by J. D. Robb
“Testing with elements found in the controlled substances known as Whore and Wild Rabbit.”
“Those, others, combinations. They did, in fact, develop the drug trademarked as Matigol, which has helped extend sexual performance ability in men well past the century mark, and the fertility drug Compax, which allows women to safely conceive and give birth into their fifties should they desire it.”
She nibbled on the danish. “Both these drugs have a very high success rate, but are extremely expensive and therefore largely inaccessible to your average consumer. But for those who can afford it, they’re a miracle.”
“Do you have the names of the players?”
“I’m not finished.” She turned her head, shot out a sunny smile as Roarke walked in. “Good morning.”
“Louise.” He went to her, lifted her hand to his lips. “You look lovely, as always.”
“Yeah, yeah, blah blah. What?” Eve demanded. “What else?”
“Your wife is rude and impatient.”
“That’s why I love her. By the way, Lieutenant, Charles Monroe is on his way upstairs.”
“What is this? A convention?” But as she spoke she aimed one hard, warning look at McNab. His eyes glittered back at her, and he managed to hold the look for a good five seconds before he dropped his gaze, sulkily. “You, get me some data on J. Forrester and Allegany Pharmaceuticals.”
She clenched her jaw, which sent it throbbing as she caught the interest flicker over Roarke’s face. “Damn it.”
“I bought out Allegany, eight, no, I believe it was ten months ago. What’s the connection?”
“I don’t know precisely, because the doc here’s being coy.”
“I’m never coy,” Louise corrected, then her eyes blurred almost as they had when she’d taken her first sip of coffee. “Oh, well,” she said as Charles walked in. “My, my.”
“I guess you want coffee, too,” Eve said.
He nodded. “I wouldn’t say no.”
“I’ll get it.” Flustered, flushing, floundering, Peabody escaped into the kitchen.
“Roarke. McNab.” With the second greeting, Charles’s practiced smile dimmed slightly. Then it polished right up again when he aimed it at Louise. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Louise. Louise Dimatto.” She offered a hand.
“Don’t tell me you’re a cop.”
“Doctor. You?”
If he heard McNab’s muttered opinion, Charles ignored it. “Professional companion.”
“How interesting.”
“Can we save the social hour for later? We’ll have a damn party. Everybody’s invited,” Eve snapped. “I’ll get to you,” she said to Charles. “Finish it out, Louise.”
“Where was I? Oh yes. Despite the success in development, the project and the partnership were dissolved some twenty years ago. Lack of funds, lack of interest, and a number of unfortunate side effects from other experimental drugs during that period. It was decided that further research using forms of those particular chemicals was both cost-prohibitive and potentially financially risky due to threats of legal action. The decision was largely influenced by Dr. Theodore McNamara, who, in essence, headed the project and is credited for the discovery of both Compax and Matigol. There were unsubstantiated rumors of abuse and pilfering during the project. Talk of experimentation not only in the lab, but out of it. Gossip is that some of the suits filed were internal, female staff who claimed to have been given drugs without their knowledge or consent and were sexually molested, perhaps impregnated, while under the influence. If it’s true,” Louise concluded, “nobody in the know is naming names.”
“Good work. I’ll follow it up. If you’ve got a meeting—”
“I’ve got a little time. I’ll just finish my coffee, if it’s all the same to you. In fact, I’ll just help myself to another half cup.”
She breezed into the kitchen.
“Okay, Charles. You’re up.”
He nodded at Eve, grinned intimately at Peabody when she brought him his coffee. “My client believes I wanted this information for another client. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I protect my sources, Charles.”
“And I believe in protecting my clients,” he returned. “I need your word that no action will be taken against her if what I tell you ends up exposing her.”
“She doesn’t interest me. And if all she’s doing is making herself horny, I’ll make sure she doesn’t interest Illegals. Fair enough?”
“Sex isn’t easy for everyone, Dallas.”
“If people didn’t want to get off,” McNab shot out, “you’d be out of work.”
Charles smirked at McNab. “True enough. If people didn’t want to steal, cheat, maim, and kill, so would you be, Detective. Aren’t we all lucky human nature keeps us in business?”
Eve stepped between the chair where Charles sat and the desk where McNab worked, effectively blocking their view of each other. “Give me the dealer, Charles. Nobody wants to bust your client.”
“Carlo. They don’t use last names. She met him in a chat room, one on sexual experimentation.”
Eve eased onto the corner of the desk. “Is that so?”
“About a year ago. She said he’s changed her life.”
“How do the buys work?”
“Initially, she’d e-mail him, place an order. She’d pay with an electronic transfer of funds into his account, then pick up the delivery at a mail drop at Grand Central.”
“No personal contact?”
“None. Now she’s on what she calls a subscription service and receives a regular monthly supply. The payment, with the subscription discount, is automatically transferred from her account to his. Five thousand a month for a quarter ounce.”
“I need to talk to her.”
“Dallas—”
“And here’s why. I need his account data, and anything else she can tell me. She does regular business with him, so she’d have a feel. More than that, she needs to be put on guard. She could be a target.”
“She’s not.” He rose as Eve came off the desk. “Those are your victims?” He gestured to the board. “What are they, twenty, twenty-five? This woman is over fifty. She’s attractive, she takes care of herself, but she doesn’t have that bloom. Media reports said they were single, lived alone. She’s married. Her association with me is a perk. Like a day at the salon. She lives with her husband and her teenage son. And being questioned by you on this will embarrass and humiliate her, and her family.”
“It may also damage her sexual ego,” Louise put in. She stood across the room, sipping her second cup of coffee. “The use of the drug and a professional companion have most likely shorn some dysfunction in this area. Exposing her need for them to an authority who could deny and punish her for the first, and smirk at her for the second, isn’t advisable from a medical or psychological standpoint.”
“Protecting her from that exposure runs the risk of slapping another dead woman on that board.”
“Let me talk to her again,” Charles asked. “I’ll get the information you need. Better, I’ll open an account with him, at my own expense. He’s only got to do a standard background to verify my license. An LC’s a reasonable client for sexual illegals.”
“Get me the data by three o’clock,” Eve decided. “Don’t do anything else. I don’t want him to have your name.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Lieutenant Sugar.”
“Just the data, Charles. Now go away.”
“I need to get along myself. Thanks for the coffee.” Louise set the cup down, glanced at Charles. “Want to share a cab?”
“Perfect.” He trailed a fingertip over the flower in Peabody’s buttonhole as he turned for the door. “I’ll see you later, Delia.”
“Keep it zipped, McNab,” Eve warned. “Peabody, Roarke is generating some data. You’ll assist in his office.” Which should, she hoped, keep the peace for a while. She glanced at her wrist unit, thought of Mira. “
I’ve got a meeting.”
Chapter 9
She set up in the library because it was quiet and in another section of the house. Mostly, unless it related to a case, she liked to remain as oblivious as possible to emotional vibrations. But there’d been so many of them winging around in her office, she’d been tempted to duck and cover.
Here, the air was smooth and placid. She settled down at one of the desks, input the fresh data into the file.
“Computer, factoring new data, run probability scan on subject Carlo as alias for suspect.”
WORKING . . . PROBABILITY SUBJECT CARLO AS ALIAS FOR SUSPECT IS NINETY-SIX-POINT-TWO PERCENT.
“Yeah, that’s what I think. Second run. Probability subject Carlo manufactures illegals he subsequently sells.”
WORKING . . . INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR SCAN. REQUEST FURTHER INPUT TO COMPLETE.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” She pushed away from the desk to pace on the faded roses on the antique rug. “He makes it, he bottles it, he sells it, he uses it. Control. It’s all about control. Sixty thousand a year from one client for what, three ounces of that shit? Troll the ’net, hook a couple dozen rich marks, and you’re rolling. But it’s not about the money.”
She stalked to one of the rows of tall, arched windows, flipped the drape, and stared out over the vast blooming estate. Even for Roarke, who’d been desperately poor, achingly hungry, it wasn’t about the money so much as it was about the game of compiling it, having it, using it to make more of it.
And wielding the power of it.
But this was about neither greed nor need.
“Twenty k an ounce, and you slip a quarter of that into the first victim, after she’s alone with you, helpless and naked in her apartment. After you’ve already poured more than two ounces of Whore into her. Computer, street value, illegal Whore.”
WORKING . . . HORMONIBITAL-SIX, COMMONLY KNOWN AS WHORE, STREET VALUE SIXTY-FiVE-THOUSAND USD PER FLUID OUNCE. KNOWN STREET USE OF THIS SUBSTANCE IS NEGLIGIBLE. DERIVATIVE, EXOTICA, IS COMMON. STREET VALUE EXOTICA, FIFTY USD PER FLUID OUNCE. DO YOU REQUIRE LISTING OF OTHER COMMON DERIVATIVES?
“Negative. Derivatives aren’t good enough for this guy. No clones, no substitutes, no weak sisters. Date cost him about a hundred and fifty thousand. You could buy ten of the best LCs in New York for that and have a hell of a party. But it’s not about money, and it’s not about sex. They’re only factors in the game.”
“I wonder why you think you need me,” Mira said from the doorway.
Eve turned. “Thinking out loud.”
“So I heard.”
“I appreciate you coming out here,” Eve began. “I know you’re busy.”
“And so are you. I always love coming into this room.” Mira glanced around at the walls of books that dominated the two-level room. “Civilized luxury,” she commented. “You’ve hurt your face.”
“Oh.” Eve rubbed her knuckles along her jaw. “It’s nothing.”
Mira’s face was, Eve always thought, perfect. Serene and lovely, framed by a smooth sweep of sable hair. She wore one of her quiet and elegant suits that looked like it had been formed out of cool, fresh limes. The long gold chain around her neck was as thick as Eve’s pinky and enhanced with a single cream-colored pearl.
She smelled of apricots and her skin was baby smooth as she brushed her lips lightly over Eve’s jaw.
“Habit,” she said, and her blue eyes smiled easily at the line that formed between Eve’s. “Kissing hurts to make them better. Shall we sit?”
“Yeah. Sure.” She never quite knew how to handle Mira’s maternal attitude toward her. Mothers were a mystery with too many of the pieces missing to attempt to form a picture. “You’ll want tea.”
“I’d love some.”
Because she knew Mira’s habits, she programmed for a cup of the fragrant herbal brew Mira favored. And because she was in her own space, Eve programmed the second cup for coffee.
“How are you, Eve?”
“I’m okay.”
“Still not getting enough sleep,” Mira commented when Eve brought her tea.
“I get by.”
“On caffeine and nerves. How is Roarke?”
“He’s—” She started to pass it off. But this was Mira. “What happened with Mick Connelly’s still weighing on him some. He’s dealing with it, but it’s, I don’t know. . . . It’s knocked him off stride some.”
“Grief levels us. We go on, we do what’s necessary, but there’s a shadow on the heart. Knowing you’re there for him lightens the shadow.”
“He’s horned in on the investigation, and I haven’t given him as hard a time about it as I probably would have otherwise.”
“You’re a good team, in a number of areas.” Mira sampled the tea, approved it. “I imagine he has some concerns about you standing as primary in this type of investigation.”
“Sexual homicides. I’ve done them before, I’ll do them again. I know how to handle it.”
“I agree. And from your reports, from the thinking aloud I overheard, you’ve already formed your own profile.” Mira slipped a disc out of her bag. “And now you have mine.”
Eve turned the disc in her hand. “One profile?”
Mira sat back, watching Eve as she sipped her tea. “Two. There are two, whether individuals or personalities I can’t tell you with absolute certainty. While multiple personality syndrome is rare, except in fiction, it does exist.”
“I don’t think this is MPS. I read up on it last night,” she explained when Mira looked surprised. “The same basic method, the same basic motivation, the same staging. But two different styles, two different target types. He used a condom or spermicide, sealed his hands with the second victim, but left DNA and latents with the first. If it was MPS there’d be more distinction. One personality to hunt, another to kill. One to hunt and kill, the other to function normally. This is two guys, two, working together and taking turns at bat.”
“I’m inclined to agree, but I can’t rule out MPS.” She crossed her legs, settling in comfortably to the talk of murder and madness. “The first murder appears to be accidental, or consciously unplanned. There is the possibility that the thrill and fear of the first triggered the more deliberate and more violent tone of the second. ‘Turns at bat’ is an accurate analogy. He, or they, are game players. There’s a need here to dominate women, to debase them, but to do so with what is perceived as style and charm. Romance and seduction. The sexual act is wholly selfish, but would be rationalized as mutually satisfying as with the drug the victims would be eager and aggressive.”
“More punch because as it happens she’s looking at him as a sexual creature, a desire. Because, at the core of it, he’s the focus.”
“Precisely,” Mira agreed. “It’s not rape in the traditional sense, which uses force, violence, or intimidation. He doesn’t look for fear, but for surrender. He’s smart, patient. He spends time getting to know them—their fantasies, their hopes, their weaknesses. Then plays on them and fashions himself into those fantasies. Pink roses. Not red for passion, not white for purity. Pink for romance.”
“We’re dealing with two very specific, very technical skills. Computer technology and chemistry. I have new data and have run a probability on it. It’s very likely that a third alias is in use, for the purpose of selling sexual illegals. High-end illegals. One of these guys knows his drugs. How to get them, more, in my opinion, how to create them. Maybe he risks selling them because it’s how he makes his living. But I think it’s more. I think he feeds on risk.”
“Agreed.” Mira inclined her head. “He likes to take chances. Calculated ones.”
“The computer technology is ace. When Roarke’s impressed, you can be damn sure the skill’s earned it. Is MPS going to give one guy two highly developed skills in different areas?”
“Again, not impossible.” Noting the impatience that crossed Eve’s face, Mira gestured. “You want a yes or no, and I can’t oblige you. I could give you case st
udies, Eve, but they wouldn’t hold up against your instincts. We’ll say two, for the sake of argument. Two individuals. One is fanciful, lives in his head a great deal. His female ideal is sharp and sexy and sophisticated. He wants to enthrall her as much as he wants to dominate and conquer her. He’s a man who can and does become caught up in the moment.”
“He sent roses to Bankhead at work,” Eve pointed out. “Grace Lutz received no roses.”
“The second is more calculating, more deliberate, and potentially more violent. He doesn’t delude himself to the same extent as the first that this is romance. He knows it’s rape. Accepts that. He wants youth and innocence because he wants to possess then destroy them.”
“The second would be the dominant partner.”
“Yes, almost certainly. But they do have a symbiotic relationship. They need each other, not only for the details and the skills, but for the reinforcement of ego. Male to male approval, as when Arena Ball players slap each other on the ass, or catch each other in headlocks after a score.”
“Teamwork. I pass, you kick, and we make the goal.”
“Yes. This is a great game to them.” Mira set her tea aside, toyed absently with the pearl on the end of her chain. “And they need the competition. They are defective and brilliant minds with young, spoiled boys’ egos. Manipulators who didn’t learn to be that way overnight. They come from money and privilege, are used to demanding or taking what they want as they want it, and with impunity. They deserve it.”
“They’d have played games before,” Eve put in. “Nothing to this level. They’ve worked up to this.”
“Oh yes. One mind or two, they’ve known each other a very long time and shared a great deal. There’s a lack of maturity that leads me to believe they may very well be in the same age bracket as their victims. Early twenties. Mid-twenties at best. They don’t simply enjoy the finer things. They must have them.”
“Outward appearances,” Eve added. “The snazzy clothes, the status of the wine labels, the exclusive venues for the dates.”
