminal record?”
No data.
“Access Roarke, Dublin.”
No additional data.
“Well, shit. Mr. Mystery. Description and visual.” Roarke. Black hair, blue eyes, 6 feet, 2 inches, 173 pounds.
Eve grunted as the computer listed the description. She had to agree that in Roarke’s case, a picture was worth a couple hundred words.
His image stared back at her from the screen. He was almost ridiculously handsome: the narrow, aesthetic face; the slash of cheekbones; and sculpted mouth. Yes, his hair was black, but the computer didn’t say it was thick and full and swept back from a strong forehead to fall inches above broad shoulders. His eyes were blue, but the word was much too simple for the intensity of color or the power in them.
Even on an image, Eve could see this was a man who hunted down what or who he wanted, bagged it, used it, and didn’t bother with frivolities such as trophies.
And yes, she thought, this was a man who could kill if and when it suited him. He would do so coolly, methodically, and without breaking a sweat.
Gathering up the hard data, she decided she’d have a talk with Roarke. Very soon.
By the time Eve left the station to head home, the sky was miserably spitting snow. She checked her pockets without hope and found she had indeed l
eft her gloves in her apartment. Hatless, gloveless, with only her leather jacket as protection against the biting wind, she drove across town.
She’d meant to get her vehicle into repair. There just hadn’t been time. But there was plenty of time to regret it now as she fought traffic and shivered, thanks to a faulty heating system.
She swore if she got home without turning into a block of ice, she’d make the appointment with the mechanic.
But when she did arrive home, her primary thought was food. Even as she unlocked her door, she was dreaming about a hot bowl of soup, maybe a mound of chips, if she had any left, and coffee that didn’t taste like someone had spilled sewage into the water system.
She saw the package immediately, the slim square just inside the door. Her weapon was out and in her hand before she drew the next breath. Sweeping with weapon and eyes, she kicked the door shut behind her. She left the package where it was and moved from room to room until she was satisfied she was alone.
After holstering her weapon, she peeled out of her jacket and tossed it aside. Bending, she picked up the sealed disc by the edges. There was no label, no message.
Eve took it into the kitchen, tapping it carefully out of its seal, and slipped it into her computer.
And forgot all about food.
The video was top quality, as was the sound. She sat down slowly as the scene played on her monitor.
Naked, Sharon DeBlass lounged on the lake-size bed, rustling satin sheets. She lifted a hand, skimming it through that glorious tumbled mane of russet hair as the bed’s floating motion rocked her.
“Want me to do anything special, darling?” She chuckled, rose up on her knees, cupped her own breasts. “Why don’t you come back over here . . .” Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. “We’ll do it all again.” Her gaze lowered, and a little cat smile curved her lips. “Looks like you’re more than ready.” She laughed again, shook back her hair. “Oh, we want to play a game.” Still smiling, Sharon put her hands up. “Don’t hurt me.” She whimpered, shivering even as her eyes glinted with excitement. “I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Come on over here and force me. I want you to.” Lowering her hands, she began to stroke herself. “Hold that big bad gun on me while you rape me. I want you to. I want you to—”
