by J. D. Robb
“No. We were quite busy, though. Oh, I hope she wasn’t accosted in the parking area. We’ve had a number of incidents in the last few weeks. I don’t know what’s wrong with people. It’s Christmas.”
“Um-hm. You sell Santa suits?”
“Santa suits?” He blinked. “Yes, that would be in Seasonals and Novelties, sixth floor.”
“Thanks. Peabody, check it out,” Eve ordered as she turned away. “Get names and locations for anyone buying or renting a suit in the last month. I’m going down to Jewelry, see if anyone can make the hairpin. Meet me there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Knowing her aide, Eve laid a warning hand on her arm. “In fifteen minutes. Any longer, and I bust you down to mall guard.”
Peabody moved her shoulders as Eve strode off. “She’s so strict.”
• • •
Having to elbow her way to a spot at the counter on the third floor didn’t improve Eve’s mood. Beneath the glass was an ocean of sparkling body accessories, from earrings to nipple rings. Gold, silver, colored stones, elaborate shapes, varying textures all vied for attention under the glass.
Roarke was always buying her things to drape around her neck, pin to her ears. She didn’t get it. Absently she fingered the diamond under her shirt. But he seemed to enjoy seeing her wear the things he chose for her.
Because she was running out of patience, and being roundly ignored by the staff manning the counter, she simply leaned over and snagged a clerk by the collar.
“Madam.” Outraged, the clerk scorched her with a hot blue scowl.
“Lieutenant,” she corrected, pulling out her shield with her free hand. “Got a minute for me now?”
“Of course.” He eased back, straightened his needle-thin silver tie. “What can I do for you?”
“Do you sell anything like this?” She opened her bag and took out the sealed pin.
“I don’t believe that’s one of ours.” He stooped until his gaze was level with the pin. “Very nice work. Festive.” He leaned back. “We won’t be able to take this as a return unless you have a receipt. I don’t recognize it as being of our stock.”
“I’m not looking to return it. Got any ideas where it might have come from?”
“I’d suggest a specialty shop. The craftsmanship appears to be quite fine. There are six jewelers in the mall. Perhaps one of them will recognize it.”
“Great.” She dropped it back in her bag and blew out a breath.
“Is there something else I can do for you?”
Eve shifted her feet and scanned the display under her nose. A set of three chained ropes with clashing colored stones the size of her thumb caught her eye. It was ridiculously flashy, edging toward tacky. And just screamed Mavis.
“That,” she said and pointed.
“Ah, you’d like to see the Heathen Neck Ornament. Very unique, very—”
“I don’t want to see it. I’ll take it. Just wrap it up, and make it fast.”
“I see.” Training kept him from goggling. “And how would you like to pay for that?”
Peabody marched up just as Eve was accepting the festive red and silver bag. “You shopped,” she said accusingly.
“No, I bought. There’s a difference. The pin didn’t come from here. The guy seemed to know his stuff and was pretty definite. I don’t want to waste any more time here.”
“Doesn’t look like you wasted it,” Peabody muttered.
“We’ll run the pin through the computer. I’ll see if Feeney’s got time to do a trace.”
“What did you buy?”
“Just something for Mavis.” She caught Peabody’s pout as they walked through the doors. “Don’t worry, Peabody, I’ll get you something.”
“Really?” She brightened immediately. “I’ve already got your present. It’s wrapped and everything.”
“Show-off.”
Cheered now, Peabody hopped into the car. “Want to guess what it is?”
“No.”
“I’ll give you a hint.”
“Pull yourself together. Start running the names you got on the Santa suits, see if you get a hit on anyone with a sheet.”
“Yes, sir. Where are we heading?”
“Personally Yours.” She sent Peabody a sidelong glance. “And you’re not doing any shopping there either.”
“Spoilsport. Sir,” Peabody added dutifully and began to run the names on her hand unit.
In the heart of midtown, towering over Fifth Avenue in polished black marble, was a palace of pleasure. The exterior was a sleek spear ringed on the upper floors with gilded balconies and silvered glides. Sheer glass tubes slid up and down at the four corners of the compass.
Inside there were salons for body sculpting, mood enhancement, sexual orientation. Without leaving the premises a client could be buffed, polished, molded, remodeled, or sexually satisfied in the manner of their choice.
Several gyms were outfitted with the newest equipment for those who preferred a little do-it-yourself. For those who chose a more passive road to fitness and beauty, licensed consultants were available to wield laser and toning tubes to rid a client of those pesky extra pounds and inches.
One floor was dedicated to the holistic approach, which included everything from chakra balancing to coffee enemas. As she scanned those particular offerings, Eve wasn’t certain whether to laugh or shudder.
Mud baths, algae scrapes, injections of the placenta of sheep raised on Alfa Six, tranquility sessions, VR trips, vision adjustments, face-lifts, tucks, and morphs—all could be done on the premises, with a number of package deals offered.
Once your body and mind were perfected, you were invited to explore the possibility of finding the right mate for the new you with the trained staff of Personally Yours.
The firm encompassed three floors of the building, with its staff uniformed in simple black suits with small red hearts embroidered on the breasts. With the path of beauty on the doorstep, attractive faces and bodies were every bit as much a part of the dress code.
The lobby area was done in Grecian temple, with small musical ponds glinting with the flash of goldfish, and white marble columns decked with trailing vines separating areas. The seating arrangements were low to the tiled floor, cushy and plentiful. A check-in desk was discreetly tucked between fanning palms.
“I need information on one of your clients.” Eve held up her badge and watched the receptionist’s eyes flicker with nerves.
“We’re not allowed to give out client information.” The woman bit her lip and brushed her fingers over the tiny heart that was tattooed under her eye like a pretty red tear. “All our services are strictly confidential. We guarantee to protect our clients’ privacy.”
“One of your clients isn’t worried about privacy anymore. This is police business. I can have a warrant transmitted in about five minutes, or you can give me what I need and avoid having the department go over every file.”
“If you’d just wait a moment.” The receptionist indicated the closest seating area. “I’ll get the manager for you.”
“Fine.” Eve turned away as the receptionist slipped on a headset.
“It smells great in here,” Peabody commented. “The whole building smells great.” She took in a deep sniff of air. “They must pump something through the air vents. Nice and soothing.” She settled her rump on one of the golden cushions near a tinkling fountain. “I want to live here.”
“You’re annoyingly chipper these days, Peabody.”
“The holidays do that to me. Wow, look at that.” She swiveled her head, her eyes lighting appreciatively as a man with a stream of streaked blond hair swaggered in. “Now, why would a guy who looked like that need a dating service?”
“Why does anybody? It’s creepy.”
“I don’t know, could save time, trouble, wear and tear.” Peabody leaned forward to look around Eve and keep the man in view. “Maybe I should try it out. I could get lucky.”
“He’s not your type.”
&n
bsp; Peabody’s face clouded exactly as it had when Eve had rejected the perfume. “How come—I like looking at his type.”
“Sure, but try to have a conversation with him.” Eve dipped her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels. “Guy’s in love with himself and figures every woman who gets a load of him has to go moony-eyed—just like you’re doing. He’d bore you to death in ten minutes because all he’d talk about is himself—how he looks, what he does, what he likes. You’d just be his latest accessory.”
Peabody considered, watching as the gold-tipped Adonis posed at the check-in counter. “Okay, so we won’t bother to talk. We’ll just have sex.”
“He’d be a lousy lay—wouldn’t give a damn if you got off or not.”
“I’m getting off just looking at him.” But she sighed when he took out a small silver-backed mirror and examined his face with obvious delight. “It’s times like this I hate it when you’re right.”
“Look at this,” Eve said under her breath. “These two are so polished I need my sunshades.”
“Ken and Barbie on the town.” At Eve’s blank look, Peabody sighed again. “Man, you didn’t have a Barbie doll. What kind of kid were you?”
“I was never a kid,” Eve said simply and turned back to greet the magnificent couple gliding her way.
The woman was slim-hipped and full-breasted as the current fashion demanded. Her silvery blond hair fell in a straight streaming waterfall over her shoulders to flick across the big, beautiful breasts as she walked. Her face was smooth and white as alabaster, with deep-set eyes of rich emerald-green surrounded by long lashes dyed to match those jewel-like irises. Her mouth was full and red, curved in a polite smile of greeting.
Her companion was every bit as dazzling, her twin in coloring, with his moonlight hair swept back into a long braid twined with thin gold ribbon. His shoulders were wide, his legs long.
Unlike the rest of the staff, they weren’t dressed in black, but wore slim white skinsuits. The woman had draped a transparent red scarf cleverly over her hips.
She spoke first, in a voice as soft and silky as the scarf. “I’m Piper, and this is my associate, Rudy. What can we do for you?”
“I need data on one of your clients.” Once again, Eve took out her badge. “I’m investigating a homicide.”
“A homicide.” The woman put a hand to her heart. “How dreadful. One of our clients? Rudy?”
“We’ll certainly cooperate in any way we can.” He spoke quietly in a creamy baritone. “We should discuss this upstairs, in private.”
He gestured toward the clear tube of an elevator guarded by enormous white azaleas in full bloom. “You’re sure the victim was one of our clients?”
“Her lover met her through your service.” Eve stepped directly to the middle of the tube and ignored the view as they whisked up. Heights had never appealed to her.
“I see.” Piper sighed. “We have an excellent success rate in matching couples. I hope it wasn’t a lover’s quarrel that ended in tragedy.”
“We haven’t determined that.”
“I can’t believe that could be it. We screen very carefully.” Rudy gestured toward the opening of the tube as the elevator stopped.
“How?”
“We’re connected to ComTrack.” As he spoke, he escorted them down a quiet corridor in hospital white with soft, dreamy watercolors in gold frames and banquets of fresh flowers in clear vases. “Every applicant is put into the system. We look at marital history, credit ratings, criminal records, of course. Our applicants must also take the standard personality test. Any violent tendencies are rejected. Sexual preferences and desires are recorded, analyzed, and matched.”
He opened the door to a large office done in blinding whites and screaming reds. The window wall was filtered against both the glare of the sun and the noise of sky traffic.
“What’s your percentage of deviants?”
Piper’s perfect mouth thinned. “We don’t consider personal sexual preferences deviant unless the partner or partners involved object.”
Eve merely lifted her brows. “Why don’t we use my definition instead? Bondage, S and M? You get any in here who like to doll up their partner after sex?”
Rudy cleared his throat and moved behind a wide, white console. “Certainly some applicants look for what we might call adventurous sexual experiences. As I said, those preferences would be matched with like applicants.”
“Who did you match up with Marianna Hawley?”
“Marianna Hawley?” He glanced at Piper.
“I’m better with faces than names.” She turned to the wall screen as Rudy fed the name into the computer. Seconds later, Marianna smiled out at them, her eyes bright and alive.
“Oh yes, I remember her. She was charming. Yes, I very much enjoyed working with her. She was looking for a companion, someone fun who she could enjoy art—no, no, it was theater, I believe.” She tapped one perfectly shaped nail against her bottom lip. “She was a romantic, rather sweetly old-fashioned.”
It seemed to come to her all at once, and Piper’s hand dropped limply to her side. “She’s been murdered? Oh, Rudy.”
“Sit down, dear.” He came gracefully around the console to take her hand, pat it, to lead her to a long sofa with deep air cushions. “Piper becomes very personally involved with our clients,” he told Eve. “That’s why she’s so marvelous at her work. She cares.”
“So do I, Rudy.”
Though her voice was flat, his eyes flicked over her face and whatever he saw had him nodding. “Yes, I’m sure you do. You suspect that someone in our system, someone she might have met through our service, killed her.”
“I’m investigating. I need names.”
“Give her whatever she needs, Rudy.” Piper patted her fingers under her eyes to dry tears.
“I’d like to, but we have a responsibility to our clients. We guarantee privacy.”
“Marianna Hawley was entitled to privacy,” Eve said shortly. “Someone raped her, sodomized her, and strangled her. I’d say they pretty much violated her privacy. I doubt any of your clients would enjoy sharing in that experience.”
Rudy took a deep breath. His face was paler now, if that was possible, so that his eyes seemed to burn against a field of glossy white. “I trust you’ll be discreet.”
“You can trust I’ll be good,” Eve said in return and waited for him to call up the list of matches.
chapter four
Sarabeth Greenbalm wasn’t having a good day. First off she hated working the afternoon shift at the Sweet Spot. The clientele from noon to five consisted primarily of junior execs looking for a long lunch and cheap thrills. With the emphasis on cheap. The climbing-the-corporate-ladder crowd didn’t have a lot of money to toss to a stripper.
They just liked to gawk and hoot.
Five hours of hard work had netted her just under a hundred in cash and credit chips, and a half a dozen drunken propositions.
None of which included marriage.
Marriage was Sarabeth’s Holy Grail.
She wasn’t going to find a rich husband in the afternoon set of a strip club. Even a high-class club like the Sweet Spot. There was potential in the night hours, when the VPs and CEOs sauntered in, bringing important clients for an hour or two of titillation. She could make a thousand easily, and when you added in some lap dancing, double that. But the best was collecting business cards.
Sooner or later one of those corporate suits with their big, white smiles and perfectly manicured and grabby hands was going to put a ring on her finger for the privilege of groping her.
It was all part of the career plan she’d carefully mapped out when she’d moved from Allentown, Pennsylvania, to New York City five years before. Stripping in Allentown had been a dead-end situation, netting her just enough per week to keep her from becoming another sidewalk sleeper. Still, moving to New York had been risky. There was more competition for the same recreation dollar.
Younger competit
ion.
The first year she’d worked two shifts, three if she could still stand. She’d worked as a roamer, sliding from club to club and shelling out the hard-line forty percent of take to the managers. It had been a gruesome year, but she’d earned her nest egg.
The second year she’d focused on nailing a regular spot at an upscale club. It had taken nearly all of those twelve months, but she’d carved her niche at the Sweet Spot. During her third year she’d fought her way up the food chain to shift headliner, cagily investing her profits. And, she admitted, she had wasted nearly six months considering the cohabitation offer of the club’s head smasher.
She might have done it, too, if he hadn’t gone and gotten himself sliced into six separate pieces in a bar fight at a dive where he’d been moonlighting because Sarabeth had insisted he needed a bigger bank account if he wanted her to sleep with him on a permanent basis.
She’d decided to consider it a lucky escape. Now, well into year four, she was forty-three years old and running out of time.
She didn’t mind naked dancing. Hell, she was a damn good dancer and her body—she studied it as she turned in front of her bedroom mirror—was her meal ticket.
Nature had been generous, gifting her with high, full breasts that hadn’t required augmentation. So far. A long torso, long legs, a firm ass. Yes, she had all the necessary weapons.
She’d had to put money into her face, and considered it a good investment. She’d been born with thin lips, a short chin, and a heavy forehead. But a few trips to a beauty enhancement center had fixed that. Now her mouth was full and ripe, her chin sassily pointed, and her brow high and clear.
Sarabeth Greenbalm looked, in her opinion, damn good.
The problem was she was down to her last five hundred, the rent was due, and some overeager bozo in the lunch crowd had ripped her best G-string before she could slither out of it.
She had a headache, her feet hurt, and she was still single.
She should never have plunked down the three thousand for Personally Yours. In retrospect what had seemed like a clever investment now appeared to be good money down the sewer. Losers used dating services, she thought as she tugged on a short purple robe. And losers attracted losers.