Ceremony In Death

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

She had a rosebud on her ass., and wasn't happy about it. Standing naked in the bathroom, Eve adjusted the trifold mirror until she could get a good look.

"I think I could bust her for this," she muttered.

"Decorating a cop's posterior without a license?" Roarke suggested as he strolled in. "Felonious reproduction of floral imagery?''

"You're getting a big charge out of this, aren't you?" Miffed, Eve snagged a robe off the hook.

"Darling Eve, I thought I made it perfectly clear last night I was on your side of the issue. Didn't I do my best to chew it off?"

She would not laugh, she ordered herself as she bit down hard on her tongue. There was nothing funny about it. "I've got to get some solution or something. Whatever they make to get it off."

"What's your hurry? It's rather… sweet."

"What if I have to go in for a disinfect? Or need to shower or change at the station? Do you know what kind of grief a butt tattoo's going to get me?"

He slid his arms around her, clever enough to get them under rather than over the robe. "You're not working today."

"I'm going in. I've got to check my unit, see if Feeney shot back some data."

"And it won't make any difference if you do it Monday morning. We've got the day off."

"To do what?"

He merely smiled, slid his hands lower to stroke her rosebud.

"Didn't we just do that?"

"It bears repeating," he mused, "but it could wait a bit. Why don't we spend the day lazing around the pool?"

Lazing around the pool? It had a certain appeal. "Well, maybe…"

"In Martinique. Don't bother to pack," he told her, planting a quick kiss on her mouth. "You won't need anything but what you're wearing."

She spent the day in Martinique, wearing nothing but a smile and a rosebud. That might have been why she was dragging a bit more than usual on Monday morning.

"You look tired, Lieutenant." Peabody dug a bag out from her field kit, set two fresh cream donuts on the desk. She was still beaming over the fact that she'd gotten them through the bullpen without the hounds sniffing them out. "And sort of tanned." She peered closer. "You get a flash?"

"No. Just got some sun yesterday, that's all."

"It rained all day."

"Not where I was," Eve muttered and filled her mouth with pastry. "I've got a probability ratio to run by the commander. Feeney worked some numbers, we're still pretty light, but I'm going to shoot for round-the-clocks on the top suspects."

"I don't suppose you want my probability ratio on your chances of getting it. New interoffice came down this morning about excess overtime."

"Fuck it. It's not excess if it's necessary. Whitney could play it to the chief – and the chief could play it to the mayor. We've got two high-profile homicides, generating a lot of media. We need the manpower to close them and turn off the heat."

Peabody risked a smile. "You rehearsing your pitch."

"Maybe." She blew out a breath. "If the numbers were a few points higher, I wouldn't have to pitch so hard. There are too many people involved; that's the problem." Lifting her hands, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. "We've got to run the name of every member of both cults. Over two hundred people. Say we eliminate half on data and profile, then we've still got a hundred to tag, check alibis."

"Days of work," Peabody agreed. "The commander would probably spring for a couple of uniforms to knock on doors, sweep out the obvious noninvolved."

"I'm not sure there are any obvious noninvolved." Eve pushed away from her desk. "It took more than one person to transport Lobar's body, strap him onto that form. And it took a vehicle."

"None of the primes owns a vehicle large enough to have carried and concealed the body and the pentagram."

"Maybe one of the membership does. We run names through vehicle licensing. Failing that, we start checking on rentals, vehicles reported stolen on the night of the murder." She pushed at her hair. "And it's just as likely whoever dumped him jumped a vehicle from one of the long-term lots, and nobody ever noticed."

"Do we check, anyway?"

"Yeah, we check, anyway. Maybe Feeney can spare somebody in EDD to do some of the grunt work. Meanwhile, you get started, and I'll go begging to the commander." She punched her 'link when it beeped. "Dallas, Homicide."

"I need to talk to you."

"Louis?"

Eve cocked a brow. "You want to talk about the charges against your client regarding resisting, you talk to the PA."

"I need to talk to you," he repeated, and she watched as he lifted his hand to his mouth and began to gnaw away his perfect manicure. "Alone. Privately. As soon as possible."

She lowered a hand, signaling Peabody to keep back and out of view. "What about?''

"I can't talk about it on the 'link. I'm on my pocket unit, but even that's risky. I need you to meet me."

"Come here."

"No, no, they may be following me. I don't know. I can't be sure. I'm being careful."

Had he made the shadow Feeney'd put on him, Eve wondered, or was he just being paranoid? "Who might be following you?"

"You've got to meet me," he insisted. "At my club. The Luxury on Park. Level Five. I'll leave your name at the desk."

"Give me some incentive, Louis. I've got a full plate here."

"I think – I think I saw a murder. Just you, Eve. I won't talk to anyone else. Make sure you're not followed. Hurry."

Eve pursed her lips at the blank screen. "Well, that's incentive. I think we've caught a break, Peabody. See if you can sweet-talk Feeney into giving you an extra pair of hands from EDD."

"You're not going to meet him alone," Peabody protested as Eve grabbed her bag.

"I can handle one scared lawyer." Eve bent down, checked the clinch piece strapped to her ankle. "We've got a man outside the club in any case. And I'm leaving my communicator on. Monitor."

"Yes, sir. Watch your back."

– =O=-***-=O=-

The fifth floor of the Luxury Club held twenty private suites for the members' use. Meetings of a professional or private nature could be held there. Each suite was individually decorated to depict its own era, and each contained a complete communication and entertainment center.

Parties could be held there, of the large or the intimate nature. The catering department was unsurpassed in a city often preoccupied with food and drink. Licensed companions were available through the concierge for a small additional service charge.

Louis always booked Suite 5-C. He enjoyed the opulence of the eighteenth-century French style with its emphasis on the decorative. The rich fabrics of the upholstery on curved-backed chairs and velvet settees appealed to his love of texture. He enjoyed the thick, dark draperies, the gold tassels, the gleam of gilt on pier glass mirrors. He had entertained his wife, as well as an assortment of lovers, in the wide, high, canopy bed.

He considered this period to have embodied hedonism, self-indulgence, and a devotion to earthly pleasures.

Royalty had ruled and had done as it pleased. And hadn't art flourished? If peasants had starved outside the privileged walls, that was simply a societal mirror of nature's natural selection. The chosen few had lived life to the hilt.

And here, in midtown Manhattan, three hundred years later, he could enjoy the fruits of their indulgence.

But he wasn't enjoying them now. He paced, drinking unblended scotch in quick, jerky gulps. Terror was a dew on his brow that refused to be wiped away. His stomach roiled, his heart rabbitted in his chest.

He'd seen murder. He was nearly sure of it. It was all so hazy, all so surreal, like a virtual reality program with elements missing.

The secret room, the smoke, voices – his own among them – lifted in chant. The taste, lingering on the tongue, of warm, tainted wine.

Those were all so familiar, a part of his life now for three years. He'd joined the cult because he believed in its basic principles of pleasure, and he'd enjoyed the rituals: the robes, the masks, the words repeated and repeated while candles guttered into pools of black wax.

And the sex had been incredible.

But something was happening. He found himself obsessing about meetings, desperately craving that first deep gulp of ceremonial wine. And then there were the blackouts, holes in his memory. He'd be logy and slow to focus the morning after a rite.

Recently, he'd found blood dried under his nails and couldn't remember how it had gotten there.

But he was starting to. The crime scene photos Eve had shown him had clicked something open in his mind. And had filled that opening with shock and horror. Images swirled behind his eyes. Smoke swirling, voices chanting. Flesh gleaming from sex, the moans and grunts of vicious mating. Dank black hair swaying, bony hips pumping.

Then the spray of blood, the gush of it, spurting out like that final cry of sexual release.

Selina with her feral, feline smile, the knife dripping in her hand. Lobar – God it had been Lobar – sliding from the altar, his throat gaping wide like a screaming mouth.

Murder. Nervously, he twitched the heavy drapes open a fraction, let his frightened eyes search the street below. He'd seen a blood sacrifice, and not of a goat. Of a man.

Had he dipped his fingers into that open throat? Had he slipped them between his lips to taste the fresh blood? Had he done something so abhorrent?

My God, dear God, had there been others? Other nights, other sacrifices? Could he have witnessed and blanked it from his mind?

He was a civilized man, Louis told himself as he jerked the draperies back into place. He was a husband and a father. He was a respected attorney. He wasn't an accessory to murder. He couldn't be.

With his breath coming fast and short, he poured more scotch, stared at himself in one of the ornately framed mirrors. He saw a man who hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, hadn't seen his family in days.

He was afraid to sleep. The images might come more clearly in sleep. He was afraid to eat, sure the food would clog in his throat and kill him.

And he was mortally afraid for his family.

Wineburg had been at the ceremony. Wineburg had stood beside him and had seen what he had seen.

And Wineburg was dead.

Wineburg had had no wife, no children. But Louis did. If he was in danger and went home, would they come for him there? He had begun to understand during those long, sleepless nights, when liquor was his only company, that he was ashamed at the thought of his children discovering what he had participated in.

He had to protect them and himself. He was safe here, he assured himself. No one could get inside the suite unless he opened the door.

Possibly, he was overreacting. He mopped his sweating forehead with an already sodden handkerchief. Stress, overwork, too many late nights. Perhaps he was having a small breakdown. He should see a doctor.

He would. He would see a doctor. He would take his family and go away for a few weeks. A vacation, a time to relax, to reevaluate. He would break off from the cult. Obviously, it wasn't good for him. God knew it was costing him a small fortune in the bimonthly contributions. He'd gotten in too deeply somehow, forgotten he'd entered into the cult out of curiosity and a thirst for selfish sex.

He'd swallowed too deeply of wine and smoke, and it was making him imagine things.

But he'd had blood under his nails.

Louis covered his face, tried to catch his breath. It didn't matter, he thought. None of it mattered. He shouldn't have called Eve. He shouldn't have panicked. She would think him mad; or worse, an accessory.

Selina was his client. He owed his client his loyalty as well as his professional skill.

But he could see her, a knife gripped in her hand as she sliced it across exposed flesh.

Louis stumbled across the suite, into the master bath and, collapsing, vomited up scotch and terror. When the cramps passed, he pulled himself up. He leaned over the sink, croaked out a request for water, at forty degrees. It poured out of the curved gold faucet, splashed into the blindingly white sink and cooled his fevered skin.

He wept a moment, shoulders trembling, sobs echoing off the shining tiles. Then he lifted his head, forced himself to look in the mirror once more.

He had seen what he had seen. It was time to face it. He would tell Eve everything and shift his burden into her hands.

He felt a moment of relief, sweet in its intensity. He wanted to call his wife, hear his children's voices, see their faces.

A movement reflected in the glass had him whirling, had his heart bounding into his throat. "How did you get in here?"

"Housekeeping, sir." The dark woman in the trim black-and-white maid's uniform held a stack of fluffy towels. She smiled.

"I don't want housekeeping." He passed a shaking hand over his face. "I'm expecting someone shortly. Just leave the towels and…" His hand slid slowly to his side. "I know you. I know you."

Through the smoke, he thought through the cracked ice of fresh terror. One of the faces in the smoke.

"Of course you do, Louis." Her smile never wavered as she dropped the towels and revealed the athame she held. "We fucked just last week."

He had time to draw breath for a scream before she plunged the knife into his throat.

– =O=-***-=O=-

Eve strode out of the elevator, bristling with annoyance. The reception droid had kept her waiting five full minutes while he checked her ID. He'd given her a hassle over taking her weapon into the club. She'd been considering just using it on him to shut him up when the day manager had bustled out full of apologies.

The fact that they'd both been aware he'd been apologizing to Roarke's wife rather than Eve Dallas had only irritated her.

She'd deal with him later, she promised herself. See how the Luxury Club would like a full-scale inspection by the Department of Health, maybe a visit from Vice to check out their LCs. She had strings she could pull to insure the management a couple of days of minor hell.

She turned toward 5-C, started to punch the buzzer under the peep screen. Her gaze flickered over the security light. It beeped green for disengaged.

She drew her weapon. "Peabody?"

"Here, sir." Though her voice was muffled against Eve's shirt pocket.

"The door's unlocked here. I'm going in."

"Do you want backup, Lieutenant?"

"Not yet. Stay on me."

She slipped inside, soundlessly, shut the door at her back. She kept to her defensive crouch, sweeping her weapon and her gaze through the room.

Fancy furniture, ugly and overdone in her mind, a rumpled suit jacket, a half-empty bottle. Drapes drawn. Quiet.

She stepped farther into the room, but kept near the wall, guarding her own back as she circled. No one hid behind the furniture, behind the drapes. The small kitchen was empty and apparently unused.

She stepped to the doorway of the bedroom, again crouched, again sweeping her weapon. The bed was made, heaped with decorative pillows and apparently hadn't been slept in. Her gaze moved to the closet, the firmly shut carved doors.

She sidestepped toward it, then heard the sounds from the bathroom. Quick, heavy breathing, grunts of effort, a distinctly female chuckle. It passed through her mind that Louis might be having a quick roll with the LC of his choice, and she gritted her teeth in annoyance.

But she didn't relax her guard.

She stepped left, shifted her weight, and swung to the doorway.

The smell hit her an instant before she saw it.

"Jesus. Jesus Christ."

"Lieutenant?" Peabody's voice, ringing with concern, piped out of her pocket.

"Back off." Eve leveled her weapon at the woman. "Drop the knife and back off."

"Sending backup now. Give me your situation, Lieutenant."

"I've got a homicide. Really fresh. I said back the hell off."

The woman only smiled. She straddled Louis, or what was left of him. Blood pooled on the floor, splattered the white tiles, coated her hands and face. The stench of it, and the gore, was thick as smoke.

Louis, Eve noted, was well beyond hope. He'd been gutted and disemboweled. And he was busily being eviscerated.

"He's already dead," the woman said pleasantly.

"I can see that. Put down the knife." Eve took a step closer, gesturing with the weapon. "Put it down and move away from him. Slow. Face down on the floor, hands behind your back."

"It had to be done." She slid her leg over the body until she was kneeling beside it, like a mourner over a grave. "Don't you recognize me?"

"Yeah." Even through the mask of blood, Eve had made the face. And she'd remembered the voice, the sweetness of it. "Mirium, right? First-degree witch. Now, drop the fucking knife and kiss the floor. Hands behind you."

"All right." Obligingly, Mirium set the knife aside, barely glancing at it when Eve trapped it under her heel, sent it skidding across the room well out of reach. "He told me to be quick. In and out. I lost track of time."

Eve tugged her restraints from her rear pocket, snapped them in place over Mirium's wrists. "He?"

"Chas. He said I could do this one all by myself, but to be fast." She let out a sigh. "I guess I wasn't fast enough."

With her mouth thin, Eve looked down at Louis Trivane. No, she thought I wasn't fast enough. "You copy that, Peabody?"

"Yes, sir."

"Pick up Charles Forte for questioning. Do it personally, and take two uniforms for backup. Don't approach him alone."

"Affirmative. Do you have the situation under control there, Lieutenant?"

Eve stepped back from the blood running in a rivulet toward her boots. "Yeah," she said. "I've got it."

She showered and changed before the interviews. The ten minutes it took was necessary. She'd all but bathed in Louis Trivane's blood before she'd released his body to the ME. If anyone in the lockers noticed the elegant little flower on her ass, there was no comment.

The buzz on the state of this particular crime scene had already swarmed through the station.

"I'm taking Mirium first," Eve told Feeney as she studied the dainty woman through the one-way glass.

"You could take a break, Dallas. Word is, it was pretty rough over there this morning."

"You always think you've seen it all," she murmured. "But you never do. There's always something else." She blew out a breath. "I want to do it now. I want to close this."

"Okay. Duet or solo?"

"Solo. She's going to talk. She's on something…" Eve shook her head. "Maybe she's just plain crazy, but I think she's using. I'm going to get her to sign for a chemi-scan. The PA doesn't like confessions given under the influence."

"I'll order one up."

"Thanks." She moved past him, walked into the room. Mirium's face had been washed clean of blood. She wore a baggy disposable shift in police station beige. And still managed to look like a young, eager fairy.

Eve set the recorder, entered standard, then sat. "You know I've got you tagged, Mirium, so we don't have to take that dance. You murdered Louis Trivane."

"Yes."

"What are you on?"

"On?"

"Doesn't look like straight Zeus, you're too mellow. Will you agree to a drug scan?"

"I don't want to." Her pretty mouth pouted; her dark eyes sulked. "Maybe later I'll change my mind." She pursed her lips and plucked at the thin skirt of the shift. "Can I get some of my own clothes? This thing's itchy, and it offends the eye."

"Yeah, we're real worried about that right now. Why did you kill Louis Trivane?"

"He was evil. Chas said so."

"By Chas you're referring to Charles Forte."

"Yes, but no one calls him Charles. It's just Chas."

"And Chas told you Louis was evil. Did he ask you to kill Louis?"

"He said I could. Other times I just got to watch. But this time I got to do it myself. There was a lot of blood." She lifted a hand, studied it carefully. "Gone now."

"What other times, Mirium?"

"Oh, other times." She moved her shoulders. "Blood purifies."

"Did you assist or witness other murders?"

"Sure. Death is a transition. I got to do this one. It was a very powerful act. I cut the demon out of him. Demons exist, and we fight them."

"By killing the people they inhabit."

"Yes. He said you were smart." Mirium beamed at her out of slanted black eyes. "But you'll never touch him. He's too far removed from your law."

"Let's go back to Louis. Tell me about it."

"Well, I have a friend on staff at the Luxury. All I had to do was screw him, and that was okay. I like to screw. Then I slipped one of the master codes in my pocket. You can get in most anywhere with a master. I put on one of the maids' dresses, so no one would bother me, and I went right on in Louis's suite. I took him towels. He was in the bathroom. He'd been sick, I could smell it. Then I stabbed him. I went for the throat, just like I was supposed to. Then I guess I got into it."

She moved her shoulders again, sent Eve a mischievous smile. "It's kind of like punching a knife through a pillow, you know. And it makes this sucky noise. Then I cut the demon out of him, and you came. I guess I'd finished, anyway."

"Yeah, I guess you had. How long have you known Chas?"

"Oh, a couple of years. We like to make it in the park, in the daytime, because you never know if somebody's going to come along and see."

"How does Isis feel about that?"

"Oh, she doesn't know." Mirium rolled her eyes. "She wouldn't like it."

"How does she feel about the murders?"

Mirium's brows knit and her eyes unfocused for a moment. "The murders? She doesn't know. Does she? No, we wouldn't tell her about that."

"So it's just between you and Chas."

"Between me and Chas." Her eyes fluttered, stayed blank. "I guess. Sure."

"Have you told anyone else in the coven?"

"The coven?" She laid her fingers on her lips, tapped them. "No, no, it's our secret. Our little secret."

"What about Wineburg?"

"Who?"

"In the parking garage. The banker. Do you remember?"

"I didn't get to do that." She bit her bottom lip now, shook her head. "No, he did that. He was supposed to bring me the heart, but he didn't. He said there wasn't time."

"And Lobar?"

"Lobar, Lobar." Her fingers kept tapping. "No, that was different. Wasn't it? I can't remember. I'm getting a headache." Her voice turned petulant. "I don't want to talk anymore now. I'm tired." She laid her hands down on her folded arms and closed her eyes.

Eve watched her for a moment. There wasn't any point in pushing now, she decided. She had enough.

Eve signaled a uniform. Mirium murmured sulkily as Eve slipped the restraints back into place. "Take her down to Psych. Get Mira to do the evaluation, if possible; make a note to request permission for a drug scan."

"Yes, sir." Eve stepped to the door behind them, pushed a call button. "Have Forte brought to Interview Room C."

It occurred to her that she would like to lay her head on pillowed arms herself. Instead, she turned down the corridor into the observation area. Peabody stood beside Feeney.

"I want you in on this, Peabody. What did you think of her, Feeney?"

"She's whacked." He held out his bag of nuts. "Whether it's psych or induced, I dunno. Looks like a mix of both to me."

"That was my take. How come she seemed so damn normal the other night?" Then she pulled her hands through her hair and laughed. "I can't believe I'm saying that. She was standing naked in the woods letting Forte kiss her crotch."

She lowered her hands, pressed them to her eyes, then dropped them. "His father never used a partner. That was never hinted at. He worked alone."

"So, he's got a different style," Feeney said. "Whacked or not, the girl pinned Forte."

"It doesn't feel right to me," Peabody murmured, and Eve turned to her with a mildly interested glance.

"What doesn't feel right, Officer?"

Detecting the light trace of sarcasm, Peabody lifted her jaw. "Wiccans don't kill."

"People kill," Eve reminded her. "And not everybody takes their religion seriously. Had any red meat lately?"

The flush worked up from under Peabody's starched uniform collar. Free-Agers were strict vegan and used no animal by-products. "That's different."

"I walked in on a murder," Eve said shortly. "The woman with the knife in her hand identified Charles Forte as her accomplice. That's fact. I don't want you to take anything but fact into that interview room. Understood?''

"Yes, sir." Peabody stiffened her shoulders. "Perfectly." But she stood in place a moment longer when Eve strode off.

"She's had a rough morning," Feeney said sympathetically. "I got a quick scan of the first crime scene shots. It doesn't get any rougher."

"I know." But she shook her head, watching as Charles Forte was led into the room behind the glass. "But it just doesn't feel right."

She turned away, headed around the corner, and stepped into the interview room just as Eve was reading Forte his rights.

"I don't understand."

"You don't understand your rights and obligations?"

"No, no, I understand them. I don't understand why I'm here." There was puzzlement and a vague sense of disappointment as he turned his gaze toward Peabody. "If you'd wanted to speak with me again, you had only to ask. I would have met you, or come in voluntarily. It wasn't necessary to send three uniformed officers to my home."

"I thought it was necessary," Eve answered shortly. "Do you want counsel or representation at this time, Mr. Forte?"

"No." He shifted in agitation, tried to ignore the fact that he was inside a police facility. Like his father. "Just tell me what you want to know. I'll try to help you."

"Tell me about Louis Trivane."

"I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I don't know anyone by that name."

"Do you usually send your handmaids out to murder strangers?''

"What?'' His face went white as he pushed himself to his feet. "What are you talking about?"

"Sit down." Eve snapped the order out. "Louis Trivane was murdered two hours ago by Mirium Hopkins."

"Mirium? That's ridiculous. That's impossible."

"It's very possible. I walked in while she was cutting out his liver."

Chas swayed, then sank onto his chair. "There's a mistake. It couldn't be."

"I think the mistake was yours." Eve rose, wandered over, then leaned over his shoulder. "You should pick your weapons more carefully. When you use defective ones, they can turn on you."

"I don't know what you mean. May I have some water? I don't understand this."

Eve jerked a thumb to Peabody, signaling her to pour a glass. "Mirium told me everything, Chas. She told me that you were lovers, that you neglected to bring her Wineburg's heart as promised, and that you'd allowed her to execute Trivane herself. Blood purifies."

"No." He lifted the glass in both hands and still slopped water over the edge as he tried to drink. "No."

"Your father liked to slice people up. Did he show you how it was done? How many other defective tools have you used? Did you dispose of them after you'd finished with them? Keep any souvenirs?"

She continued to hammer at him while he sat, just sat, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"Was this your version of a religious war, Chas? Eliminate the enemy? Cut out the demons? Your father was a self-styled Satanist, and he'd made your life a misery. You couldn't kill him, you can't get to him now. But there are others. Are they substitutes? When you kill them, are you killing him, hacking him to pieces because of what he did to you?"

He squeezed his eyes tight, began to rock. "God. My God. Oh God."

"You can help yourself here. Tell me why, tell me how. Explain it to me, Chas. I may be able to cut you a break. Tell me about Alice. About Lobar."

"No. No." When he lifted his head, his eyes were streaming. "I'm not my father."

Eve didn't flinch, didn't look away from the desperate plea in his eyes. "Aren't you?" Then she stepped back and let him sob.