by J. D. Robb
“And now?” Eve prompted.
“I agreed to meet Mars, as she’d hounded me. She’d started to insinuate I’d want to know what she knew—before everyone else knew. It’s a reality of my industry, that playing ball with her sort has to be done—to an extent. So I met her at the bar. She warned me to be careful how I reacted, what I said. ‘It’s crowded, isn’t it,’ she said. A lot of people here. A lot of people to gossip. She showed me a vid. She had a video of me, and two women in the bed I share with my wife. We were … in my wife’s bed.”
He’d gone pale and closed his eyes, struggling for composure.
“I would never—I love my wife. I would never do that to her. I’m not that person anymore. I told her—Mars—that it never happened. It was faked. She said it could and would be verified, and to add to that, she had witnesses who saw me leave the club—she had the name, the date, the time—with those two women. Drunk and fondling them. Getting in a cab together.”
“What about your house security?”
“I checked that the morning I woke up, after the club. I wanted to see when I got home, in what sort of condition. It had been turned off, by remote. By my code. Barely an hour after J.C., my friend, got that tag. Tonight, Mars said she knew DeAnna was very delicate, very fragile, how upsetting it would be for her to have to face this terrible gossip, this awful proof of my infidelity. How it would ruin my reputation, too, one I’d patched together. It would show everyone, including my wife, I was still a user, still a fraud.
“Then she turned and smiled at the waiter. I couldn’t even hear what they said to each other. My head was full of noise. I wanted to reach across the table and snap her neck. Just break it like a twig. She leaned toward me, still smiling, and said nobody had to know. She was good at keeping secrets—for friends.”
He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Sorry, I need some water.”
“Why don’t I get that for you?” Roarke rose. “The kitchen?” He gestured toward the back of the house, got a nod.
“How much did she want?”
He sat back, eyes closed. “She said friends do favors for each other. She’d do this one for me, and I’d pay her back. I didn’t raise my voice. I was screaming inside, but I didn’t raise my voice. I said I hadn’t done this. She’d set me up. She sat there, smiling, sipping her drink. Said the video would prove I did, and who’d believe she’d set me up, someone with my history? It would be eight thousand this month. I was stunned at how little, then she explained. Next month six thousand, the following seven, and we’d vary the payments. Didn’t I want to write this down? I just sat there. She…”
He trailed off when Roarke came back with a tall glass of water, iced. “Thanks. Thanks. God.” He drank, breathed, drank. “She said if I fed her other secrets, good information, that would lower the payment for that particular month. It would be my choice: cash or information. And no one would ever see the vid, no one would ever know. My wife would be blissfully ignorant of my deception, we’d have our sweet little babies and go on as we were. As long as I paid.
“I know there was more. Arguing, carefully arguing. I can’t remember it all. It’s like being in a play, and forgetting your lines. I said she’d have her blood money, but I’d never give her information, never put anyone else through what she was putting me through. She said I’d be surprised how that attitude evolves over time. For now I could meet her in two days, same time, same place, with cash. That’s when she got up, said she was going to freshen up before she left, and I could pay the check. She walked away.
“I didn’t kill her. I wanted to hurt her, but … what would it do to DeAnna? It would all come out, and I’d throw us both into a scandal. She needs to be happy, to be calm. The babies. We’re having triplets. My girls are inside my wife. I wouldn’t risk them, even for the satisfaction of hurting that bitch.”
“Where’s your brachial artery?” Eve tossed out.
His eyebrows drew together. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Do you know much about anatomy?”
“I know where everything is, more or less. I know a hell of a lot more about the female reproductive system than I’d like to, frankly. Artery? Like the heart?”
“Not exactly. I won’t speak to your wife, and I’ll do whatever I can do to keep this out of the media.”
Tears swam into his eyes. “Thank you. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
“I need the name and contact number of your friend—the one who went to the club with you. I need any and all communications you’ve had with Mars. It’s likely I’ll need to speak to you again, and I’ll expect your cooperation.”
“You’ll have it.”
“If you’ve lied to me, I’ll find out.”
“I haven’t. I wouldn’t risk my wife, our daughters.”
“It happens I believe you on that.”
* * *
When they walked back outside, Roarke slipped an arm around Eve. “You felt for him, and so did I.”
“I believe he loves his wife, and I think Mars targeted him—rich, former womanizer with a lot to lose—managed to have someone slip something into his drink. Which means she’d stalked him, watched him, picked her time. Wife’s gone for a couple of days—the threesome looks even worse in the marriage bed.”
“You don’t believe he killed her.”
“My hard lean is he was blindsided. He still has some doubts about his worth, especially after waking up from a blackout, and she counted on all that. He didn’t walk into that bar with a plan to kill, and I lean—fairly heavily—that her killer did. I also believe if she’d continued to bleed Bellami—threaten his wife, his family, his life—he would have eventually done her harm.
“But he didn’t do her harm tonight.”
“But someone else she’s bled—as, obviously, this is her business plan—did harm her tonight.”
Eve nodded. “Think about it. You bleed me, I bleed you, bitch. It’s downright poetic. Why the hell don’t people come to the cops?”
“Oh, let me count the ways.” He tugged her back when she pulled away. “I see your side of it, Lieutenant, but it’s a difficult leap for someone to come to a cop and confess they’ve embezzled, cheated, covered up some crime or misadventure. Blackmailers, as you very well know, depend on just that behavior. You just pay me, and I keep your secret.”
“And they never stop. You never stop the bleeding.”
“You’re absolutely right, but those in the middle of it have the hope it will, somehow. Those who can afford to pay? It’s just money compared to what else they might lose.”
“Or information,” she added. “I’m betting she bled plenty of that. Lowers the cash flow for the weasel, makes it easier to keep weaseling. It’s just gossip.”
She dropped into the car, put her head back. “Or favors,” she considered. “Like slipping something into some guy’s drink at a club. No way she’d have risked doing that herself. Maybe she hired the LCs, but that’s easy. Unlikely Bellami’s friend,” she considered. “We’ll check the story, check him, but it’s tough seeing a friend ruin the lives of two people who helped him launch his career.”
“She might have had something on the friend as well.”
“Yeah, winding that around, but unless I find he’s a scumbag, I don’t see it. Triplets, for God’s sake.”
She shuddered once.
“I need to see her place. It’s on Park.”
“You need food. So do I.”
“Oh. Yeah. Probably.”
“We’ll stop for—God help me—a pizza, then on to Park.”
“That’ll work.”
4
As Eve considered a couple of slices and a tube of Pepsi—no wine on duty—the perfect meal, she figured she owed Roarke points for reminding her to have a meal in the first place.
And the forty minutes or so spent on eating it gave her time to reorganize the current data in her mind.
“You’re in the women’s room,” she began
as she took the passenger seat once again.
“Then I hope all the women therein are nubile and scantily clad.”
“Perv.” She waved a finger in the air. “Reboot. I’m in the women’s room. Another female walks in, I don’t react, barely notice, keep doing what I’m doing.”
“Men imagine that to be grooming yourself and the other nubiles while scantily clad. The loo version of the classic pillow fight.”
“I repeat the perv comment.”
“I’m forced to say you’re wrong—not necessarily re the perv, but in your setup. If you’re in there, Lieutenant, and another female walks in, you’d not only notice but be fully capable of describing her in minute detail with a single glance out of those cop’s eyes of yours.”
“Okay, a civilian female is in the women’s room, another female walks in. She doesn’t think twice about it. A man walks in, she reacts. Possibly amusement if she’s not alone in there or if said man looks embarrassed and backs out again. Possibly outrage if she’s inclined in that direction, anxiety or fear if he appears threatening. But she reacts, notices, and is on guard.”
“So you lean toward a female killer?”
“Not necessarily. Those are generalities. Specifically, Mars is in the women’s room, someone walks in. A female, she doesn’t necessarily react—unless she knows said female. A male, she reacts, one way or the other. If she knows him, she probably leans toward amused or interested. If it’s one of her marks, which is a hell of a lot more logical than some random killer strolling in and slicing some random woman—plus, according to statements, she used the bar regularly—she has another sort of reaction. Maybe amusement, maybe annoyance, maybe curiosity, depending on her attitude toward said mark. But she’s not afraid.”
“Why do you conclude that?”
“Her lip dye’s on the shelf in front of the mirror. She hung her purse on the handy hook, took out her lip dye—and she had fresh on when she collapsed, so she used it. So he walks in. She either keeps putting it on, or closes it, sets it on the shelf. She’s got pepper spray, a panic button, and an illegal stunner in her purse, open and within easy reach, but she doesn’t go for any of them—her purse was organized, no jumble like you might get if you’re grabbing out a weapon or a defense. And she puts the lip stuff down.”
Eve could see it clearly enough in her head. The sweep of blond hair, the pink skin suit, the pink lips to match.
“I need Morris to verify, but both logic and my on-scene assessment say she faced her killer when he cut her. So she set down the lip gunk, turned. She’s like: Well, mark of mine, did you make a wrong turn? If he’s smart, he just steps up to her, slices, steps back out of the initial spray. Maybe he holds there for a few seconds, maybe he files a sweet, sweet memory of the shock on her face, of her slapping a hand over the wound, of the blood pumping out. Then he books it. It has to be fast. The place is crowded, and somebody else might come in.”
She frowned as Roarke drove uptown on Park. “He—or she—isn’t real smart. Real smart would have been to bring something along to block the door, let her bleed out in there, give himself more time, possibly more time. But in any case, the killer bolts—keeps it easy and casual when he gets back upstairs, strolls right out. Button up the coat if you got any blood on you—a few drops is almost inevitable, and Bellami didn’t have even a drop. Same suit and shirt and tie he wore in the bar.”
“You don’t suspect him in any case.”
“No, but that’s one more reason why. Minutes, it all takes just a couple minutes. Slice, step back, walk out, up, out. It’s likely she staggered out shortly behind, a little panic at first, then confusion, weakness. A couple more minutes and she staggers into the bar. Another minute, she’s dead.
“If the killer’s female, she may not have recognized her. If the killer’s male, she did. I’ll run probability, but that’s how I see it.”
He pulled up in front of a tall spear of a building that read gold in the streetlights. At the entrance, within a deep inward curve of glass, a doorman stood in hunter green livery with gold trim.
The doorman—woman, Eve corrected—strode to the car even as they got out. Her DLE didn’t look like much, deliberately and deceptively, and earned a single glance of quiet derision.
“Good evening. Are you visiting one of our residents?”
Eve held up her badge. The doorwoman gave it a long blink out of blossom blue eyes. “Can I help you with something, Lieutenant?”
“I need to get into Larinda Mars’s unit.”
“I don’t believe Ms. Mars is currently in residence.”
“No, and she won’t be, as she’s currently in residence at the morgue.”
Now the mouth, dyed a soft, conservative neutral, dropped open. “I’m sorry, are you saying Ms. Mars is dead?”
“Since she’s residing and not working at or visiting the morgue, yeah, I’m saying she’s dead. I need to get into her unit.”
“I…” She streamed out a breath the wind whisked away, sucked another in. “I can help you with that.” Though she gave the DLE another pained glance, she said nothing, led the way to the curved glass doors.
Inside was warm air and a blinding plethora of gold. Gold urns full of spiky, lethal-looking vegetation and flowers red and glossy enough to have been painted with blood, gold tables, a central chandelier formed of snaking twists of metallic gold. More bloodred, topped with gold marble, for the security counter.
The woman behind it offered a polite, professional smile that turned into a rounded O when she spotted Roarke.
“Give me a second,” the doorman said, going to consult with the lobby clerk.
The lobby clerk let out a gasp that edged close to a squeal, hissed out a bunch of questions. The doorman merely shook her head, then signaled Eve over.
“We’re going to need to scan and verify your identification, Lieutenant.”
Eve took out her badge, held it out for the mini-scanner.
“Okay. Um.” The clerk gave Eve a wide-eyed stare.
“How about you clear us up?” Eve suggested.
“Oh, yeah, sure. But … is Ms. Mars really dead and all?”
“She’s really dead and all.”
“Golly.”
“Did she get many visitors?”
“Well, we’re not really supposed to discuss our residents or their guests.”
“Police investigation.” Eve waved the badge in front of the clerk’s wide eyes.
“I guess she did. I mean, she had some, and she had parties and stuff. Deliveries. A lot of deliveries, right, Becca?”
“Plenty,” the doorwoman confirmed.
“How about regulars?”
“Well … I think she was dating Mitch L. Day. He’s the host of Second Cup on Seventy-Five. He’s kind of dreamy. But I guess, mostly, she gave parties and got deliveries.”
“Did she ever have any trouble here? Altercations, arguments?”
Now the clerk bit her bottom lip. “Well … I guess I don’t think she and the Wilburs got along very well. They have the penthouse opposite hers. She and Mrs. Wilbur wouldn’t speak or even ride up in the same elevator if they came into the lobby at the same time. And she—ah, Ms. Mars—lodged two complaints with the management that the Wilbur kids were disruptive. They’re really not, and the units are fully soundproofed.”
“They’re good kids,” the doorwoman put in. “She’s half a bitch.”
“Becca!”
In response, Becca shrugged. “You know she is—was—Roxie.”
Eve turned to Becca. “Only half?”
“I know it’s not chill to say bad things about the dead, but police investigation, right?”
“That’s right.”
Becca adjusted her cap. “She flashed that barracuda smile plenty, and butter wouldn’t melt. But she tried pumping me for gossip on other residents, and guests, too. Tried to bribe me for it.”
“How much?”
Becca’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “A hundred a p
op for anything she could use on air. Double that if she could make a special out of it. She didn’t like when I turned her down—I’m not going to compromise the privacy of the people in my building. And I wouldn’t with hers, either, except…”
“Police investigation.”
“Yeah, that. After I turned her down—and I know Luke and Gio did, too—they’re on the door, day shifts—she stiffed me. Us. Not another tip out of her. You turned her down, Rox.”
“I had to.” The lobby clerk bit her lip again. “You’re supposed to accommodate the residents, but golly, that’s against the rules. I could lose my job. Plus, you know, it’s just not nice.”
“Did she ever threaten either of you?”
“She filed a complaint against me.” Becca’s jaw tightened. “She didn’t get anywhere with it. I had to talk to the manager about it, but I had a couple dozen resident commendations against her one complaint. And I told the manager about the bribe. Luke and Gio backed me up there. Roxie, too.”
Now Becca smiled—showing a little barracuda herself. “I think the manager had a talk with Ms. Mars after because she never gave me any more trouble. I’m sorry she’s dead—a person doesn’t deserve to die for being half a bitch. But I’m not sorry she’s not going to be in residence.”
“Okay. I appreciate the cooperation. If you’d clear us up.”
“Sure, right away. I have to log in to make a copy of her swipes. It’ll only take a minute.”
“I’ve got a master,” Eve said. And a master B and E man if I need one.
“Oh, okay. Elevator three will take you up to her main entrance. Fifty-second floor. Penthouse.”
“Got it.”
With Roarke she walked to and into a gold—natch—elevator.