by J. D. Robb
“You’re the history buff.” Which explained why he was with her. “Looks new.” She sniffed through the bag, caught the scent of oil and burning. “Somebody took good care of this. Steel fired into flesh,” she mused as she passed the bag back to Feeney. “Ugly way to die, and the first I’ve seen it in my ten years with the department.”
“Second for me. About fifteen years ago, Lower East Side, party got out of hand. Guy shot five people with a twenty-two before he realized it wasn’t a toy. Hell of a mess.”
“Fun and games,” Eve murmured. “We’ll scan the collectors, see how many we can locate who own one like this. Somebody might have reported a robbery.”
“Might have.”
“It’s more likely it came through the black market.” Eve glanced back at the body. “If she’s been in the business for a few years, she’d have discs, records of her clients, her trick books.” She frowned. “With Code Five, I’ll have to do the door-to-door myself. Not a simple sex crime,” she said with a sigh. “Whoever did it set it up. The antique weapon, the wounds themselves, almost ruler straight down the body, the lights, the pose. Who called it in, Feeney?”
“The killer.” He waited until her eyes came back to him. “From right here. Called the station. See how the bedside unit’s aimed at her face? That’s what came in. Video, no audio.”
“He’s into showmanship.” Eve let out a breath. “Clever bastard, arrogant, cocky. He had sex with her first. I’d bet my badge on it. Then he gets up and does it.” She lifted her arm, aiming, lowering it as she counted off, “One, two, three.”
“That’s cold,” murmured Feeney.
“He’s cold. He smooths down the sheets after. See how neat they are? He arranges her, spreads her open so nobody can have any doubts as to how she made her living. He does it carefully, practically measuring, so that she’s perfectly aligned. Center of the bed, arms and legs equally apart. Doesn’t turn off the bed ’cause it’s part of the show. He leaves the gun because he wants us to know right away he’s no ordinary man. He’s got an ego. He doesn’t want to waste time letting the body be discovered eventually. He wants it now. That instant gratification.”
“She was licensed for men and women,” Feeney pointed out, but Eve shook her head.
“It’s not a woman. A woman wouldn’t have left her looking both beautiful and obscene. No, I don’t think it’s a woman. Let’s see what we can find. Have you gone into her computer yet?”
“No. It’s your case, Dallas. I’m only authorized to assist.”
“See if you can access her client files.” Eve went to the dresser and began to carefully search drawers.
Expensive taste, Eve reflected. There were several items of real silk, the kind no simulation could match. The bottle of scent on the dresser was exclusive, and smelled, after a quick sniff, like expensive sex.
The contents of the drawers were meticulously ordered, lingerie folded precisely, sweaters arranged according to color and material. The closet was the same.
Obviously the victim had a love affair with clothes and a taste for the best and took scrupulous care of what she owned.
And she’d died naked.
“Kept good records,” Feeney called out. “It’s all here. Her client list, appointments—including her required monthly health exam and her weekly trip to the beauty salon. She used the Trident Clinic for the first and Paradise for the second.”
“Both top of the line. I’ve got a friend who saved for a year so she could have one day for the works at Paradise. Takes all kinds.”
“My wife’s sister went for it for her twenty-fifth anniversary. Cost damn near as much as my kid’s wedding. Hello, we’ve got her personal address book.”
“Good. Copy all of it, will you, Feeney?” At his low whistle, she looked over her shoulder, glimpsed the small gold-edged palm computer in his hand. “What?”
“We’ve got a lot of high-powered names in here. Politics, entertainment, money, money, money. Interesting, our girl has Roarke’s private number.”
“Roarke who?”
“Just Roarke, as far as I know. Big money there. Kind of guy that touches shit and turns it into gold bricks. You’ve got to start reading more than the sports page, Dallas.”
“Hey, I read the headlines. Did you hear about the cocker spaniel recall?”
“Roarke’s always big news,” Feeney said patiently. “He’s got one of the finest art collections in the world. Arts and antiques,” he continued, noting when Eve clicked in and turned to him. “He’s a licensed gun collector. Rumor is he knows how to use them.”
“I’ll pay him a visit.”
“You’ll be lucky to get within a mile of him.”
“I’m feeling lucky.” Eve crossed over to the body to slip her hands under the sheets.
“The man’s got powerful friends, Dallas. You can’t afford to so much as whisper he’s linked to this until you’ve got something solid.”
“Feeney, you know it’s a mistake to tell me that.” But even as she started to smile, her fingers brushed something between cold flesh and bloody sheets. “There’s something under her.” Carefully, Eve lifted the shoulder, eased her fingers over.
“Paper,” she murmured. “Sealed.” With her protected thumb, she wiped at a smear of blood until she could read the protected sheet.
ONE OF SIX
“It looks hand printed,” she said to Feeney and held it out. “Our boy’s more than clever, more than arrogant. And he isn’t finished.”
Eve spent the rest of the day doing what would normally have been assigned to drones. She interviewed the victim’s neighbors personally, recording statements, impressions.
She managed to grab a quick sandwich from the same Glida-Grill she’d nearly smashed before, driving across town. After the night and the morning she’d put in, she could hardly blame the receptionist at Paradise for looking at her as though she’d recently scraped herself off the sidewalk.
Waterfalls played musically among the flora in the reception area of the city’s most exclusive salon. Tiny cups of real coffee and slim glasses of fizzling water or champagne were served to those lounging on the cushy chairs and settees. Headphones and discs of fashion magazines were complementary.
The receptionist was magnificently breasted, a testament to the salon’s figure sculpting techniques. She wore a snug, short outfit in the salon’s trademark red, and an incredible coif of ebony hair coiled like snakes.
Eve couldn’t have been more delighted.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said in a carefully modulated voice as empty of expression as a computer. “We serve by appointment only.”
“That’s okay.” Eve smiled and was almost sorry to puncture the disdain. Almost. “This ought to get me one.” She offered her badge. “Who works on Sharon DeBlass?”
The receptionist’s horrified eyes darted toward the waiting area. “Our clients’ needs are strictly confidential.”
“I bet.” Enjoying herself, Eve leaned companionably on the U-shaped counter. “I can talk nice and quiet, like this, so we understand each other—Denise?” She flicked her gaze down to the discreet studded badge on the woman’s breast. “Or I can talk louder, so everyone understands. If you like the first idea better, you can take me to a nice quiet room where we won’t disturb any of your clients, and you can send in Sharon DeBlass’s operator. Or whatever term you use.”
“Consultant,” Denise said faintly. “If you’ll follow me.”
“My pleasure.”
And it was.
Outside of movies or videos, Eve had never seen anything so lush. The carpet was a red cushion your feet could sink blissfully into. Crystal drops hung from the ceiling and spun light. The air smelled of flowers and pampered flesh.
She might not have been able to imagine herself there, spending hours having herself creamed, oiled, pummeled, and sculpted, but if she were going to waste such time on vanity, it would certainly have been interesting to do so under such civilized cond
itions.
The receptionist showed her into a small room with a hologram of a summer meadow dominating one wall. The quiet sound of birdsong and breezes sweetened the air.
“If you’d just wait here.”
“No problem.” Eve waited for the door to close then, with an indulgent sigh, she lowered herself into a deeply cushioned chair. The moment she was seated, the monitor beside her blipped on, and a friendly, indulgent face that could only be a droid’s beamed smiles.
“Good afternoon. Welcome to Paradise. Your beauty needs and your comfort are our only priorities. Would you like some refreshment while you wait for your personal consultant?”
“Sure. Coffee, black, coffee.”
“Of course. What sort would you prefer? Press C on your keyboard for the list of choices.”
Smothering a chuckle, Eve followed instructions. She spent the next two minutes pondering over her options, then narrowed it down to French Riviera or Caribbean Cream.
The door opened again before she could decide. Resigned, she rose and faced an elaborately dressed scarecrow.
Over his fuchsia shirt and plum colored slacks, he wore an open, trailing smock of Paradise red. His hair, flowing back from a painfully thin face echoed the hue of his slacks. He offered Eve a hand, squeezed gently, and stared at her out of soft doe eyes.
“I’m terribly sorry, officer. I’m baffled.”
“I want information on Sharon DeBlass.” Again, Eve took out her badge and offered it for inspection.
“Yes, ah, Lieutenant Dallas. That was my understanding. You must know, of course, our client data is strictly confidential. Paradise has a reputation for discretion as well as excellence.”
“And you must know, of course, that I can get a warrant, Mr.—?”
“Oh, Sebastian. Simply Sebastian.” He waved a thin hand, sparkling with rings. “I’m not questioning your authority, lieutenant. But if you could assist me, your motives for the inquiry?”
“I’m inquiring into the motives for the murder of DeBlass.” She waited a beat, judged the shock that shot into his eyes and drained his face of color. “Other than that, my data is strictly confidential.”
“Murder. My dear God, our lovely Sharon is dead? There must be a mistake.” He all but slid into a chair, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. When the monitor offered him refreshment, he waved a hand again. Light shot from his jeweled fingers. “God, yes. I need a brandy, darling. A snifter of Trevalli.”
Eve sat beside him, took out her recorder. “Tell me about Sharon.”
“A marvelous creature. Physically stunning, of course, but it went deeper.” His brandy came into the room on a silent automated cart. Sebastian plucked the snifter and took one deep swallow. “She had flawless taste, a generous heart, rapier wit.”
He turned the doe eyes on Eve again. “I saw her only two days ago.”
“Professionally?”
“She had a standing weekly appointment, half day. Every other week was a full day.” He whipped out a butter yellow scarf and dabbed at his eyes. “Sharon took care of herself, believed strongly in the presentation of self.”
“It would be an asset in her line of work.”
“Naturally. She only worked to amuse herself. Money wasn’t a particular need, with her family background. She enjoyed sex.”
“With you?”
His artistic face winced, the rosy lips pursing in what could have been a pout or pain. “I was her consultant, her confidant, and her friend,” Sebastian said stiffly and draped the scarf with casual flare over his left shoulder. “It would have been indiscreet and unprofessional for us to become sexual partners.”
“So you weren’t attracted to her, sexually?”
“It was impossible for anyone not to be attracted to her sexually. She . . .” He gestured grandly. “Exuded sex as others might exude an expensive perfume. My God.” He took another shaky sip of brandy. “It’s all past tense. I can’t believe it. Dead. Murdered.” His gaze shot back to Eve. “You said murdered.”
“That’s right.”
“That neighborhood she lived in,” he said grimly. “No one could talk to her about moving to a more acceptable location. She enjoyed living on the edge and flaunting it all under her family’s aristocratic noses.”
“She and her family were at odds?”
“Oh definitely. She enjoyed shocking them. She was such a free spirit, and they so . . . ordinary.” He said it in a tone that indicated ordinary was more mortal a sin than murder itself. “Her grandfather continues to introduce bills that would make prostitution illegal. As if the past century hasn’t proven that such matters need to be regulated for health and crime security. He also stands against procreation regulation, gender adjustment, chemical balancing, and the gun ban.”
Eve’s ears pricked. “The senator opposes the gun ban?”
“It’s one of his pets. Sharon told me he owns a number of nasty antiques and spouts off regularly about that outdated right to bear arms business. If he had his way, we’d all be back in the twentieth century, murdering each other right and left.”
“Murder still happens,” Eve murmured. “Did she ever mention friends or clients who might have been dissatisfied or overly aggressive?”
“Sharon had dozens of friends. She drew people to her, like . . .” He searched for a suitable metaphor, used the corner of the scarf again. “Like an exotic and fragrant flower. And her clients, as far as I know, were all delighted with her. She screened them carefully. All of her sexual partners had to meet certain standards. Appearance, intellect, breeding, and proficiency. As I said, she enjoyed sex, in all of its many forms. She was . . . adventurous.”
That fit with the toys Eve had unearthed in the apartment. The velvet handcuffs and whips, the scented oils and hallucinogens. The offerings on the two sets of colinked virtual reality headphones had been a shock even to Eve’s jaded system.
“Was she involved with anyone on a personal level?”
“There were men occasionally, but she lost interest quickly. Recently she’d spoken about Roarke. She’d met him at a party and was attracted. In fact, she was seeing him for dinner the very night she came in for her consultation. She’d wanted something exotic because they were dining in Mexico.”
“In Mexico. That would have been the night before last.”
“Yes. She was just bubbling over about him. We did her hair in a gypsy look, gave her a bit more gold to the skin—full body work. Rascal Red on the nails, and a charming little temp tattoo of a red-winged butterfly on the left buttock. Twenty-four-hour facial cosmetics so that she wouldn’t smudge. She looked spectacular,” he said, tearing up. “And she kissed me and told me she just might be in love this time. ‘Wish me luck, Sebastian.’ She said that as she left. It was the last thing she ever said to me.”
chapter two
No sperm. Eve swore over the autopsy report. If she’d had sex with her killer, the victim’s choice of birth control had killed the little soldiers on contact, eliminating all trace of them within thirty minutes after ejaculation.
The extent of her injuries made the tests for sexual activity inconclusive. He’d blown her apart either for symbolism or for his own protection.
No sperm, no blood but for the victim’s. No DNA.
The forensic sweep of the murder site turned up no fingerprints—none: not the victim’s, not her weekly cleaning specialist, certainly not the murderer’s.
Every surface had been meticulously wiped, including the murder weapon.
Most telling of all, in Eve’s judgment, were the security discs. Once again, she slipped the elevator surveillance into her desk monitor.
The discs were initialed.
Gorham Complex. Elevator A. 2-12-2058. 06:00.
Eve zipped through, watching the hours fly by. The elevator doors opened for the first time at noon. She slowed the speed, giving her unit a quick smack with the heel of her hand when the image bobbled, then studied the nervous little man who entere
d and asked for the fifth floor.
A jumpy john, she decided, amused when he tugged at his collar and slipped a breath mint between his lips. Probably had a wife and two kids and a steady white-collar job that allowed him to slip away for an hour once a week for his nooner.
He got off the elevator at five.
Activity was light for several hours, the occasional prostitute riding down to the lobby, some returning with shopping bags and bored expressions. A few clients came and went. The action picked up about eight. Some residents went out, snazzily dressed for dinner, others came in to keep their appointments.
At ten, an elegant-looking couple entered the car together. The woman allowed the man to open her fur coat, under which she wore nothing but stiletto heels and a tattoo of a rosebud with the stem starting at the crotch and the flower artistically teasing the left nipple. He fondled her, a technically illegal act in a secured area. When the elevator stopped on eighteen, the woman drew her coat together, and they exited, chatting about the play they’d just seen.
Eve made a note to interview the man the following day. It was he who was the victim’s neighbor and associate.
The glitch happened at precisely 12:05. The image shifted almost seamlessly, with only the faintest blip, and returned to surveillance at 02:46.
Two hours and forty-one minutes lost.
The hallway disc of the eighteenth floor was the same. Nearly three hours wiped. Eve picked up her cooling coffee as she thought it through. The man understood security, she mused, was familiar enough with the building to know where and how to doctor the discs. And he’d taken his time, she thought. The autopsy put the victim’s death at two A.M.
He’d spent nearly two hours with her before he’d killed her, and nearly an hour more after she’d been dead. Yet he hadn’t left a trace.
Clever boy.
If Sharon DeBlass had recorded an appointment, personal or professional, for midnight, that, too, had been wiped.