Ceremony in Death

by J. D. Robb

  Now her teeth went on edge. “Offer Mavis the recording contract.”

  He folded his hands, cocked his head. “You’re not planning on giving up law enforcement to be a theatrical agent, are you?”

  “No, of course not. I—”

  “Well then, it has nothing to do with you.”

  “You’re not going to sit there and tell me you like Mavis’s music.”

  “Music is a term I’m not sure applies to Mavis’s talents.”

  “There.” She jabbed a finger into his chest.

  “That talent, however, is—I believe—commercial. Eclectic’s purpose is to produce and distribute commercial recording artists.”

  She sat back, tapped her finger on her knee. “So it’s a business thing. Straight business.”

  “Naturally. I take business very seriously.”

  “You could be snowing me,” she said after a moment. “You’re good enough.”

  “Yes, I am.” Pleased that he was one of the very few who could snow her, he smiled at her. “Either way, the deal’s done. Is that all?”

  “No.” She hissed out a breath, then leaned forward and kissed him. “Thanks, either way.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Next, I have to hit The Athame tonight, check a guy out.” She saw the flicker in his eyes, the tensing of his jaw. “I’d like you to go with me.” She had to bite her tongue to keep from snickering when he narrowed those eyes at her.

  “Just like that? It’s police business, but you’re not going to make an issue out of it?”

  “No, first because I think you might be helpful, and second because it saves time. We’d argue about it, and you’d just go, anyway. This way, I ask you to come and you go, understanding I’m in charge.”

  “Clever of you.” He took her hand and drew her to her feet. “Agreed. But after dinner. I missed lunch.”

  “One more thing. Why did you have a Celtic symbol of protection carved into my wedding ring?”

  He felt the jolt of surprise, covered it smoothly. “Excuse me?”

  “No, you weren’t quick enough that time.” It pleased her that she’d spotted that minute and masterfully covered awareness. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. One of our friendly neighborhood witches tagged it today.”

  “I see.” Caught, he realized, and he stalled by lifting her hand to examine the ring. “It’s an appealing design.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Roarke. I’m a professional.” She stepped in until their eyes were level again. “You buy into it, don’t you? You actually buy all this hocus-pocus.”

  “It’s not a matter of that.” He fumbled and knew it when she furrowed her brow.

  “You’re embarrassed.” Her brow cleared in surprise and amusement. “You’re never embarrassed. By anything. This is weird. And kind of sweet.”

  “I’m not embarrassed.” Mortified, he decided, but not embarrassed. “I’m simply…not entirely comfortable explaining myself. I love you,” he said and stilled her muffled chuckle. “You risk your life, a life that’s essential to me, just by being who you are. This…” He brushed his thumb over her wedding band. “Is a small and very personal shield.”

  “That’s lovely, Roarke. Really. But you don’t really believe all that magic nonsense.”

  His gaze lifted, and as twilight turned to night, his eyes glinted in the dark. Like a wolf’s, she thought.

  And it was a wolf, she remembered, she was to trust.

  “Your world is relatively small, Eve. You couldn’t call it sheltered, but it’s limited. You haven’t seen a giant’s dance, or felt the power of the ancient stones. You haven’t run your hand over the Ogham carving in the trunk of a tree petrified by time or heard the sounds that whisper through the mist that coats sacred ground.”

  Baffled, she shook her head. “It’s, what, an Irish thing?”

  “If you like, though it’s certainly not limited to a single race or culture. You are grounded.” He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders. “Almost brutal in your focus and your honesty. And I’ve lived, let’s say, a flexible life. I need you, and I’ll use whatever comes to hand to keep you safe.” He lifted the ring to his lips. “Let’s just call it covering the bases.”

  “Okay.” This was a new aspect of him it would take time to explore. “But you don’t have, like, a secret room where you dance around naked and chant?”

  He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “I did, but I turned it into a den. More versatile.”

  “Good thinking. Okay, let’s eat.”

  “Thank God.” He took her hand and tugged her toward the house.

  chapter seven

  The Athame slicked a high-gloss sheen over depravity, like the baby-kissing smile on a corrupt politician. One scan convinced Eve she’d have preferred to spend an evening in a low-level dive, smelling stale liquor and staler sweat.

  Dives didn’t bother with disguises.

  Revolving balconies of smoky glass and chrome trim ringed the main level in two tiers so that those who preferred a loftier view could circle slowly and check out the action. The central bar speared out in five points, and each was crowded with patrons perched on high stools fashioned to resemble optimistically exaggerated body parts.

  A couple of women decked out in micro skirts sat spread-legged on a pair of bulging, flesh-toned cocks and laughed uproariously. A skinheaded bar surfer checked them out by prying his hand down their snug blouses.

  All the walls were mirrored, and they pulsed with cloudy red lights. Some of the tables flanking the dance floor were tubed for privacy, some were smoked so that silhouettes of couples in various states of fornication wavered against the glass to entertain the crowd, and all were coated with a shiny black lacquer that made them resemble small, dark pools.

  On a raised platform, the band pumped out harsh and clever rock. Eve wondered what Mavis would think of their wildly painted faces, tattooed chests, and black leather codpieces studded with silver spikes. She decided her friend would probably have dubbed them mag.

  “Do we sit?” Roarke murmured in her ear, “or case the joint?”

  “We go up,” she decided. “For the overview. What’s that smell?”

  He stepped onto the auto-stairs with her. “Cannabis, incense. Sweat.”

  She shook her head. There was something under that mix, something metallic. “Blood. Fresh blood.”

  He’d caught it as well. That broody underlayer. “In a place like this, they put it in the air vents for mood enhancement.”

  “Charming.”

  They stepped off onto the second level. Here, rather than tables and chairs, there were floor pillows and thick rugs where patrons could lounge as they sipped their brew of choice. Those on the prowl leaned on the ornate chrome rail, scoping, Eve imagined, for a likely partner to lure into one of the privacy rooms.

  There were a dozen such rooms on this level, all with heavy black doors bearing chrome plaques with such names as Perdition, Leviathan, and—more direct, in Eve’s opinion—Hell and Damnation.

  She could too easily imagine the personality type who would find such invitations seductive.

  As she watched, a man whose eyes were glazed with liquor began to slurp his way up his companion’s legs. His hand snuck under her crotch-skimming skirt as she giggled. Technically, she could have busted them both for engaging in a sexual act in public.

  “What would be the point?” Roarke commented, reading her perfectly. His voice was mild. Anyone taking a casual glance would have seen a man faintly bored with the ambiance. But he was braced to attack or defend, whichever became necessary. “You’ve got more interesting things to do than toss a horny couple from Queens in lockup.”

  That wasn’t really the point, Eve thought as the man tugged apart the self-stick fly on his baggy blue trousers. “How do you know they’re from Queens?”

  Before he could answer, a young, attractive man with a flowing mane of blond hair and bare, gleaming shoulders, hunkered down beside the b
usy couple. Whatever he said had the woman giggling again then grabbing him into a sloppy kiss.

  “Why don’t you come, too?” she demanded in an unmistakable accent. “We could have ourselves a manage and twas.”

  Eve lifted a brow at the borough massacre of the French term, and at the easy skill with which the bouncer disengaged himself and led the staggering couple off.

  “Queens,” Roarke said, smug. “Definitely. And that was smoothly done.” He inclined his head as the couple was taken through a narrow door. “They’d add the price of the privacy room to the tab, and no harm done.” There was a scream of female laughter as the bouncer came back out and secured the door. “Everyone’s happy.”

  “Queens might not be in the morning. The cost of a privacy room in a place like this has to hurt. Then again…” She scanned the crowd. Ages varied from the very young—many of whom she was sure had gained entrance with forged ID—to the very mature. But from the wardrobe and jewelry, the tone of faces and bodies that slyly hinted at salon enhancements, the clientele was solidly upper middle-class.

  “Money doesn’t look to be a problem here. I’ve spotted at least five high-credit licensed companions.”

  “My count was more like ten.”

  She quirked a brow. “Twelve bouncers with low-grade palm zappers.”

  “On that count, we agree.” He slipped an arm around her waist and walked to the rail. Below, the dance floor was packed, bodies rubbing suggestively against bodies. Wild laughter bounced off the mirrored walls and shot upward.

  The band was into their performance mode. The two female vocalists were being bound to dangling silver chains with leather straps. The music pounded, heavy on the drums. The dancers surged forward, closing in, as eager as a mob at a lynching. Audience participation was realized as a man was brought forward and accepted the invitation to strip the women out of their flimsy robes. Beneath, they were naked but for glittery stars over nipples and pubes.

  The crowd began to chant and howl as he coated them with thick oil, and they writhed and screamed and begged for mercy.

  “That’s skirting the line,” Eve muttered.

  “Performance art.” Roarke watched the man scourge the first vocalist with a velvet cat ’o nine tails. “Still within the law.”

  “A simulation of debasement encourages the real thing.” She set her teeth as a band member began to lightly slap the second vocalist as their voices soared in fervent duet. “We’re supposed to be beyond this kind of female exploitation. But we’re not. We never are. What are they looking for?”

  “Thrills. Of the cheaper and meaner variety.” His hand soothed the base of her back. She knew what it was to be bound, to be abused. There was nothing artful and nothing entertaining about it. “There’s no need to watch this, Eve.”

  “What makes them do it?” she wondered. “What makes a woman let herself be used that way, in simulation or in reality? Why doesn’t she kick his balls into his throat?”

  “She’s not you.” He kissed her on the brow and firmly turned her away.

  The railing was thick with people, now straining to see the show.

  As they took a quick tour of the top floor, a woman in a sheer black gown glided up to them. “Welcome to The Master’s Level. Do you have a reservation?”

  Enough was enough, Eve thought. She flipped out her badge. “I’m not interested in what you’re selling here.”

  “Fine food and wine,” the hostess said after only a quick hitch at the sight of police identification. “You’ll find we’re completely within code here, Lieutenant. However, if you wish to speak with the owner—”

  “I’ve already done that. I want to see Lobar. Where do I find him?”

  “He doesn’t work this level.” With the subtlety and discretion that would have made the poshest maamp2;ˆtre d’ proud, the hostess steered Eve back toward the stairs. “If you will go to the main level, you will be met, and a table provided. I’ll contact Lobar and send him to you.”

  “Fine.” Eve studied her, saw an attractive woman in her mid-twenties. “Why do you do this?” she asked and glanced at one of the screens where a woman screamed and struggled as she was strapped to a raised slab of marble. “How can you do this?”

  The hostess merely glanced down at Eve’s badge, then smiled sweetly. “How can you do that?” she countered and drifted away.

  “I’m letting it get to me,” Eve admitted as they headed down to the main level. “I know better.”

  The band continued to play, the music a frenzy now. But the performance aspect had switched to a huge view screen that filled the wall behind the stage. It took Eve only a glance to see why. The club wasn’t licensed for live sex acts, but such minor inconveniences were transcended by video.

  The female vocalists were still bound, still singing their hearts out without missing a beat. But they were behind the stage now, on camera, along with the man from the audience and a second man who wore nothing but an ornate mask of a boar’s head.

  “Pigs,” was all Eve had to say, then looked into gleaming red eyes.

  “Your table is this way.” The young man smiled, revealing gleaming teeth with incisors sharpened to vicious fangs. He turned. His hair streamed down his naked back, black, tipped with red like flames. He opened the rounded door on a privacy tube, stepped in ahead of them.

  “I’m Lobar.” He grinned again. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  He might have been pretty without the affectation of vampire fangs and demon eyes. As it was, Eve thought he looked like an overgrown child dressed up for Halloween. If he was of legal age, she deduced it couldn’t have been by much. His chest was thin and hairless, his arms slim as a girl’s. But she didn’t think it was the red tint of his eyes that took away his innocence. It was the look in them.

  “Sit down, Lobar.”

  “Sure.” He dropped into a chair. “I’ll have a drink. You’re buying,” he told Eve. “You want my time during work hours, you gotta pay.” He punched out a selection on the electronic menu, adjusted his chair so that he could see the view screen. “Great show tonight.”

  Eve glanced over.

  “The script could use work,” she said dryly. “You got ID, Lobar?”

  He peeled his lips back from his fangs, lifted his hands, palm out. “Not on me. Unless you think I got secret pockets in my skin.”

  “What’s your legal name?”

  His smile disappeared, and his eyes were suddenly the sulky eyes of a child. “It’s Lobar. That’s who I am. I don’t have to answer your questions, you know. I’m cooperating.”

  “You’re a real sterling citizen.” Eve waited while his drink slid out of the serving slot. Another show, she mused, as the heavy glass chalice smoked with some murky gray brew. “Alice Lingstrom. What do you know about her?”

  “Not much, except she was a dumb bitch.” He sipped the drink. “She hung around for awhile, then went crying off. It was fine with me. The master doesn’t need any weaklings.”

  “The master.”

  He sipped again, smiled. “Satan,” he said, relishing it.

  “You believe in Satan?”

  “Sure.” He leaned forward, slid his hand with its long, black-painted nails toward Eve. “And he believes in you.”

  “Careful,” Roarke murmured. “You’re too young and stupid to loose a hand.”

  Lobar snorted, but he slid his hand back again. “Your watchdog?” he said to Eve. “Your rich watchdog. We know who you are,” he added, fixing his red eyes on Roarke. “Big fucking deal. You don’t have any power here. And neither does your cop bitch.”

  “I’m not his cop bitch,” Eve said mildly, shooting a warning glance at Roarke. “I’m my own cop bitch. And as to power…” She leaned back. “Well, I’ve got the power to take you down to Cop Central and slap you into Interview.” She smiled, letting her gaze run over the naked chest and gleaming nipple rings. “The guys would just love to get a load of you. Cute, isn’t he, Roarke?”

  �
�In an apprentice demon sort of fashion. You must have a very…interesting dentist.” As it was a privacy booth, he took out a cigarette, lighted it.

  “I could use one of those,” Lobar said.

  “Could you?” With a shrug, Roarke slid another cigarette onto the table. When Lobar picked it up, looked at him expectantly, Roarke grinned. “Sorry, you want a light? I assumed you’d shoot flame out of your fingertips.”

  “I don’t do tricks for straights.” Lobar leaned forward, sucking on the filter as Roarke flicked his lighter at the tip. “Look, you want to know about Alice, and I can’t help you. She wasn’t my type. Too inhibited, and always asking questions. Sure I banged her a couple of times, but those were like community fucks, you know? Nothing personal.”

  “And on the night she was killed?”

  He blew out smoke, sucked more in. He hadn’t had real tobacco before, and the expensive drug made him light-headed and relaxed. “Never saw her. I was busy. I had a private ceremony with Selina and Alban. Sexual rites. After, we fucked around most of the night.”

  He took another deep drag, holding it in as he would a toke from a prime joint, then exhaling lustily through his nostrils. “Selina likes double bangers, and when she’s done, she likes to watch and get herself off. Was dawn, easy, before she’d had enough.”

  “And the three of you were together the entire night. No one left, even for a few minutes.”

  He moved his bony shoulders. “That’s the thing about three people. No waiting.” He lowered his gaze suggestively to her breasts. “Want to try it?”

  “You don’t want to solicit a cop, Lobar. And I like men. Not skinny boys in silly costumes. Who called Alice and played the recording. The chant?”

  He was sulky again, his ego pricked. If she’d come alone, he thought, he’d have shown her a few things. A bitch was a bitch as far as he was concerned, badge or no badge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Alice was nothing. Nobody gave a shit about her.”

  “Her grandfather did.”

  “Heard he was dead, too.” The red eyes gleamed. “Old fart. Desk cop, button pusher. Means nothing to me.”