The In Death Collection 06-10 (46 page)

“Hands off, pal.”

“I never got to kiss the bride.” He winked at her, a sleepy-eyed, handsome man with an elegant face. “So how do you like being married to the richest man in the universe?”

“He keeps me in coffee.”

Charles cocked his head, studied her. “You’re in love with him, all the way. Well, good for you. I see the two of you on screen now and then. At some glitzy do. I wondered how it was with you. Now I see, and I have to assume you’re not here to take me up on that offer I made some months back.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, come on in.” He stepped back, gesturing. He wore a black unisuit that showed off a very well-disciplined body.
“Want a drink? I doubt my blend of coffee compares to what Roarke can supply. How about a tube of Pepsi?”

“Yeah, fine.”

She remembered his kitchen. Neat, spartan, clean lined. A great deal like its tenant. She took a seat while he took two tubes out of the cold box and poured each into a tall clear glass. He rolled the tubes, slipped them into the recycle slot, then sat down across from her.

“I’d drink to old times, Dallas, but . . . they sucked.”

“Yeah. Well, I’ve got some new times for you, Charles. They suck, too. Why is a successful LC using a dating service? Before you answer,” she continued, lifting her glass, “I’ll inform you that using such services for professional solicitations is illegal.”

He blushed. She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but his strong, handsome face colored painfully and his gaze dropped to his glass. “Jesus, do you know everything?”

“If I knew everything, I’d know the answer. Why don’t you give it to me?”

“It’s private,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t be here if it was. Why have you gone to Personally Yours for consults?”

“Because I want a woman in my life,” he snapped. His head came up, and now his eyes were dark and angry. “A real woman, not one who buys me, all right? I want a goddamn relationship, what’s wrong with that? In my line of work, they don’t happen. You do what you’re paid to do, and you do it well. I like my job, but I want a personal life. There’s nothing illegal about wanting a personal life.”

“No,” she said slowly, “there’s not.”

“So I lied about what I do on the form.” He moved his shoulders restlessly. “I didn’t want to match up with the kind of woman who’d get some purient thrill out of dating an LC. You going to arrest me for lying on a fucking dating video?”

“No.” And she was sorry, sincerely, to have embarrassed
him. “You matched up with a woman. Marianna Hawley. Do you remember her?”

“Marianna.” He struggled to regain his composure, drank deeply of the iced drink. “I remember her video. Pretty woman, sweet. I contacted her, but she’d already met someone.” Now he smiled, shrugged again. “Just my luck. She was exactly the type I was looking for.”

“You never met her?”

“No. I went out with the other four from my first match list. Hit it off with one of them. We saw each other off and on for a few weeks.” He blew out a breath. “I decided if it was going to go anywhere, I had to tell her what I really did. And that,” he finished, toasting Eve with his glass, “was the end of that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, there are more where she came from.” But his cocky smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Too bad Roarke took you out of the running.”

“Charles, Marianna is dead.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you caught the news lately?”

“No. I haven’t been watching any screen. Dead?” Then his eyes sharpened, focused in on Eve. “Murdered. You wouldn’t be here if she’d died quietly in her sleep. She was murdered. Am I a suspect?”

“Yeah, you are,” she said because she liked him enough to be straight with him. “I’m going to want to do a formal interview, just to keep it all official. But tell me now, can you clear yourself for last Tuesday night, for Wednesday, and for last night?”

He stared at her for a long time, just stared with eyes dull with horror. “How do you do what you do?” he demanded. “Day in and day out?”

She met those eyes levelly. “I could ask you the same thing, Charles. So let’s not get into career choices. Can you alibi?”

He broke the stare, pushed away from the table. “I’ll get my book.”

She let him go, knowing she could trust her gut on this one. He wasn’t a man who had murder inside him.

He came back carrying a small, elegant date book. Opening it, he plugged in the dates she’d asked for. “Tuesday, I had an overnight. Regular client. It can be verified. Last night I had a theater, late supper, and seduction here. The client left at two-thirty
A
.
M
. Got thirty minutes overtime out of it. And a handsome tip. Wednesday I was home, alone.”

He slid the book across the table to her. “Take the names, check it out.”

She said nothing, merely copied the names and addresses into her own book. “Sarabeth Greenbalm, Donnie Ray Michael,” she said at length. “Either ring for you?”

“No.”

She looked at him then, steadily. “I’ve never seen you use enhancements. Why did you purchase lip dye and eye smudger from the Natural Perfection line at All Things Beautiful?”

“Lip dye?” He looked blank for a moment, then shook his head. “Oh, I picked them up for the woman I was seeing. She asked me to get her a couple of things since I was going into the salon for the styling that came with my package.”

Obviously confused, he smiled a little. “And why, Lieutenant Sugar, should you care if I buy lip dye?”

“Just another detail, Charles. You did me a favor once, so I’m doing you one. Three people who used the services of Personally Yours are dead, killed in the same manner and by the same hand.”

“Three? God.”

“In less than a week. I’m not going to give you many details, and what I do give can’t be passed on to anyone. It’s my opinion that he’s using the data from Personally Yours to select his victims.”

“He’s killed three women in less than a week.”

“No.” Eve leveled her gaze. “The last victim was a man.
You’re going to want to watch your step, Charles.”

When he understood, the edge of resentment faded. “You think I could be a target?”

“I think anyone in the Personally Yours data bank could be a target. At this point I’m concentrating on the victims’ match list. I’m telling you not to let anyone in your apartment you don’t know. Anyone.” She drew another breath. “He dresses up like Santa Claus and carries a large gift-wrapped box.”

“What?” He set down the glass he’d just lifted. “Is this a joke?”

“Three people are dead. It’s not very funny. He gets them to let him inside, he drugs them, restrains them, and he kills them.”

“Jesus.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “This is bizarre.”

“If this guy comes to your door, keep it secured and call me. Stall him if you can, let him go if you can’t. Don’t, under any circumstances, open your door. He’s smart, and he’s deadly.”

“I won’t be opening the door. The woman I was seeing—from the service—I need to tell her.”

“I’ve got your match list. I’ll tell her. I need to keep this out of the media as long as I can.”

“I’d rather the press didn’t get ahold of the story of the lonely-hearts LC, thanks very much.” He grimaced. “Can you get to her right away, to Darla McMullen? She lives alone, and she’s . . . naive. If Santa came knocking, she’d open the door and offer him milk and cookies.”

“She sounds like a nice woman.”

“Yeah.” Now his eyes were bleak. “She is.”

“I’ll go see her.” Eve rose. “Maybe you ought to call her again.”

“No good.” He rose and worked up a smile. “But you be sure to let me know if you decide to ditch Roarke, Lieutenant Sugar. My offer’s open-ended.”

•  •  •

The heart, Eve thought as she drove, was a strange and often overworked muscle. It was hard to connect the sophisticated, smooth-talking LC with the quiet, intellectual woman she’d just left. But, unless her instincts were way off, Darla McMullen and Charles Monroe were halfway in love.

They just didn’t know what to do about it.

On that score, they had her full sympathy. Half the time, she didn’t know what to do about the impossible feelings she had for her own husband.

She made three more stops on the way back to her home office, doing interviews with people on the match lists, giving them the basic and specific warning and instructions she had written up and had approved by the commander.

If Donnie Ray had been warned, she thought, he might still be alive.

Who was next in line? Someone she’d spoken with, or someone she’d missed? Driven by that, she accelerated and blew through the gates toward home. She wanted Peabody and McNab to sign up with Personally Yours and get their profiles in before the end of the business day.

She saw Feeney’s vehicle parked in front of the house. The sight made her hope her campaign to add him to the investigative team had been successful. With Feeney and McNab doing the e-work, she’d be freed up for the streets.

She headed straight up to her home office, wincing when she heard the blast of music—if it could be called music—searing the air of the hallways.

Mavis had one of her video clips on screen. She sang along with herself, screaming out lyrics that seemed to have something to do with ripping out her soul for love. Feeney sat behind Eve’s desk, looking bemused and slightly desperate. Roarke stood behind a chair, looking completely comfortable and politely attentive.

Knowing her chances of being heard over the din were nil, Eve waited until the last notes clashed out and Mavis, flushed
with effort and pleasure, giggled and took her bows.

“I wanted you to see the rough cut right away,” she said to Roarke.

“It looks like a winner.”

“Really?” Obviously delighted, Mavis rushed him, threw her arms around his neck, and squeezed. “I just can’t believe it’s really happening. Me, cutting a disc for the top recording company on the planet.”

“You’re going to make me lots of money.” He kissed her forehead.

“I want it to work. I really want it to work.” When she spotted Eve, Mavis grinned. “Hey! Did you catch any of the cut?”

“The tail end. It was great.” And because it was Mavis, she meant it. “Feeney, are you on?”

“Officially assigned.” He leaned back in her chair. “McNab’s doing his prelim consult at Personally Yours. We profiled him as a computer droid for one of Roarke’s companies. His data’s been inputted, and his new ID is in place.”

“Roarke’s company?”

“Seemed logical.” Feeney grinned at her. “You got weight, you use it. Appreciate your help, boy-o.”

“Anytime,” Roarke told him, then smiled at his wife. “We cut a few corners as you’re in a bit of a hurry. Peabody’s profiled as a security guard at one of my buildings. Feeney thought it would be simplest to keep the profiles somewhat in line with truth.”

“Oh yeah, let’s keep it simple.” But blowing out a breath, she nodded. “Good enough. You own half the damn city anyway, and nobody’s going to question it, or find any holes in your personnel files if you had your hand in it.”

“Exactly.”

“Where’s Peabody?”

“Trina’s just finishing her.”

“I need her now. She’s got to get over here and put in her app, get the consult going. She looked okay, for God’s sake.
How long does it take to primp her up and put some street clothes on her?”

“Trina had some mag ideas,” Mavis assured her with such enthusiasm Eve’s blood chilled. “Wait till you see. Oh yeah, Trina wants you to plug in a session before your party. She wants to glam you some for it, since it’s the holidays.”

Eve merely grunted. She had no intention of being glammed—now or ever.

“Sure, right. Where the hell . . .” Her voice trailed off as she heard them coming. She turned toward the doorway and blinked. Gaped.

“I have to say,” Trina announced, “I’m good.”

Peabody snorted, flushed, then smiled hesitantly. “Okay, so do you think I’ll pass the audition?”

Her bowl-cut hair had been sheened and fluffed into a dark halo. Her face glowed with deep color smudged around her eyes to accent their shape and size, and her lips were dyed a soft coral pink.

Her body, which appeared so sturdy in a uniform, took on lusher, more feminine curves in a sweeping ankle duster of deep pine green. A tangle of chains in jewel hues were draped around her neck. Peeking out between the layers was a small, wistful tattoo of a gold-winged fairy.

Peabody had selected the tattoo herself after Trina had caught her up in the spirit of things. She hadn’t flinched when the quick, capable hands had cupped her left breast to apply the temp. By that time she’d begun to enjoy the sensation of being remade.

But now, as Eve stared at her, Peabody began to shift her feet—they were clad in toothpick heels that matched the wings of her mystical tattoo. “It doesn’t work?”

“You sure as hell don’t look like a cop,” Eve decided.

“You look beautiful.” Amused by his wife’s reaction, Roarke stepped forward and took both of Peabody’s hands. “Absolutely delicious.” So saying, he kissed her fingers and had Peabody’s susceptible heart stuttering.