by J. D. Robb
But she could recognize herself.
The hair wasn’t like her hair. Was it? Scooped back, higher on the top, fussier again with a little bit of curl.
“You’ve got to see the back,” Mavis told her, and grabbed a big hand mirror. “It’s all about the back.”
Mavis held up the mirror; Trina angled the chair.
Eve saw now the higher top and little bit of curl held up with the comb. A few more little curls dangled down with the rubies and diamonds.
“It’s . . . girlie.”
“Be a girl tonight. It won’t kill you. The do fits the comb and the dress.”
“How do you know it fits the dress? I don’t even know what the dress is.”
“How am I supposed to do you up if I don’t know what you’re wearing? I saw the dress. The do and the rest of you are designed for the outfit.”
“And it’s fabulolicious,” Mavis assured her.
“Why don’t you get it, Mavis? Roarke said it would be front and center of her closet, shoes and accessories with it.”
“I’m all over that!”
“You look good.” Trina began packing up her tools. “My work always looks good. I’d leave you the lip shine, but you wouldn’t remember to slick it up anyway, so I’ll leave it with Mavis. She’ll remind you. Your man’s going to look strip-me-naked good ’cause he was born that way. You need to look good.”
“I don’t want people to strip naked when they look at me.”
On a bray of laughter, Trina continued to pack up. “They’re going to look at you and think: That’s one frosty bitch cop. Maybe you were born the bitch cop, I added the frosty. It’s what I do.”
“I can live with that. For a party.”
“This is the max,” Mavis cooed as she came back out of the closet. “The maximum mag. It looks like somebody melted old gold coins and made a dress. That’s my Leonardo.”
Eve studied as Mavis held it up. A pale, luminous, somehow watery gold with what looked like a very low-scooped neckline and long thin sleeves. She wouldn’t have called it—quite—teeny-tiny like Mavis’s dress. But it definitely earned tiny.
“Is that all of it?”
“You’ve got the body for it. Runway model but with muscle tone.” Trina closed two satchels, the size of the Dakotas—North and South. “The fabric’s why I used the Gold Dust shade of body glo.”
“You’re going to look awesomillion,” Mavis declared. “Want help getting into it?”
“I can get myself dressed.”
“Step into it, pull it up,” Trina ordered. “Don’t put it on over your head. Come on, Mavis. We’ll find a spot and I’ll do your temp.” She shouldered each enormous satchel, picked up the small gift bag. “Thanks for the candles. I really like burning the fragrance, like there’s one for each season.”
“No problem. I didn’t really—”
“Thanks.” Trina cut her off. “We’ll have the chair and table out of the way after I do this temp.”
“Right behind you, Trina.” But Mavis scurried over to Eve as Trina walked out. “You helped her.” She kissed Eve’s cheek lightly.
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Maybe not, maybe that’s even better. See you at Party Central at Party Time! And we’ll all woo to the hoo!”
Alone—at last—Eve took her glass of champagne, drank. Breathed for a minute or two. All that female energy in one place tended to make her jittery. And, yeah, Mavis had it right. All that energy focused a little too closely on her made her jittery.
She looked at the dress again, then the shoes Mavis had set down by the bed. Gold again, with high red heels, red piping around the edges, even around the open toes. But, thankfully, no fussy straps. Still, she wasn’t putting them on until zero hour, she promised herself, and glanced down at her feet.
Her toenails were painted gold. When had that happened?
She’d live with it, that was all. It was one night. She could live with gold toenails for one stupid night.
She saw the incredibly tiny thong-type deal with the dress, sighed and wiggled into it. Happily, Leonardo had built in the tit support, so now she wiggled into the dress—as ordered—from bottom up.
It fit like it had been made for her because it had been. So there was comfort, at least, and it was really nice fabric, soft, sleek, with a gleam rather than a glitter. She could live with gleam.
She opened the jewelry case. Long, twisty diamond-and-ruby drops for the ears, another ruby in a star-shaped setting dangling from three thin chains twinkling with tiny diamonds. Her dressy wrist unit, and a trio of thin bangles—one ruby, two diamonds.
She had some small relief she’d, at least, seen all the pieces before. So he hadn’t gone out and bought her more.
She put on the earrings, the necklace, was fighting with the last bangle when Roarke came in.
Trina was right, she thought. He did look strip-me-naked good in his dark suit and his perfectly knotted tie of gold and red. He wore the little petunia on his lapel.
“When did you get dressed?”
“I used alternate quarters. You look wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”
“The word’s ultramazing.”
“It certainly fits.” He circled his finger in the air, smiled when she huffed at him. “Indulge me, would you?”
She did the turn.
“Once more?” he asked as he approached her. Then he caught her shoulders from the back. “Well now, that’s adorable.”
“What? What?” She struggled to see her own back, caught sight of something painted just above the low, nearly ass-brushing, back of the dress. “Shit. Shit! What the hell is that? What did she paint on me? Get it off!”
“I believe it’s a sprig of mistletoe, and I wouldn’t remove it for the world.”
“Why would she do that?” Aggrieved, Eve kept twisting to try to get a full look. “I was actually nice to her. Sort of.”
“That may be why. Mistletoe, Eve. And what is the tradition for under mistletoe?”
“How the hell do I know—that kissing thing? That’s the kissing deal, right?”
“So it is. And it appears to me she’s just given you a celebrational way of saying kiss my ass. It’s you, darling. Absolutely you.”
“She’s not supposed to—wait.” She twisted herself around again, narrowed her eyes in the mirror. “Kiss my ass? Huh. Maybe I won’t kick hers for doing it.” She untwisted, looked at him.
“You dressed me to match the decorations.”
“Precisely the opposite. The decorations were chosen to spotlight your dress. You.” He flicked a finger down the dent in her chin. “We should go up to the ballroom, be ready to greet guests—or we’ll both suffer Summerset’s wrath.”
“Okay.” Ordering her feet to suck it up, she put on the shoes. “If men had to wear heels, they’d be outlawed across the land.”
But she took his hand, walked with him.
• • •
It did look pretty great, Eve admitted, and looked even better really when people began to arrive. When they began to mingle around or gather in clutches. Servers wove through with offerings from the spectacular display of food or sparkling drinks from one of the bars.
Speaking of colorful, she spotted Peabody and McNab come in. He wore Christmas red tails with a silver shirt, a reindeer tie, and short silver boots. To complement, Eve supposed, Peabody’s frothy dress of holly green picked through with glittery silver. Since her partner’s hair was a mass of tiny curls with silver banding woven through, Eve felt less self-conscious about the hint of curls in her own.
“Peabody.” Roarke kissed her hand, then her cheek, then her lips. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Oh boy. I really worked on it.”
“You’re a vision. Ian, you’re a lucky man.”
“You got it.
Here you go, She-Body.” He plucked two glasses of champagne from a tray. “This is the iciest party of the year. We’re ready to cut the rug, kick the heels, shake the booty.”
“Look at the food. It’s so pretty. We have to dance asses off so I can eat the food. Is that a sugarplum tree? It’s a sugarplum tree. Oh my God.”
“Before you pick sugarplums,” Eve interrupted, “I need you a minute.”
Wanting to get this part over with, Eve started out—got waylaid twice by people who wanted to be sociable—and finally managed to get into the salon, shut the door behind Peabody.
“It’s going to be hours of that,” Eve realized. “Hours of people wanting to talk to me.”
“Here, you need this more than I do.” Peabody started to hand Eve the glass. “Wait, there’s more.” Instead, she walked over to the ice bucket, poured champagne into a glass on the tray nearby.
“Great. Good. Thanks. Listen.”
“I’m going to keep digging on Felicity Prinze tomorrow. I think she’s clear, like you do, but I can dig deeper, see if there’s anything there.”
“This isn’t about that.” She picked up a box from the table where Summerset had arranged her wrapped gifts. “It’s for you. Roarke has something for McNab.”
“Oh! We put yours under the tree downstairs. I can go get it.”
“No, we’ll get to it. Thanks in advance. I’m just—I’m giving these out tonight when I can, that’s all.”
“So I can open it now? I love when I can open it now. The paper’s so pretty.”
She picked at it delicately, carefully breaking seals.
“Jesus, Peabody, rip the damn thing open. I don’t have all night.”
“I can use it again. I haven’t wrapped everything yet.”
She slid the box free, carefully folded the paper, preserved the ribbon and bow. And finally opened the box.
“Oh!” She pulled out the gift, stared at it, eyes and mouth wide. “It’s a magic coat. It’s my own magic coat. It’s pink! It’s a pink magic coat. Holy shit! Holy pink magic shit, Dallas.”
“The pink was Roarke’s doing. You can’t hang that on me. I said brown.”
“I have to sit down. No, I have to try it on, then I have to sit down. Holy shit, you got me a pink magic coat.”
“Don’t blubber! Why is there so much blubbering today?”
“Thank God I used all waterproof, sweatproof, smudgeproof face enhancers, because I’m going to blubber. Dallas, wow. Just wow, it’s leather. It’s pink leather.”
“The pink’s not on me. Ever.”
“Holy, holy, holy shit. I can’t stop saying it.” She swung the coat on over the frothy dress. It looked silly with it, Eve thought, the military style of it over the party dress. But apparently Peabody didn’t think so. She twirled in it so the knee-length pink leather billowed and swirled.
“Oh my God, it’s beyond. Just beyond. It feels like leather. It is leather. It has pockets and pretty buttons. And it’s magic. and it’s pink.”
“I can’t go around wearing coats with internal body armor when my partner’s not.”
Peabody stopped twirling. She didn’t blubber, but a couple tears trickled down. “It means so much to me, that you’d have it made for me. For my safety. That all by itself means everything. But the rest? It didn’t have to be leather, it didn’t have to be pink. But you did that because you knew it would make me happy.”
“You get stunned or stuck or blasted, it’s pretty damned inconvenient for me.” On Peabody’s watery laugh, Eve sighed. “You’re . . . family. That’s it.”
Peabody grabbed her, squeezed. “Okay, okay.” Eve tapped her on the back. “Okay, okay.”
“I love you. People don’t say that to people enough, so I’m saying it. I really love you, and I’m going to let go in a second because I know it weirds you. But thanks. Thank you so much.”
“Okay.”
“I have to go thank Roarke.” Peabody pulled back. “And show McNab. Then I need to put it away safe. Is there someplace I can put it?”
“Give it to Summerset. He’ll stow it.”
“Right. Oh, wow. Just wow. I’m thanking you again right now by not hugging you again and kissing you on the lips.”
“And I’m saying you’re welcome by not putting a boot up your ass.”
Still wearing the coat, Peabody bolted out.
Eve took another minute. She really hadn’t signed off on the pink, but that was okay. In the big picture way, the color had been the icing on the Peabody cake, so it was okay.
Eve opened the door just as Charles Monroe and Louise walked up. “Hey.”
Charles did kiss her on the lips. “Merry Christmas, Lieutenant Sugar.”
“Merry Christmas. Hey, if I give you a present,” she said to Louise, “can I have a couple minutes to talk to Charles?”
“What kind of present?” Smiling, looking elegant and sleek in a shimmer of winter white, Dr. Louise DiMatto winked at her husband. “He’s a pretty special present himself.”
Eve stepped back, gestured them in. She found the gift bag for Louise. “This kind.”
“I was kidding, but I’ll take it.” Louise pulled out froth after froth of sparkly tissue paper, unearthed the handbag.
It borrowed its shape from the old-fashioned doctor’s bag, changed it up with the color of smoky lavender, the silver buckles.
The inestimable Tiko had polished it off with one of his scarves—deep purple, metallic silver, tied artistically on the handles.
“Oh, I love it! Dallas, it’s fabulous. It’s gorgeous—and the scarf is just lovely. Thank you.”
Eve got another hug, a buss on the cheek.
“Good, welcome. Now give me a couple minutes with Charles. If you see Summerset, he’ll stow that for you.”
“I can build an outfit around this bag and scarf.”
When she left them alone, Charles gestured to the ice bucket. “Mind?”
“No, go ahead. It’s a party. I just wanted a couple minutes to pick your brain—exploit your two careers, if it’s okay?”
“It’s always okay. So you’re picking for sex?”
“You could say. When you were an LC—and I guess now, too, in your sex therapist job, did/do you run into many people who trade sex for money? Unlicensed. Who just make a sideline out of it?”
“Sure. Not always money, but compensation. Clothes, jewelry, a favor, a trip. Some live their lives trading sex for money or things. You’d know that.”
“Yeah.” But this was different, she thought. “I mean someone who pursues it as a serious sideline, even keeps books.”
“Well, that would be less common.” He sat, a vid-star handsome man who might have been born with a flute of champagne in his hand. “I haven’t worked with anyone in therapy who has that issue, but I knew a few in my LC days.”
“And what sort of clientele are we talking? What drives the bargain, on both sides?”
“For the provider? Sex is a commodity or a power or so confused with their self-worth they can’t separate the two. For the receiver, it’s most usually romantic confusion. They can tell themselves it’s not business, which in this case it is, just not legal business or structured business. Or, often if there’s an age or monetary gap, the receiver feels they’re simply taking care of the giver. Simply providing them with little gifts or advantages. This gives them the power, or at least the illusion of it, in the relationship.”
“Why not just go to an LC, keep it . . .”
“Inside the lines? For some it might be more exciting, or more intimate, or it could be the relationship devolved into pay for play. Who was killed?” he asked. “The provider or the receiver?”
“Provider. I also suspect him of blackmail. And I know in several cases it wasn’t a receiver in the sense they agreed. He dosed them.”
&nb
sp; His eyes changed, hardened. “That changes quite a bit. Do you know if he’d attempted to get a license?”
“Not as far as I can tell. He kept a spreadsheet, kept his money off the books, but kept a personal record. Women only for the sex. And some were fine with paying him. Others, generally younger than the willing ones, some of them married, he lured in, dosed, raped, then blackmailed.”
“He’d never have gotten through the training or the psych tests to get a license, not in New York. Not even street level if he’d been screened. What you’re describing, to me, is someone who felt no real connection to the receiver. It’s a business transaction, of course, but an intimate one that requires, at least on the higher levels, some finesse, some care and considerable training to handle various needs and situations. Above all, there has to be trust in the provider. A man like this would never have been able to gain real trust. You’ve spoken with Mira?”
“Yeah, and this is all running along her lines and my own. But you’ve been in the life, and now you treat people for sex stuff.”
Nodding, Charles sipped the frothy wine. “Do you suspect one of the women he used?”
“Maybe. Maybe. It feels like, if that’s the case, okay, you bash him in the head a couple times on impulse. That’s how he bought it. But then if you’re going to add a flourish, and the killer added one, wouldn’t you cut off his balls, or jab the knife in his groin—something that relates?”
“First, let me say: Ouch. They stabbed him after—so you’re thinking it might have been a jealous partner of one of the women, or one of the people—male or female—he blackmailed?”
“Maybe. Likely. I’m gathering information.”
“What sort of flourish, if you can tell me?”
“Stabbed. His own kitchen knife.”
“I meant where was he stabbed?”
“In the chest.”
“The heart?”
“Not exactly. It was more . . . oh. The heart? Symbolically, you’re thinking.”
“Some receivers fall in love. It’s a good LC’s job to walk the line between trust and affection, even a touch of infatuation, and love. A client who falls in love is dangerous, to the LC, to themselves. A knife through the heart?”