“I get it. I’ve got a soft spot, too. You can’t know everything there is to know about a friend, or fix every problem. It’s tough knowing they’ve got one, but…”
She trailed off, narrowed eyes staring at a middle distance.
“What?”
“Just thinking of friends. We’ve got time to drop in on the last of the mimosas-for-breakfast trio before I meet with Mira. Let’s see what Sasha has to say.”
Sasha Bride-West wasn’t inclined to say much. She was too busy groaning through crunches under the command of the hunk of beef-cake she introduced as Sven, her personal trainer.
“Ava and Tommy were going through a patch. Have you ever seen a marriage that didn’t? Sven, you’re killing me.”
“Ten more, my warrior. You’ll have abs to slay.”
“I can buy frigging abs.” When he made tsking sounds, she gritted her teeth and kept going. “Anyway, I’ve had three marriages. Not much smooth sailing, plenty of rough road. Seemed to work the opposite for Ava. But when she asked me to recommend a love machine, and to keep it to myself, I gave her a name—guy’s a genius in bed, and damn good company out of it—and kept it to myself.”
She collapsed, panting. “Water, Sven, I’m begging you.”
He offered her a towel first, to mop her face. She dabbed sweat off skin the color of rich caramel cream.
“Did you follow up?”
“You mean did I ask her for the deets after?” Sasha gulped down water, paused, gulped again. “Of course I did. She wouldn’t spill. And I wheedled pretty good.”
Sven took the nearly empty water bottle. “It’s time for your cardio.”
“I hate cardio. Let’s skip it and go straight to the massage.”
“Sasha,” said Sven, severely, and tsked again.
“All right, you sexy sadist.” She pulled herself up off the floor of her home gym to climb on the cross trainer. “Give me Paris, Sven. If I’m going to hike and sprint and step, it might as well be Paris. I was going to go over and see her this afternoon,” Sasha continued as the Arc de Triomphe flashed on her view screen. “But Bridge has it under control, and she’s better with this kind of thing than I am. When Ava’s ready for a distraction—for a trip or good drunk or retail therapy—I’m her girl. Brigit’s the soft shoulder.”
“How was Ava, on this last trip?”
“Good. Fine. Maybe a little tense and moody when we started out, but she chilled. Listen, I can’t talk and do this torment at the same time, so is that it?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Thanks. We’ll see ourselves out.”
As Eve turned away, she heard Sasha curse. “Sven, you bastard! There’s no hills like these on the frigging Champs-Élysées.”
7
THE MORNING INTERVIEWS GAVE EVE A LOT TO chew on. If there’d been time, she’d have done just that, in her office, with her boots on her desk and her eyes on her murder board. But sessions with Mira were gold, and not something she could afford to fluff off.
With Peabody writing up the statements and reports, Eve strode into Mira’s outer office.
“Dr. Mira is running a bit behind today,” the palace guard in the guise of admin informed her.
“How behind is a bit?”
“Only a few minutes.” The woman smiled. “You’re a minute late yourself, so it won’t be long.”
“Fine.” Turning away, Eve screwed up her face and mouthed, You’re a minute late yourself. Then pulling out her ’link called her oldest friend, Mavis Freestone. Seconds later, Mavis’s happy face, surrounded by an explosion of lavender hair, popped on screen.
“Dallas! Guess where we’re going? Me and Belly Button?”
“To hell in a handbasket?”
“To the baby doctor. Yes, we are!” Mavis said in an excited coo. “We’re all clean and shiny and we’re going to the baby doctor so he can look at our little dumpling butt, our magalicious baby girl ears, and our yummy tum-tummy. Isn’t that right, Bellamia? Say hi to Auntie Dallas, sugarcheeks. Say hi.”
Mavis’s face was replaced by the round-cheeked (maybe it did have something to do with sugar), bright-eyed, curly-haired infant Mavis had popped out a couple months before. There were candy-striped ribbons tied in bows in the curls, drool dripping down the pudgy chin, and a huge, gummy grin. “Say hi to Bellaloca, Auntie Dallas.”
“How’s it going, Belle. Mavis.”
“Wave bye-bye, my itsy-bitsy baby-boo. Bye-bye to Auntie Dallas. Give her a cooey-dooey—”
“Mavis!”
“What?”
“Mavis, I’m saying this for your own good. You have to stop the insanity. You sound like a moron.”
“I know.” Mavis’s eyes, currently purple, rolled. “I can hear myself, but I can’t stop. It’s like a drug. So totally S. Hang on.” She set down the ’link, and the screen filled with the rainbow hues of the nursery. Eve heard Mavis cooing and gooing, and assumed she was putting the kid down somewhere.
“Back. She’s so beautiful. And she’s so good. Just this morning—”
“Mavis.”
“Sorry. Back.” Mavis blew out a breath that fluttered the lavender bangs spiking over her eyes. “I’m kicking out to the studio later, working on a new disc. I’ll be around grown-up people, lots of crazy artistic types. That’ll help.”
“Yeah, crazy artistic types. That’s the ticket. I just have a question.”
“Lay it down.”
“If you and Leonardo were having problems in bed—”
“Bite your tongue in three sections and swallow it!”
“Just hear me out. If you were, and it got sticky.”
“It wouldn’t get sticky in bed if we were having problems there.”
“Ha. Serious. If it got serious, would you tell me?”
“Affirmative.” The purple eyes registered quick worry. “You and Roarke aren’t—”
“No. Second part of the question. If you started going to an LC—”
“Can it be a really frosty one? Can it be two frosty ones, with really big wanks?”
“Solid ice, mongo wanks. If you did that, you’d tell me about it.”
“Dallas, if I was doing it with a pro, you couldn’t shut me up. Which you’d want to because you wouldn’t want to hear how they licked warm, melted chocolate off my—”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“But since my big, cuddly bear already does that, and his wank is mucho mongo, I wouldn’t need the LC.”
“Okay.” Eve turned when she heard Mira’s door open. And staring, quickly ended the call. “Thanks. Later. Hey, Charles, small world.”
She might have bashed him with a brick. His expression jumped from shock to disbelief and ended on flustered. “I’ve heard people call New York a small town,” he managed. “I guess this is what they mean. I was just…Well.”
“Eve.” With a warm and welcoming smile on her pretty face, Mira stepped beside Charles. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Come right in. Charles, always a pleasure.”
“Thank you. I’ll…” He gestured without any of his usual style. “Let you get to work.”
Over her shoulder, Eve watched him stride rapidly away as she moved into Mira’s office. “What’s all that about?”
“Have a seat. We’ll have some tea.”
While Eve frowned, Mira moved with her usual graceful efficiency between the two scoop chairs to the AutoChef to order the flowery tea she seemed to live on. Her hair, a cannily highlighted sable, swung smoothly around her patient face, setting off her calm blue eyes. Her suit, a warm and dull gold today, showed off good legs.
“Since you don’t have a hair out of place, I’m guessing he didn’t drop by to bang you.”
Mira set delicate cups on the table between the chairs, and laughed with delight. “Wouldn’t that have been interesting? Because it is, I have no intention of confirming or denying.” She sat, crossed her legs smoothly, studied Eve’s face. “You’re annoyed because two of your friends have some private business they’re not
inclined to share with you.”
“I’m not annoyed.” Irked, Eve decided, maybe she was a little irked. “The vic’s wife is one of Charles’s clients, and I interviewed him regarding that this morning, so—”
“I’ll tell you that what Charles and I discussed has nothing whatsoever to do with your investigation. Now, about your investigation—”
“Is he in trouble?”
Mira’s eyes softened. “No, Charles isn’t in trouble. He has a lot on his mind at the moment.”
“So he keeps saying,” Eve replied, and dropped into a chair. “People are too much damn work.”
“They certainly can be.”
“I could find out. It’s my damn job to find things out.”
“But you won’t, because I’ve just told you he isn’t in trouble, and you won’t intrude.”
“If these people wouldn’t crisscross all the time in front of where I need to go, I wouldn’t have to think about them.”
Mira sipped her tea, but hiding her smile didn’t hide the open amusement in her eyes. “Your life’s more crowded than it used to be. And you’re more contented.”
“Yeah, I’m feeling real cozy right now. Forget it.” She shrugged it off. Charles was a big boy. “You read the file?”
“Yes.” Mira took another sip of tea as—Eve knew—she aligned her thoughts. “In my opinion, Anders knew his killer. The method used, the staging surrounding it, wasn’t just personal, but intimate. Sexual, of course, but sex isn’t always intimate. And there is no physical or forensic evidence that the victim engaged in sexual relations with the killer, or anyone on the night of the murder.”
“Nope, he was still holding a full load. No fluids on the sheets or on the body itself. No hair, but for a few strays from the vic, skin.”
“Yet it was staged to appear otherwise, and the staging’s important. It took time, and planning and preparation. The killer thought about how this could and would be done for some time. There’s no impulse here, no passion. A sense of the dramatic, even the theatric, but that underlying sense of order. It feels female. That may be sexist, but it doesn’t feel like a same sex crime.”
“If it was, he’d’ve staged the body differently. Given the logistics of man-on-man sex, I think a male killer would have positioned the body differently.”
Mira nodded. “That’s a good point.”
“And even though I told Peabody not to jump to female off the get, it strikes me that if we were dealing with a man—again, if sex was part of it—there’d have been more anger. If Anders was gay, he was deep in the closet. Added to it, in my interviews with the wife, she admits they’d had discussions about his sexual preferences, and she always speaks of women.”
“A female killer, then, one who is able to resist impulse, at least long enough to plan, and to execute that plan. One who enjoys the elaborate, the symbolic. Who had or believed she had an intimate relationship with the victim, who certainly at some point had a sexual one with him. Someone who finds sex both powerful and compelling, and demeaning.”
“There are LCs like that,” Eve speculated. “Who get wrapped up in it—like an addict—then burn out.”
“Yes, which is why they’re screened so thoroughly before licensing and thereafter to keep the license.”
“Are you leaning toward pro?”
“It certainly could be—there are factors that indicate that sort of intimacy again, and distance. A professional companion must subjugate his or her own needs in order to tailor the relationship to the client’s demands. The nature and the length of the relationship is completely in the client’s hands.”
“That’s what they’re paid for,” Eve commented.
“Yes, and the most successful are able to consider it as a profession.” They enjoy their work, or consider it a public service. Here, the victim was bound, was naked. He was the supplicant, the submissive. The scarfing, another symbol of who is in control, who is dominant.
“And speaking of S-and-M, bondage, and other fringe areas of sex, Mira sipped her flowery tea. “This was a sex crime, certainly, but not one of sexual rage, or revenge. The genitals aren’t destroyed or mutilated, but spotlighted.”
“There’s the word for it.”
Mira smiled a little. “Your crime scene notes indicate he insisted the bedroom door remain closed, had black drapes, and so on. This was a private man, one who had strong feelings about bedroom privacy. So by spotlighting his most private area, his most private business, the killer demeans him. Humiliates him even after death. And yet—”
“She—since we’re going with she—tranqs him halfway to a coma first. She didn’t want him to feel the pain or the fear. Didn’t want him to suffer the pain.” And that was a particular element that stuck in Eve’s craw. “It doesn’t fit.”
“It’s a contradiction, I agree. But people can be contradictory. It may have been an accident, may have been she miscalculated the dose. And before you say it, I will: No, I don’t think it was a miscalculation. Too much prep work to make such a big mistake.”
Eve sat a moment, then picked up the tea and drank before she remembered it wasn’t coffee. “Ah.” She set it down again. “I like the wife for it.”
Intrigued, Mira cocked her head. “I thought it was confirmed the wife wasn’t in New York during the time of the murder.”
“She wasn’t.”
“You suspect she hired the killer?”
“I’ve got nothing to support that. Nothing. Plus, I work back to why does a hire tranq him so heavily. What does a hire care if the target suffers? I’m going to have Roarke go over her financials, dig for other accounts, but it doesn’t feel like a hit. At least not a pro.”
“Why do you like the wife?”
“She’s smart. She’s a planner. She’s got an answer for everything. Her responses, reactions, her demeanor, all perfect, all just right. Like she fucking studied on it. And maybe it’s pushing me toward her, but I can’t get my head around this arrangement she said she and the vic had.”
Pushing up to pace, Eve ran it by Mira, condensing it down to the basics.
“You don’t believe her,” Mira concluded. “More, you don’t believe a couple inside a marriage could, or would, come to an agreement like this arrangement on sexual relationships.”
“Objectively, I know people could, and would, because objectively I know people are completely screwed up. But it doesn’t fit for me, it doesn’t…It’s like this one false note playing over and over in a song, and it throws me out every time. I don’t know if I don’t like the damn song, or if the song’s bullshit.”
“Objectivity is key to what you do, but so is instinct. If the note strikes you false, again and again, then you’d need to decide which note you’d play instead.”
“Huh. How does it strike you?”
“I haven’t heard it played from the source, and that can make a difference. But I will say that marriage partners often make arrangements and bargains that seem odd, or even wrong, to someone looking—or listening—in.”
“Yeah, I keep coming back to that, too. People do the whacked all the time.”
Time to let it stew, Eve decided as she hopped on a glide to start the trip back to Homicide. Time to take another look at the facts and evidence, and let the personalities and speculations simmer. With that in mind, she switched glides to detour to the Electronic Detectives Division. A face-to-face with its captain, and her old partner, might give her another angle on the security breach. She skirted by a couple of cops leaning back on the glide and jawing about basketball, wound her way around a grim-faced woman with her arms folded and piss in her eye before she ran into a logjam of bodies.
She smelled bad cologne, worse coffee, and fresh-baked goods as she snaked and elbowed her way through. Because the elevators were always worse, she stuck with the glides. As she neared EDD, the tone changed. The cops got younger, the clothes more trendy, the visible body piercings more plentiful. The smells edged toward candy and fizzy drinks. E
very mother’s son or daughter was hooked up—pocket ’links, ear ’links, headsets so the chatter jittered out, the noise of it rising through the corridor and reaching critical mass inside the squad room.
She’d never known an e-detective to be still for more than five minutes. They bopped, danced, tapped, jiggled. Eve figured it would take her less than that five minutes to go stark raving mad if she rode a desk in EDD. But it suited Feeney. He might have been old enough to have fathered most of his detectives, and his idea of fashion ran to making sure his socks matched, but the color and buzz of EDD fit him like one of his wrinkled suits.
Naturally.
She turned toward his office and his open door. An explosion of sound had her pausing, then approaching with more caution. Feeney sat at his desk. His ginger hair with its generous dashes of gray sat on his head like an electrified cat. Beneath it, his comfortably droopy face was clammy and pale, if you overlooked the bright red nose that sat in the middle like a stoplight.
The explosion of sound came again in the form of three blasting sneezes, followed by a rattling wheeze, and a barking curse.
“Man, you look bad.”
His puffy eyes lifted. The shadows under them seemed to droop right down to his clammy cheeks. “Got a freaking son of a bitching cold.”
“Yeah, I heard that. Maybe you should be in bed.”
“I’m in bed, the wife’s on me like white on tofu, how she told me I shoulda worn the muffler, and how she didn’t give me those nice earmuffs for Christmas. Damn things make me look like I got a couple of red rats coming out of my ears. She’ll want to be pouring Christ knows what into me.”
He hacked, sneezed, cursed. And Eve eased back another few inches.
“Plus, she’s been taking some godforsaken class on alternative medicine, and has it in her head colonics are the cure for every damn thing. You think I want a colonic?”
“I really don’t.”
He blew his nose heroically. “You want a rundown on the Sanders electronics.”
“Anders.” She could almost see the microscopic germs dancing and mating gleefully in the air around him. “Feeney, you gotta go home.”