by J. D. Robb
“And he didn’t phone it in, which tells me he didn’t want her found as quickly. Had to get himself someplace else,” she mused. Thoughtful, she picked up a small square of paper, officially sealed.
TWO OF SIX
“One a week,” she said softly. “Jesus Christ, Feeney, he isn’t giving us much time.”
“I’m running her logs, trick book. She had a new client scheduled, 8:00 P.M., night before last. If your prelim checks, he’s our guy.” Feeney smiled thinly. “John Smith.”
“That’s older than the murder weapon.” She rubbed her hands hard over her face. “IRCCA’s bound to spit our boy out from that tag.”
“They’re still running data,” Feeney muttered. He was protective, even sentimental about the IRCCA.
“They’re not going to find squat. We got us a time traveler, Feeney.”
He snorted. “Yeah, a real Jules Verne.”
“We’ve got a twentieth-century crime,” she said through her hands. “The weapons, the excessive violence, the hand-printed note left on scene. So maybe our killer is some sort of historian, or buff anyway. Somebody who wishes things were what they used to be.”
“Lots of people think things would be better some other way. That’s why the world’s lousy with theme parks.”
Thinking, she dropped her hands. “IRCCA isn’t going to help us get into this guy’s head. It still takes a human mind to play that game. What’s he doing, Feeney? Why’s he doing it?”
“He’s killing LCs.”
“Hookers have always been easy targets, back to Jack the Ripper, right? It’s a vulnerable job, even now with all the screening, we still get clients knocking LCs around, killing them.”
“Doesn’t happen much,” Feeney mused. “Sometimes with the S and M trade you get a party that gets too enthusiastic. Most LCs are safer than teachers.”
“They still run a risk, the oldest profession with the oldest crime. But things have changed, some things. People don’t kill with guns as a rule anymore. Too expensive, too hard to come by. Sex isn’t the strong motivator it used to be, too cheap, too easy to come by. We have different methods of investigation, and a whole new batch of motives. When you brush all that away, the one fact is that people still terminate people. Keep digging, Feeney. I’ve got people to talk to.”
“What you need’s some sleep, kid.”
“Let him sleep,” Eve muttered. “Let that bastard sleep.” Steeling herself, she turned to her tele-link. It was time to contact the victim’s parents.
By the time Eve walked into the sumptuous foyer of Roarke’s midtown office, she’d been up for more than thirty-two hours. She’d gotten through the misery of having to tell two shocked, weeping parents that their only daughter was dead. She’d stared at her monitor until the data swam in front of her eyes.
Her follow-up interview with Lola’s landlord had been its own adventure. Since the man had had time to recover, he’d spent thirty minutes whining about the unpleasant publicity and the possibility of a drop-off in rentals.
So much, Eve thought, for human empathy.
Roarke Industries, New York, was very much what she’d expected. Slick, shiny, sleek, the building itself spread one hundred fifty stories into the Manhattan sky. It was an ebony lance, glossy as wet stone, ringed by transport tubes and diamond-bright skyways.
No tacky Glida-Grills on this corner, she mused. No street hawkers with their hot pocket PCs dodging security on their colorful air boards. Out-of-doors vending was off limits on this bite of Fifth. The zoning made things quieter, if a little less adventuresome.
Inside, the main lobby took up a full city block, boasting three tony restaurants, a high priced boutique, a handful of specialty shops, and a small theater that played art films.
The white floor tiles were a full yard square and gleamed like the moon. Clear glass elevators zipped busily up and down, people glides zigzagged left and right, while disembodied voices guided visitors to various points of interest or, if there was business to be conducted, the proper office.
For those who wanted to wander about on their own, there were more than a dozen moving maps.
Eve marched to a monitor and was politely offered assistance.
“Roarke,” she said, annoyed that his name hadn’t been listed on the main directory.
“I’m sorry.” The computer’s voice was that overly mannered tone that was meant to be soothing, and instead grated on Eve’s already raw nerves. “I’m not at liberty to access that information.”
“Roarke,” Eve repeated, holding up her badge for the computer to scan. She waited impatiently as the computer hummed, undoubtedly checking and verifying her ID, notifying the man himself.
“Please proceed to the east wing, Lieutenant Dallas. You will be met.”
“Right.”
Eve turned down a corridor, passed a marble run that held a forest of snowy white impatiens.
“Lieutenant.” A woman in a killer red suit and hair as white as the impatiens smiled coolly. “Come with me, please.”
The woman slipped a thin security card into a slot, laid her palm against a sheet of black glass for a handprint. The wall slid open, revealing a private elevator.
Eve stepped inside with her, and was unsurprised when her escort requested the top floor.
Eve had been certain Roarke would be satisfied with nothing but the top.
Her guide was silent on the ride up and exuded a discreet whiff of sensible scent that matched her sensible shoes and neat, sleek coif. Eve secretly admired women who put themselves together, top to toe, with such seeming effortlessness.
Faced with such quiet magnificence, she tugged self-consciously at her worn leather jacket and wondered if it was time she actually spent money on a haircut rather than hacking away at it herself.
Before she could decide on such earth-shattering matters, the doors whooshed open into a silent, white carpeted foyer the size of a small home. There were lush green plants—real plants: ficus, palm, what appeared to be a dogwood flowering off season. There was a sharp spicy scent from a bank of dianthus, blooming in shades of rose and vivid purple.
The garden surrounded a comfortable waiting area of mauve sofas and glossy wood tables, lamps that were surely solid brass with jeweled colored shades.
In the center of this was a circular workstation, equipped as efficiently as a cockpit with monitors and keyboards, gauges and tele-links. Two men and a woman worked at it busily, with a seamless ballet of competence in motion.
She was led past them into a glass-sided breezeway. A peek down, and she could see Manhattan. There was music piped in she didn’t recognize as Mozart. For Eve, music began sometime after her tenth birthday.
The woman in the killer suit paused again, flashed her cool, perfect smile, then spoke into a hidden speaker. “Lieutenant Dallas, sir.”
“Send her in, Caro. Thank you.”
Again Caro pressed her palm to a slick black glass. “Go right in, lieutenant,” she invited as a panel slid open.
“Thanks.” Out of curiosity, Eve watched her walk away, wondering how anyone could stride so gracefully on three-inch heels. She walked into Roarke’s office.
It was, as she expected, as impressive as the rest of his New York headquarters. Despite the soaring, three-sided view of New York, the lofty ceiling with its pinprick lights, the vibrant tones of topaz and emerald in the thickly cushioned furnishings, it was the man behind the ebony slab desk that dominated.
What in hell was it about him? Eve thought again as Roarke rose and slanted a smile at her.
“Lieutenant Dallas,” he said in that faint and fascinating Irish lilt, “a pleasure, as always.”
“You might not think so when I’m finished.”
He lifted a brow. “Why don’t you come the rest of the way in and get started? Then we’ll see. Coffee?”
“Don’t try to distract me, Roarke.” She walked closer. Then, to satisfy her curiosity, she took a brief turn around the room. It was as big as a heliport,
with all the amenities of a first-class hotel: automated service bar, a padded relaxation chair complete with VR and mood settings, an oversize wall screen, currently blank. To the left, there was a full bath including whirl tub and drying tube. All the standard office equipment, of the highest high-tech, was built in.
Roarke watched her with a bland expression. He admired the way she moved, the way those cool, quick eyes took in everything.
“Would you like a tour, Eve?”
“No. How do you work with all this . . .” Using both hands, she gestured widely at the treated glass walls. “Open.”
“I don’t like being closed in. Are you going to sit, or prowl?”
“I’m going to stand. I have some questions to ask you, Roarke. You’re entitled to have counsel present.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Then we’ll save the lawyers until I am. Ask.”
Though she kept her eyes level on his, she knew where his hands were, tucked casually in the pockets of his slacks. Hands revealed emotions.
“Night before last,” she said, “between the hours of eight and ten P.M. Can you verify your whereabouts?”
“I believe I was here until shortly after eight.” With a steady hand he touched his desk log. “I shut down my monitor at 8:17. I left the building, drove home.”
“Drove,” she interrupted, “or were driven?”
“Drove. I keep a car here. I don’t believe in keeping my employees waiting on my whims.”
“Damned democratic of you.” And, she thought, damned inconvenient. She’d wanted him to have an alibi. “And then?”
“I poured myself a brandy, had a shower, changed. I had a late supper with a friend.”
“How late, and what friend?”
“I believe I arrived at about ten. I like to be prompt. At Madeline Montmart’s townhouse.”
Eve had a quick vision of a curvy blond with a sultry mouth and almond eyes. “Madeline Montmart, the actress?”
“Yes. I believe we had squab, if that’s helpful.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “No one can verify your movements between eight-seventeen and ten P.M. ?”
“One of the staff might have noticed, but then, I pay them well and they’re likely to say what I tell them to say.” His voice took on an edge. “There’s been another murder.”
“Lola Starr, licensed companion. Certain details will be released to the media within the hour.”
“And certain details will not.”
“Do you own a silencer, Roarke?”
His expression didn’t change. “Several. You look exhausted, Eve. Have you been up all night?”
“Goes with the job. Do you own a Swiss handgun, SIG two-ten, circa 1980?”
“I acquired one about six weeks ago. Sit down.”
“Were you acquainted with Lola Starr?” Reaching into her briefcase, she pulled out a photo she’d found in Lola’s apartment. The pretty, elfin girl beamed out, full of sassy fun.
Roarke lowered his gaze to it as it landed on his desk. His eyes flickered. This time his voice was tinged with something Eve thought sounded like pity.
“She isn’t old enough to be licensed.”
“She turned eighteen four months ago. Applied on her birthday.”
“She didn’t have time to change her mind, did she?” His eyes lifted to Eve’s. And yes, it was pity. “I didn’t know her. I don’t use prostitutes—or children.” He picked up the photo, skirted the desk, and offered it back to Eve. “Sit down.”
“Have you ever—”
“Goddamn it, sit down.” In sudden fury, he took her shoulders, pushed her into a chair. Her case tipped, spilling out photos of Lola that had nothing to do with sassy fun.
She might have reached them first—her reflexes were as good as his. Perhaps she wanted him to see them. Perhaps she needed him to.
Crouching, Roarke picked up a photo taken at the scene. He stared at it. “Christ Jesus,” he said softly. “You believe I’m capable of this?”
“My beliefs aren’t the issue. Investigating—” She broke off when his eyes whipped to hers.
“You believe I’m capable of this?” he repeated in an undertone that cut like a blade.
“No, but I have a job to do.”
“Your job sucks.”
She took the photos back, stored them. “From time to time.”
“How do you sleep at night, after looking at something like this?”
She flinched. Though she recovered in a snap, he’d seen it. As intrigued as he was by her instinctive and emotional reaction, he was sorry he’d caused it.
“By knowing I’ll take down the bastard who did it. Get out of my way.”
He stayed where he was, laid a hand on her rigid arm. “A man in my position has to read people quickly and accurately, Eve. I’m reading you as someone close to the edge.”
“I said, get out of my way.”
He rose, but shifting his grip on her arm, pulled her to her feet. He was still in her way. “He’ll do it again,” Roarke said quietly. “And it’s eating at you wondering when and where and who.”
“Don’t analyze me. We’ve got a whole department of shrinks on the payroll for that.”
“Why haven’t you been to see one? You’ve been slipping through loopholes to avoid Testing.”
Her eyes narrowed.
He smiled, but there was no amusement in it.
“I have connections, lieutenant. You were due in Testing several days ago, standard department procedure after a justifiable termination, one you executed the night Sharon was killed.”
“Keep out of my business,” she said furiously. “And fuck your connections.”
“What are you afraid of? What are you afraid they’ll find if they get a look inside of that head of yours? That heart of yours?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.” She jerked her arm free, but he merely laid his hand on her cheek. A gesture so unexpected, so gentle, her stomach quivered.
“Let me help you.”
“I—” Something nearly spilled out, as the photos had. But this time her reflexes kept it tucked away. “I’m handling it.” She turned away. “You can pick up your property anytime after nine A.M. tomorrow.”
“Eve.”
She kept her eyes focused on the doorway, kept walking. “What?”
“I want to see you tonight.”
“No.”
He was tempted—very tempted—to lunge after her. Instead, he stayed where he was. “I can help you with the case.”
Cautious, she stopped, turned back. If he hadn’t been experiencing an uncomfortable twist of sexual frustration, he might have laughed aloud at the combination of suspicion and derision in her eyes.
“How?”
“I know people Sharon knew.” As he spoke, he saw the derision alter to interest. But the suspicion remained. “It doesn’t take a long mental leap to realize you’ll be looking for a connection between Sharon and the girl whose photos you’re carrying. I’ll see if I can find one.”
“Information from a suspect doesn’t carry much weight in an investigation. But,” she added before he could speak, “you can let me know.”
He smiled after all. “Is it any wonder I want you naked, and in bed? I’ll let you know, lieutenant.” And walked back behind his desk. “In the meantime, get some sleep.”
When the door closed behind her, the smile went out of his eyes. For a long moment he sat in silence. Fingering the button he carried in his pocket, he engaged his private, secure line.
He didn’t want this call on his log.
chapter seven
Eve stepped up to the peep screen at Charles Monroe’s door and started to announce herself when it slid open. He was in black tie, a cashmere cape swung negligently over his shoulders, offset by the cream of a silk scarf. His smile was every bit as well turned out as his wardrobe.
“Lieutenant Dallas. How lovely to see you again.” His eyes, ful
l of compliments she knew she didn’t deserve, skimmed over her. “And how unfortunate I’m just on my way out.”
“I won’t keep you long.” She stepped forward, he stepped back. “A couple of questions, Mr. Monroe, here, informally, or formally, at the station with your representative or counsel.”
His well shaped brows shot up. “I see. I thought we’d progressed beyond that. Very well, lieutenant, ask away.” He let the door slide shut again. “We’ll keep it informal.”
“Your whereabouts night before last, between the hours of eight and eleven?”
“Night before last?” He slipped a diary out of his pocket, keyed it in. “Ah, yes. I picked up a client at seven-thirty for an eight o’clock curtain at the Grande Theater. They’re doing a reprise of Ibsen—depressing stuff. We sat third row, center. It ended just before eleven, and we had a late supper, catered. Here. I was engaged with her until three A.M.”
His smile flashed as he tucked the diary away again. “Does that clear me?”
“If your client will corroborate.”
The smile faded into a look of pain. “Lieutenant, you’re killing me.”
“Someone’s killing people in your profession,” she snapped back. “Name and number, Mr. Monroe.” She waited until he’d mournfully given the data. “Are you acquainted with a Lola Starr?”
“Lola, Lola Starr . . . doesn’t sound familiar.” He took out the diary again, scanning through his address section. “Apparently not. Why?”
“You’ll hear about it on the news by morning,” was all Eve told him as she opened the door again. “So far, it’s only been women, Mr. Monroe, but if I were you, I’d be very careful about taking on new clients.”
With a headache drumming at her, she strode to the elevator. Unable to resist, she glanced toward the door of Sharon DeBlass’s apartment, where the red police security light blinked.
She needed to sleep, she told herself. She needed to go home and empty her mind for an hour. But she was keying in her ID to disengage the seal, and walking into the home of a dead woman.
It was silent. And it was empty. She’d expected nothing else. Somehow she hoped there would be some flash of intuition, but there was only the steady pounding in her temples. Ignoring it, she went into the bedroom.