Seduction in Death (7 page)

"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 what 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 crepes 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 SIX

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 to 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 twoburner stove, a stingy sink, and a mini-fridge. 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 cliched 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?

Peabody came back in. "Security at the front entrance only. I've got the disc from last night. No cams in corridors or elevators."

"Okay. Let's talk to the neighbor."

Notifying next of kin never got easier. It never became routine. Eve stood with Peabody on the small square stoop outside the small square duplex. There were red and white geraniums arranged in a cheerful chorus line on either side of the entrance and a frill of white curtains framing the front window.

Behind them, the neighborhood was quiet as a church with its green-leafed trees and little gardens and narrow, tidy streets.

She didn't understand the suburbs with their regimental order and boxy yards and useless fences. Nor did she understand why so many considered a house in the 'burbs as a kind of mecca they would someday reach.

In her mind, everyone would someday reach a coffin, too.

She rang the bell and heard the three chimes that echoed inside. When the door opened and she said what needed to be said, nothing would ever be the same in this house again.

The woman who answered was pretty and blonde. It was the woman from the dresser photograph. Must be the mother. Eve saw the resemblance immediately.

"Mrs. Lutz?"

"Yes." Though she smiled, it was a quick reflex action, and her eyes were both puzzled and distracted. "May I help you?"

"I'm Lieutenant Dallas." Eve offered her badge. "NYPSD. This is my aide, Officer Peabody. May we come in?"

"What's this about?" The woman lifted a hand to brush at her hair, and the first sign of nerves showed in the faint tremor.

"It's about your daughter, Mrs. Lutz. It's about Grace. May we come in?"

"Grace? She's not in any trouble, is she?" The smile tried to spread, but only fell away from her face. "My Gracie's never in trouble."

So it had to be done in the doorway, with the bright flowers a soldier's guard. "Mrs. Lutz, I'm sorry to tell you Grace is dead."

Her eyes went blank. "She is not." There was a crack of irritation in her voice. "Of course she's not. What a terrible thing to say. I want you to go away right now. I want you to go away from here."

Eve braced a hand on the door before it closed in her face. "Mrs. Lutz, Grace was killed last night. I'm the primary investigator, and I'm very sorry for your loss. You need to let us in now."

"My Grace? My baby?"

Eve said nothing now, but slid an arm around the woman's waist. The door opened into the living area with a plump blue sofa and two sturdy chairs. Eve led her to the sofa, sat beside her.

"Is there someone we can call for you, Mrs. Lutz? Your husband?"

"George. George is at school. He teaches at the high school. Grace." She looked around blindly as though her daughter might walk into the room.

"Peabody, make the call."

"You've made a mistake, haven't you?" Mrs. Lutz gripped Eve's hand with frozen fingers. "That's all. You've just made a mistake. Grace works in the city, at the library on Fifth Avenue. I'll just call her and we'll all feel much better."

"Mrs. Lutz. There's no mistake."

"There has to be. George and I went into the city only Sunday and took her to dinner. She was fine." The anger and shock were breaking down so tears flooded through them. "She was fine."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"What happened to my baby? Was there an accident?"

"There wasn't an accident. Grace was murdered."

"It's just not possible." Her head shook, as if gently tugged side-to-side with invisible strings. "It's just not possible."

Eve let her weep. She knew that first roll of grief flattened everything else.

"He's on his way," Peabody murmured.

"Good. Get her some water or something."

She sat beside the sobbing woman, scanning the living area. There were books here, displayed like treasures on shelves. There was a quiet order to everything, and the sturdiness of solid middle-class living. A framed hologram of Grace stood on a table.

"What happened to my baby?"

Eve shifted, looked into Mrs. Lutz's shattered face. "Last night Grace met a man she'd been corresponding with by e-mail and in chat rooms. We believe this man doctored her drink or drinks during the evening with a substance known to be used in date rapes."

"Oh God." Mrs. Lutz wrapped her arms around her belly and began to rock. "Oh my God."

"Evidence indicates that he returned with her to her apartment, continued to give her illegals until she overdosed."

"She would never take illegals."

"We don't believe she was aware, Mrs. Lutz."

"He gave them to her because he wanted to..." She pressed her lips together in a tight white line. Then breathed out, one long ragged sound. "He raped her."

"We suspect that's true. I..." How far did you go? Eve wondered. How much could you help? "Mrs. Lutz, if it's any comfort to you, Grace wouldn't have been afraid. She wouldn't have been in pain."

"Why would anyone hurt her? What kind of person does that to an innocent young girl?"

"I can't tell you, but I can tell you I'll find him. I need you to help me."

Mrs. Lutz laid her head back. "What can I do if she's gone?"

"Did she have any boyfriends?"

"Robbie. Robbie Dwyer. They dated in high school, and a bit in the first few semesters of college. He's a nice boy. His mother and I belong to the same book club." Her voice wavered. "I suppose we'd hoped more would come of it, but it was more friendship than romance. Grace wanted to move to the city, and Robbie got a job teaching here. They drifted apart."

"How long ago did they drift?"

"If you're thinking Robbie would do this, anything like this, you're wrong. I've known him since he was a baby. Anyway, he's seeing a very nice girl now."

"Did she ever talk about anyone she was interested in, or who was interested in her? In the city?"

"No, not really. She worked very hard, and she was studying as well. She's shy. My Gracie's shy. It's hard for her to meet new people. That's why I encouraged her to move to..." She broke down again. "George wanted her to stay here, to teach and stay in the nest. I pushed her out, just little nudges, because I wanted her to fly. Now I've lost her. Will you take me to her? When George gets here, will you take us to our baby?"

"Yes. I'll take you to her."

Commander Whitney was on the 'link when he motioned Eve into his office. He didn't gesture to a chair, nor did she make any move to sit. His wide face was creased with lines, a map that showed the routes of stress, battles, and authority. His suit was a rich coffee color, nearly the same tone as his skin. In it he looked both beefy and tough. A combination, Eve had always thought, that made him appear as natural behind a desk as he did in the field.

A fluted bowl sat on the right corner of his desk. It was filled with cerulean water with smooth, colored stones shimmering in the base. While she puzzled over it, she caught the quick flash of scarlet.

"My wife," Whitney said when he ended the call. "She thinks it cheers up the office. Supposed to relax me. What the hell am I supposed to do with a damn fish?"

"I couldn't say, sir."

For a moment both of them studied the red streak that circled the bowl. Knowing the commander's wife was keen on fashion and decor, Eve searched for a polite comment.

"It's fast."

"Crazy thing spins around like that most of the day. I get tired just looking at it."

"At that rate it'll probably wear itself out and die within a couple weeks."

"Your mouth to God's ear. Where's your aide, Lieutenant?"

"I've got her running cross-checks on the two victims. We've found no evidence to support a relationship between them. They both liked books, poetry in particular. Both spent time in cyber-rooms. At this point we can't place them in the same chat or club at the same time."

He sat back. "What have you got?"

"The across-the-hall neighbor of Lutz's, Angela Nicko, found the body this morning. They had a regular morning coffee date, and when Lutz didn't show, didn't answer her door, Ms. Nicko was concerned enough to open the door with her spare key. Nicko is a retired librarian, well into her nineties."

And had cried, Eve thought wearily, cried silent tears while she'd given her statement.

"At this point she appears to be the only resident of the apartment building the victim had regular contact with. Lutz is described as a quiet, polite young woman who rarely varied her routine. She went to work, she came home. Twice a week she stopped in the neighborhood market for supplies. Other than Nicko, she had no close friends, no lovers. She was doing a part-time, in-home course to get her degree in library science."

"The security cams?"

"One, at entrance. As trace evidence at the first scene confirmed, the suspect wears a disguise, we're assuming he was doing so again. I'm waiting for lab reports. His appearance was markedly different in the second murder. Short, straight blonde hair, lantern-jaw, wide brow, dark brown eyes, pale gold complexion."

Eve stared at the fish. It was making her dizzy, but she couldn't look away. "There was a different attitude, as well. A deliberation, and a pleasure in the violence that wasn't apparent in the first killing. We're working to trace the first wig, the enhancements. We're also pursuing the cyber-angle, and continue to look for another connection between the victims. I've requested a consult with Dr. Mira, and am copying her all files and reports to date."

"The media hasn't yet sniffed out the connection, but we won't keep it that way for long."

"In this case, sir, the media might be an advantage. If women are made aware of the potential dangers, the suspect's pool gets shallow. I'd like to leak some of the data to Nadine Furst at Channel Seventy-five."

He pursed his lips. "Make sure the leak doesn't become a flood before we're ready for it."

"Yes, sir. I have some more sources on the illegals angle, and I've asked Feeney to use his contacts within the department in that area. Neither drug is common. When I find the supplier, I may need room to deal."

"We'll work that out when you find the supplier. But I can tell you there won't be much room. Politically, these illegals are a hot button. We go soft on a supplier, we'll have feminist's organizations, social balance, and moral watchdog groups taking numbers to kick us in the teeth."

"And if dealing with the supplier saves lives?"

"For a lot of these people, that won't matter. They deal in principles, not individuals. Work the angles, Lieutenant, do the checklist and get this bastard before we have more dead. And a public relations nightmare."

Eve didn't give a rat's skinny ass about public relations. Since this wasn't a well-kept secret, it was no surprise that Nadine expressed some suspicion at being offered inside data.

"What kind of happy bullshit is this, Dallas?"

Eve had waited, deliberately, until she was home rather than at Central to contact Nadine. It seemed to her that made the exchange friendly rather than official.

"I'm doing you a favor."