by J. D. Robb
He’d been so surprised she’d been a virgin he’d come too quickly the first time. But she’d said it had been wonderful, she said she’d been waiting for him all her life. She had saved herself for him.
And his very disgust with her aroused him.
When he took the last vial out of his bag, he showed it to her so that the glass and liquid glinted in the candlelight. When he told her to open her mouth, she did so, like a little bird waiting for a worm.
Pounding himself into her, he felt her heart gallop. He felt it burst. And he knew Kevin had been right. It was like being born.
He studied her after she was used up, when her body grew colder on the tangled sheets and rose petals. And knew one thing more. This had been his right. She was every girl who had ever ignored his needs, or turned away when he was unable to perform. Everyone who’d ever refused him, denied him, smirked at him.
She was, in essence, nothing.
He dressed, brushed at the sleeves of his suit jacket, shot his cuffs. Leaving the candles burning, he strolled out. He couldn’t wait to get home and tell Kevin.
Eve felt fabulous. Sex and sleep, she decided. It was hard to beat the combo. Then when you started the day with a quick swim, a monster cup of real coffee strong enough to break bricks, you were in fat city.
The way she was feeling, she figured the bad guys had best take a day off.
“You look rested, Lieutenant.” Roarke leaned on the jamb of the doorway between their home offices.
“Ready to rock,” she said, watching him over the rim of her coffee cup. “I guess you’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“I made a pretty good start on that.”
She snorted. “Yeah, not bad, but I was thinking of work.”
“Ah. I’ve made a start on that as well.” He crossed over, caged her in between his body and the desk. Leaning over, he stroked the cat who’d draped himself over the ’link like a rag.
“You’re crowding me, pal, and I’m on the clock here.”
“Not for five minutes yet.”
She angled her head to look at her wrist unit. “You’re right. Five minutes.” She slid her arms around his waist. “We ought to be able to . . .” Just as she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, she heard the approaching footsteps, the unmistakable clomp of cop shoes. “Peabody’s early.”
“Let’s pretend we didn’t hear her.” Roarke nibbled at her mouth. “That we can’t see her.” Traced it with his tongue. “That we don’t even know her name.”
“That’s a good plan except—” When he put sincere effort into the kiss, she was pretty sure she could feel her heart melting. “Down boy,” she murmured just as Peabody strode into the room.
“Oh. Um. Ahem.”
Roarke turned, picked up Galahad to scratch his ears. “Hello, Peabody.”
“Hi. Welcome home. Maybe I’ll just go in the kitchen there and get some coffee . . . and stuff.”
But when she started by, Roarke reached out, lifted her chin with a finger, and studied her face. It was pale, the eyes heavy and chased by shadows. “You look tired.”
“Guess I didn’t sleep very well.” She muttered, “Need that coffee.” Then she hurried away.
“Eve.”
“Don’t.” She held up a finger at Roarke’s quiet tone. “I don’t want to talk about that now. I don’t ever want to talk about it, but I especially don’t want to talk about it now. And if anybody had listened to me when I said she and McNab getting tangled was going to screw things up, we wouldn’t have to talk about it, would we?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you’re talking about it.”
“Oh, shut up. All I know is she’s going to suck it in and do the job, and so is he.” She gave the desk one bad-tempered little kick before walking around behind it. “Now go away.”
“You’re worried about her.”
“Damn it, you think I can’t see she’s hurt? That it doesn’t get to me?”
“I know you can, and I know it does.”
She opened her mouth, then heard more footsteps in the hallway. “Let it go,” she muttered. “Peabody.” She lifted her voice. “Feeney’s here. Coffee light and sweet.”
“How’d you know it was me?” Feeney demanded as he came inside.
“You shuffle.”
“Hell I do.”
“Hell you don’t. You shuffle, Peabody clomps, McNab prances.”
“If I wore some of the shoes he does, I’d prance, too. Hey, Roarke, didn’t know you were back.”
“Just. I’ll be working at home for another hour or so,” he told Eve. “Then I’ll be in the midtown offices. The book stays here,” he added. “You’re welcome to take it on disc if you need it.”
“What book?” Feeney asked.
“Poetry. Seems our guy took his umbrella name from a poem some guy named Keats wrote a couple hundred years ago.”
“Bet it doesn’t even rhyme. You take Springsteen, McCartney, Lennon. Those boys knew how to rhyme. Classic shit.”
“Not only doesn’t it rhyme, but it’s weird and depressing and mostly stupid.”
“With that canny analysis, I’ll leave you to work.” Carrying the cat, Roarke started toward his office. “I believe I hear McNab’s prance.”
He might have been wearing candy-apple red airboots, but he didn’t look any perkier than Peabody. Doing her best to ignore it, Eve sat on the edge of her desk and updated them.
“That explains why we didn’t have any luck at the cyber-joints either,” McNab put in. “It didn’t make sense that nobody’d seen this dude.”
“We can do some morphing probabilities,” Feeney mused. “Most possible face structures, colorings, combos. But basically we’ll be working without a visual ID.”
“I ran some probabilities myself. It’s most likely we’re looking for a single male between twenty-five and forty. Upper income bracket, advanced education, with some sort of sexual dysfunction or perversion. It’s most probable he lives in the city. Feeney, where’d he get the high-priced illegals?”
“Dealers with Rabbit cater to a small, exclusive clientele. Aren’t that many of them. Only one in the city I know of, but I can check with Illegals to see if there’s more. Nobody deals in Whore that I know of. Just isn’t cost effective.”
“But at one time it was used in sex therapy, and for LC training?”
“Yeah, but the price tag was too high, and the substance too unpredictable.”
“Okay.” But it gave her more threads to pull. “We’ll back off the cyber-joints for now. McNab, start on the morphings. Feeney, see what you can find out from Illegals. Once I hammer Dickhead into identifying brands of the putty and enhancers, the wig, we’ll have that trail to follow. I got a tag on the wine. My source tells me there were three thousand and fifty bottles of that label and vintage sold in this borough. Peabody and I will run that down, and we’ll see if we can nail down the pink roses. The guy spends money—wine, flowers, enhancements, illegals—then he’s left a trail. We’re going to find it. Peabody, you’re with me.”
When they were in the car, Eve took a long breath. “If you’re having trouble sleeping, take a pill.”
“That’s some advice coming from you.”
“Then consider it an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is really pissing me off.” Eve punched it, roared up the drive.
Peabody’s chin jutted out so far, Eve was surprised it didn’t spear through the windshield. “I apologize if my personal difficulties are an annoyance to you, Lieutenant.”
“If you can’t do better sarcasm than that, give it up.” She swung through the gates, then slammed on the brakes. “Do you want time off?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t sir me, Peabody, in that tone or I’ll kick your ass right here and now.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Her voice went watery. “I don’t even like McNab. He’s annoying and he’s a jerk and he’s stupid. So w
hat if the sex was great? And maybe we had some laughs. Big deal. It’s not like we were serious or anything. It’s not like it gives him the right to give me ultimatums or make insulting comments and draw asshole conclusions.”
“Have you slept with Charles yet?”
“What?” Peabody actually blushed. “No.”
“Maybe you should. Maybe, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, maybe if you relieved some stress in that area you’d get your head settled right. Or something.”
“We’re . . . Charles and I are friends.”
“Yeah. You’re friends with a very high-priced sexual professional. Seems to me he’d be willing to help you out.”
“It’s not the same as loaning me twenty till payday.” Then she sighed. “But maybe I should think about it.”
“Think fast. We’re going to see him.”
Peabody came straight up out of the seat. “What? Now?”
“Officially,” Eve said and started the car again. “He’s an expert on sex, right? Let’s see what the expert knows about sexual illegals.”
The sexual expert had the morning off. He answered the door wearing blue silk pajama bottoms.
As man-candy went, he was a caloric binge. Eve thought it was easy to see why he had so many clients paying for a nibble.
“Lieutenant, Delia. What an attractive sight to wake up to.”
“Sorry to roust you,” Eve told him. “Got a minute?”
“For you, Lieutenant Sugar, I have hours.” He stepped back to let them in. “Why don’t we have breakfast? I’ve got crêpes stocked in the AutoChef.”
“Rain check,” Eve said before Peabody could even nod. “You alone or do you have a client sleeping you off?”
“All alone.” The sleepiness began to clear. “Is this official?”
“We’re on a case, and I think you may be helpful in certain aspects of it.”
“Was it anyone I knew?”
“Bankhead, Bryna. Downtown address.”
“The woman who jumped out of her window? Wasn’t that suicide?”
“Homicide,” Eve corrected. “The media will have that this morning.”
“Why don’t you sit down? I’ll make coffee.”
“Peabody, why don’t you make it?” Eve chose a seat in the well-appointed living area. Sex, when it was done right, paid well. “The questions I ask you, any portion of this investigation I may discuss with you, is confidential.”
“Understood.” He sat across from her. “I take it I’m not a suspect this time.”
“I’m considering you an expert civilian consultant.” She took out her recorder. “Officially.”
“Then I assume sex reared its ugly head.”
“Consult with Monroe, Charles, licensed companion,” Eve announced. “Initiated by Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and on her authority as primary of casefile H-78926B. Also attending, Peabody, Officer Delia. Mr. Monroe, are you willing to consult in this matter?”
He managed to keep his face nearly sober. “Whatever I can do to help as a concerned citizen.”
“What do you know about the illegal substance known on the street as Whore?”
Instantly his expression changed. “Did someone use Whore on that poor woman?”
“The question, Charles?”
“Christ.” He got to his feet, was pacing as Peabody came back with a coffee tray. “Thanks, honey.” He took a cup, drank slowly. “It was already illegal by the time I started training,” he continued. “But I heard plenty about it. I took a seminar in my early days. Sexual Deviants: Dos and Don’ts. That kind of thing? Illegals of any kind were a big don’t. You can get your license pulled. Of course, that doesn’t mean that certain . . . aids aren’t employed by some LCs or clients. But not this one.”
“Why?”
“First, since it was once used to make trainees more malleable, we’ll say, it has a very bad rep in my business. The sex-slave gambit is fine as a role-playing game, but not in reality. We’re professional sexual companions, Dallas. We’re not whores or puppets.”
“You’ve never known anyone who used it?”
“Some of the older pros. You hear stories, and most of them involve abuse of one kind or another. Experimentation. Dose the LC trainee with it, then bang away. Like we were goddamn guinea pigs,” he said in disgust.
“Still, it’s an elitist substance. Any connoisseurs you know of?”
“No, but I can check around.”
“Carefully,” Eve warned. “What about Rabbit?”
He lifted one shoulder, rather elegantly. “Only amateurs and perverts use Rabbit, on themselves or a partner. In my circle it’s considered both tacky and insulting.”
“Dangerous?”
“If you’re stupid or careless, certainly. You don’t mix it with alcohol or any other stimulant. And you don’t want to overdose. ODs are extremely rare because the shit costs more than liquid gold.”
“You know dealers who handle it? Clients who use it?”
He stared, then looked pained. “Jesus, Dallas.”
“I won’t use your name.”
He shook his head, then walked to the window, lifted the privacy shade. Light washed in.
“Charles, it’s really important.” Peabody stepped up to him, touched his arm. “We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”
“I don’t do illegals, Delia. You know that.”
“I know.”
“It’s not up to me to judge clients who do. I’m no one’s moral center.”
Eve leaned over, switched off the recorder. “Off the record, Charles. And my word no charges will be brought against your client for illegals use.”
“I’m not giving you her name.” He turned back. “I’m not violating that trust. But I will talk to her myself. I’ll get the name of her dealer. And that I’ll give you.”
“I appreciate it.” Her communicator beeped. “I’m going to take this in the kitchen.”
“Charles.” Peabody rubbed his arm when Eve left the room. “Thanks. I know we put you in a sensitive position.”
“Sensitive positions are my specialty.” He grinned. “You look tired, Delia.”
“Yeah. I’ve been hearing that.”
“Why don’t I fix you dinner one night this week? A nice, quiet evening. I’ll check my book.”
“That’d be great.”
When he leaned down to brush his lips over hers, she closed her eyes, waited for the thrill. And wanted to scream when it didn’t come. It was, she thought, like kissing her brother. If any of her brothers happened to be gorgeous as sin.
“What’s troubling you, sweetheart?”
“Bunch of stuff.” She grumbled. “Bunch of stupid stuff. I’m working it out.”
“If you want to talk about it, you know I’m here.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Eve came out of the kitchen and headed straight for the door. “Let’s move, Peabody. Get me a name, Charles, soon as you can.”
“Dallas?” With a quick, apologetic glance at Charles, Peabody ran to catch up. “What is it?”
“We’ve got another one.”
Chapter 6
He’d left her on the bed, her legs obscenely spread, her eyes gaping. Some of the pink petals stuck to her skin. Candlewax had spilled and hardened into cold pools over the holders onto the table, the little dresser, the floor, and the cheap, colorful rug.
It was a tiny efficiency apartment that the young woman named Grace Lutz had tried to make cheerful and cozy with frilled curtains and inexpensive prints in inexpensive frames.
Now it stank of death, stale sex, and scented candles.
There was a wine bottle, this time a cabernet. And this time nearly empty. The music came from a cheap audio unit beside the convertible sofa that served as a bed.
There was no mood screen, no video screen, and only a single ’link. But there were books, carefully tended and set proudly on the painted shelf along one wall. There were photographs of Grace with a man and woman Eve took t
o be her parents. There was a small glass vase filled with spring daisies that were shedding their petals on the dresser top.
The kitchen was no more than a corner with a two-burner stove, a stingy sink, and a minifridge. Inside the fridge were a carton of egg substitute, a quart of milk, and a small jar of strawberry jam.
There were no bottles of wine but the one that had killed her.
Grace hadn’t spent money on things, Eve mused. Nor on fashion if the contents of her closet were any indication. But, though she’d worked in a library, she’d spent it on books.
And on what looked to be a new dress, now carelessly heaped on the floor.
“He knew what he was doing this time. There’s no panic here. What there is, is deliberation.”
“Physically they’re very different types,” Peabody pointed out. “This girl’s white bread, sort of tiny. Nails are short and neat and unpolished. Nothing slick or flashy about her.”
“Yeah, economically they’re from different brackets. Socially, too. This one was a stay-at-home.” She looked at the dried blood on the sheets, the smears of it on the victim’s inner thighs. “The ME’s going to confirm she was a virgin.” She bent down. “She’s got bruising, thighs, hips, breasts. He was rough with this one. Check the security, Peabody, see what we’ve got to work with.”
“Yes, sir.”
Why did he hurt you? Eve wondered as she studied the body. Why did he want to?
Crouched there beside the dead, she saw herself huddled in the corner. Broken, bruised, bloody.
Because I can.
She shoved the image away as she got to her feet. Pain could be sexual, it could be a kind of seduction. But it wasn’t romantic. Yet he’d still set the stage with rose petals and candlelight, with wine and music.
Why did this stage seem to be a mockery of romance rather than a clichéd attempt at it? Too much wine had been drunk, and some of it spilled on the table and rug. The candles had been allowed to spread into messy drips and pools. The sleeve of her new dress had been torn.
There was a violence here, an underlying meanness that had been absent from the first murder. Was he losing control? Had he found the killing more exciting than the sex?
