Indulgence in Death

CHAPTER NINE

EVE TOSSED PEABODY THE BAG OF CHIPS AS SHE walked into the nearly empty bullpen.

“Hey, thanks!”

“Did you earn it?”

“I’ve got a series of runs and searches going. So far, I can’t find any connection between Sweet and Urich. They both belong to health clubs, but different ones. Sweet has a cabin deal upstate. Urich has a summer place in the Hamptons, but the wife got that in the settlement anyway. They didn’t grow up or go to school anywhere near each other. They have different doctors in different areas of the city. They don’t even shop in the same areas.”

“Check out the exes. Might as well be thorough.”

“I got that started, too. So far, zip. Did a secondary run on the driver tonight. Nothing there, either. She’s worked for the service seven years, clean slate, no intersects I’ve found with Sweet. She has driven Urich a number of times, but that’s to be expected. I’m looking at Urich’s admin and her assistant. Not hitting anything yet.”

“McNab’s going to send down data on a pair of shoes. I want to know venues for purchase.”

“Shoes?”

“We got a partial image from park security. It’s not much, but we can get the shoe. I’m going to check out the vic’s place, get her appointment book.”

Peabody opened the chips, took a deep sniff. “You don’t want me along?”

“We need to get this drone work done. When you’ve got a good handle on it, take an hour—two if you need it—in the crib.”

She fueled up with coffee, then headed out. She started to leave the top up, just as a matter of principle, but decided what the hell. Who was going to see her zipping around topless at four in the morning?

Added to it, when she pulled to the curb in front of the shiny building on Park Avenue, the droid doorman didn’t sneer at her. Instead, he hustled up, respect in every circuit to open her door.

“Good morning, miss. How can I help you?”

“By not calling me miss.” Pleased, she pulled out her badge. “It’s Lieutenant. I’m leaving my ride here. Nobody touches it. I need access to Ava Crampton’s unit.”

“Miss—Lieutenant. Ms. Crampton hasn’t returned home this morning.”

“And she won’t be, seeing as she’s dead.”

He got that blank droid stare while he processed the unexpected information. “I’m sorry to hear that. Ms. Crampton was a valued tenant.”

“Yeah. Code me in.”

“I’m afraid I’ll need to verify your identification before admitting you.”

She held the badge up again, waited while its eyes scanned, while they processed. “Has anyone else tried to get into her place tonight?”

“No. Ms. Crampton occupied the penthouse triple, west corner, and there has been no exit or entrance to that unit since Ms. Crampton herself left at . . .” It got that droid stare again. “Twenty-two-thirty-two. At which time she took a private transportation, with driver, to an unknown to me destination. Do you require data on the transportation and/or driver?”

“No, I’ve got that.”

“I’ll pass you through to Ms. Crampton’s unit. Will you require my assistance?”

“All I require you to do is make sure my ride stays like it is, where it is.”

“Absolutely.”

Crampton had lived the high life, Eve thought as she rode a private elevator to the sixty-first floor. Three-level corner penthouse, with roof garden, on an exclusive piece of real estate.

More than sex, she mused. It took more than acrobatics and a good body to earn what it took to maintain this lifestyle.

The triple opened up into a sweeping foyer with an intricate chandelier of tangled and glinting silver draped with diamond-clear glass. Dark wood floors provided a canvas for rugs in bold colors and complicated patterns. Art maintained the theme, slashing hot, mixed colors and strange shapes against warm cream walls.

Furnishings, she noted as she wandered through the main level, managed to marry that complex style with sumptuous comfort. Deep, deep cushions and plenty of them, sparkling lights, mirrored tables, countless pillows.

A silver dining table held a huge clear vase of flowers someone with an artist’s eye had arranged—and recently. Over an ebony fireplace in that room reigned a pretty spectacular portrait of its former occupant, boldly nude as she reclined on a bed draped in red.

So, she hadn’t been the shy, modest type.

Eve swung through kitchen, powder rooms, a separate living area, admired the views more out of curiosity than necessity. It helped give her a sense of the woman. Lived full, she thought, lived well and enjoyed the fruits of her labors.

She took the clear curl of stairs rather than the elevator to the second floor.

The master—or mistress—bedroom was massive, and needed to be to accommodate the bed. Eve estimated it could sleep six, and wondered passingly if it had. She’d gone for gold tones in here, warm rather than glossy. And had spread the bed with what looked to be an acre of textured gold silk. Curvy sofas, more pillows, carved tables, lamps dripping with beads, and another, less massive arrangement of flowers continued the indulgent, sink-into-it style.

In the many drawers of the bedside tables, Eve found an expansive and efficiently organized arrangement of sex toys and enhancements.

She estimated the dressing room/closet combo to be about the size of her bullpen at Central, and also strictly organized. Full of rich fabrics, she noted, pricey labels, and enough shoes to outfit the population of a small country.

A tall, drawered case was locked and bolted to the floor. Jewelry, she decided. She’d get to that.

For now, she took a look at the bathroom, decided Crampton might just out-Roarke Roarke in some areas, then wandered the second floor.

Two guest suites, both generous and well outfitted, a second lounging area with a small, efficient kitchen . . . and an equally well-outfitted S&M room. Plenty of black leather, velvet ropes, a selection of whips and crops, restraints. Another bed, this one draped in black satin, a jeweled case of small knives with ornate handles.

She went to the third level. Here, she mused, was the business center. A CEO’s office, luxurious certainly, but designed for serious business. A full wall of screens, organized file discs, a muscular data-and-communications center. It boasted another small kitchen with a stocked AutoChef and full-sized fridge, a bar holding several bottles of good wine, liquor, mixers.

She expected the computer to be secured and passcoded, and it was. Leaving that for the moment, she rifled through drawers until she found the appointment book. She found the entries both businesslike and discreet.

On the day she died, Ava Crampton spent the afternoon in her salon for what Eve assumed was the works. At five she’d scheduled a Catrina Bigelo for two hours at the Palace. Roarke’s hotel, Eve thought. Why not fuck in the best?

She had Foster Urich listed, with a ten-thirty P.M. pickup by Elegant Transportation, for the meet at Coney Island. A four-hour date, with the option for overnight held open.

Costly, she mused.

Ava had a notation after his name. New Client, vetted and cleared.

Eve used her com to schedule an EDD team to pick up the electronics, but there was little else. The answers, she thought, weren’t here in the victim’s space. Still, they’d have to look through that space, at her, at all of her secrets.

She pressed her fingers to her eyes, rubbed hard, tried to will her second wind to kick in. She glanced with longing at the AutoChef thinking of coffee. She’d bet the vic sprang for real.

But copping a cup was disrespectful.

She pushed herself to her feet. She’d just have to choke down whatever she could find on the street, get the boost if not the flavor.

By the time she came out of the building, New York was changing shifts. Those who played or worked by night started home, or to wherever they hoped to flop for the night. Those who lived by day switched on lights in their apartments, hurried to catch the early train or tram. Sanitation crawled down the streets, clanging dully about its work.

But along with the scent of garbage she caught the perfume of bakeries, pushing the sugary, yeasty smells outside through their venting to lure in that change of shift.

She remembered the chips she’d tossed on the passenger seat, and had them for breakfast as she drove to the morgue. There, she settled on a tube of cold caffeine, much safer than what passed as coffee.

She didn’t expect anyone to have started the PM on Crampton. She simply wanted another look at her victim before she went back to Central.

She walked into Morris’s suite, and there he was, putting on his protective gear with the body already prepped and on his table.

“Did you catch the night shift?” she asked. Then she saw it, the sadness, the signs of a sleepless night.

He wore black again, stark and unrelieved.

“No. But I see you did.” He sealed his hands as he studied the body. “She was particularly beautiful.”

“Yeah. Top-tier LC.”

“So I saw in your report. I don’t have anything for you. I haven’t started.”

“I was in the field, and wanted another look at her before I went in.” She hesitated, but the unhappiness on his face twisted her up. “Bad night?”

He looked up, met her eyes. “Yes.” Now he hesitated while she tried to figure out what to say, or if to say anything.

“There are times I miss her more than seems possible, or bearable. It’s better. I know it’s better because it’s not every moment of every day, or even every day, every night. But there are times I realize, again, there is no Amaryllis Coltraine in the world, in my life, and it chokes me.”

She didn’t think about what she could or should say now, but only said what came through the heart and into her mind. “I don’t know how much better it gets, Morris, or how long it takes. I don’t know how people get through it.”

“Minute by minute, then hour by hour, then day by day. Work is solace,” he said, “friends are comfort. Life is for the living. You and I know that, even though we spend so much time with the dead—maybe because of that we know we have to live. Chale has been a great help to me.”

“That’s good,” she said, thinking of the priest she’d suggested Morris talk to. “You can . . . you know, anytime.”

“Yes.” His lips curved. “I know. You’re work, and a friend, so have been both solace and comfort.” He sighed, looked at the body again. “So.”

“I’ll let you work.”

“Tell me about her,” he said before she turned away. “What’s not in your report.”

“She lived well. She took care of herself, of her business. I think she was smart, and I think she took pride in her work, and I think she must have enjoyed it. I don’t think you can be really good at something, not for the long haul, if you don’t enjoy it. I guess she liked people, and making them feel important and desirable, and she knew how to do it. Not just the sex, I don’t see how that’s enough. She was a native New Yorker, working-class family, parents split when she was a kid. She got her first-level license at nineteen, kept her record clean, took the classes and tests for higher levels, worked her way up. I think she lived just the way she wanted to live, for as long as she had.”

“What else is there? Thank you.”

“I’ve got to get back.” She started for the door, stopped when she reached it. “Listen, Morris, maybe you could come over for dinner or something.” When he simply watched her, smiling, she shrugged. “You know, Roarke could play with that grill he got last year. We could do a summer deal, some friends, some cow meat.”

“I’d like that.”

“Well, I’ll fix it up, let you know.”

As she walked out, she heard him speak into the record. “Victim is mixed-race female.”

She pulled out her ’link as she walked outside, and set for message only on the tag.

Even so, Charles Monroe answered. “Good morning, Lieutenant Sugar.”

“What, is everybody up at dawn today?”

“We are. Louise had night duty at the clinic and just got home. I’m making breakfast. Want an omelet?”

“I was going to leave you a message, see if you could give me a little time today.”

“For you, any . . .” The smile faded from his face. “I wasn’t thinking. You call at this hour, someone’s dead. Someone I know?”

“I’m not sure. Ava Crampton.”

“Ava?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Yes, I know her. What happened? Can you tell me?”

“I’d rather not over my pocket ’link. I’m out in the field, not that far away. I could—”

“Come over.”

“On my way.”

The garden Louise had planted in the days before she and Charles married thrived. More sweet than elegant, with just a touch of wild, it added another layer of personality to the townhouse they shared.

Louise met her at the door, her blond curls still a little damp from her shower. She took Eve’s hand, drew her in to kiss her cheek. “I wish somebody didn’t have to die for you to come by.”

“You look good.” Still sun-kissed from the honeymoon, Eve thought, and still glowing from the happiness marriage brought her. “Sorry to cut in on your personal time.”

“We’re having breakfast. Charles is cooking—really cooking. His omelets are incredible. So you’ll eat with us while you talk to Charles.”

Louise walked her back to the kitchen as she spoke. Charles stood over the stove, shaking a skillet back and forth. “Just in time,” he said. “Have a seat.”

“Is your AutoChef broken?”

“I like to cook when there’s time and a reason.”

“It smells good.” Louise put a mug in her hand, and Eve drank automatically. “Oh, this is real coffee. This alone is a reason to believe in God.”

“Wait till you taste my omelet. You’ll testify. What happened to Ava?”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

“We were friendly, but not really close. I liked her, you had to. She was charming and bright and just interesting. I can’t believe it was a client. She was so careful.”

“It was and it wasn’t. He set her up, used false ID, covered himself thoroughly from the way it looks. She met him at the amusement park on Coney Island. Public place. She’d vetted him. I don’t see she’d have had anything to question.”

“You’re saying she didn’t even know him?”

“It looks that way. Like I said, she vetted him—or so it reads in her appointment book. How would she go about that?” With a skill that surprised Eve, Charles slid a fluffy omelet onto a plate, then poured more egg mixture into the skillet.

“Eat that while it’s hot,” he told her. “She’d have done a background check, similar to what police or private investigators would do. She’d access his criminal record, if he had one, his employment, his marital status.”

“Basic data?”

“Yeah. Then she’d do a search for articles on or by him, mentions in the media. Then, I have to assume she’d run a program that would extrapolate all the information she’d gathered and give him a rating. By the time she met him, she’d have a good idea who he was, what his habits were, his lifestyle. It’s a matter of protecting yourself, but also a method to give the LC a sense of what the client may be looking for.”

“So she’d be careful,” Eve said, “but at the same time, she was a risk taker. I saw the S&M room in her place.”

“I worked with her once or twice.” He completed another omelet. “But not in that area.”

Eve drank her coffee, and wondered how Louise could sit, eating an omelet, while her husband talked about his experiences in group sex.

When he finished the last omelet, he sat to join them.

“Charles, this is wonderful.” Smiling at him, Louise topped off his coffee from the pot on the counter. “You never said how she was killed, Dallas.”

“She was stabbed,” Eve said and left it at that for now.

“And her killer was masquerading as this other man, the man she vetted?”

“That’s right.”

“He must have looked enough like him to fool her.”

“Yeah, we’re working on that. Would she have kept the appointment, gone on with it, if she’d known this wasn’t the man who’d booked?”

“No.” Charles shook his head. “She’d have risked her license, and that she’d never have done. And going with someone you haven’t checked out is just too dangerous. She did like the edge, but not enough to put herself in that kind of situation. She liked variety in the work, but she followed the rules. When a client hires someone at Ava’s level, he or she—or they—aren’t just paying for sex. They’re paying for an experience relatively few can afford. She’d provide that, but she’d stay within the law and she’d have taken every reasonable precaution to protect herself.”

Maybe, Eve thought, but it hadn’t been enough.

When Eve got back to Central, Peabody wasn’t at her desk, but most of her detectives were. Baxter, looking sleek as a fashion vid, glanced up from his.

“Took her crash time,” Baxter told her. “She’s been down about fifteen.”

“Fine.”

“Mira’s in your office.”

“Oh.”

“My boy and I are heading out. Got a floater in the pond in Central Park. Couple of kids found it.”

“Nice way to start the day.”

“Fun never ends.”

Mira sat in Eve’s ugly visitor’s chair in her pretty pale pink suit. She’d matched the suit with heels several shades deeper and a multi-chain necklace with tiny little pearls and colored stones. Her rich brown hair curled around her lovely face in a way both stylish and flattering.

Her quiet blue eyes tracked up from the screen of her PPC to meet Eve’s.

“I was just rereading your data. I had some time now so thought I’d wait for you here.”

“I appreciate you getting to it so fast.” It threw her off, just a little. Consults were usually in Mira’s airy office, and included cups of flowery tea Eve pretended to drink.

Which reminded her to offer.

“You want some tea or something?”

“Actually, I’d love some of your coffee. Dennis and I were out late last night with friends. I could use the boost.”

“Sure.”

“Have you slept?”

“Not yet. I’ll get some in when I can.” Sometime between the vic’s apartment and Central her second wind had settled in.

Maybe it was the omelets.

“He’s hit fast,” Eve said as she took the steaming mugs from the AutoChef. “Two for two. Both risky, organized, and planned.”

“Yes. He’s organized, controlled enough to spend time with, and interact with, his victims and maintain his prepared persona. Clients, both times.”

Eve turned with the coffee in her hand. “He buys his kill.”

The smile lit Mira’s face. “You could have gone into my line of work.”

“No thanks. You have to be nice to the whacked. Buys his kill,” she repeated. “That’s an interesting angle. Does he figure since he’s paid for them, they’re his to bag? Like a hunter. But you don’t hunt with a bayonet, so the hunting thing’s thin.”

“I’m not sure. We think of a bayonet as a wartime weapon, when man certainly hunts man. The killer has chosen the ground, established the rules—his—selected the weapon. All in advance.”

“But in Houston’s case, he couldn’t know, not for certain, who he’d get for prey. No, that’s not right,” Eve corrected. “You don’t know which furry animal you’re going to shoot in the woods. It’s just the species—the type. You go after a type. He likes the rush.”

“In both cases, it was a fairly close-in kill, and in a location where discovery was a factor—and likely part of the excitement. He’s mature, and the esoteric nature of the weapons tells me he’s interested in the unique—in showing his knowledge and his skill.”

“Showing off, that’s how it hits me.”

“Yes. God, this is good,” Mira murmured over her coffee. “He has wealth or access to it. Excellent e-skills, or again access to them. His choice of the men whose identification he used tells me one of two things: He either resents those in authority, specifically in the corporate world, or he considers them subordinates, those to be made use of.”

Mira angled her head. “Why does that make you smile?”

“It fits in with this theory I’m playing with, which seemed a long reach. You just shortened it. We’ve looked at people who work under Sweet and Urich, particularly the immediate staff, ones who’d either know the codes and passwords or would be able to get them. As it is I’ve got one asshole I’m bringing in today on another deal just because he fits. So I thought, maybe look up instead of down.”

Intrigued, Mira nodded and gave herself the pleasure of just breathing in the scent of coffee. “Higher up the corporate level?”

“Might as well start at the top. Let’s play this.” Eve sat on the corner of the desk so she faced Mira. “He buys his kill—boy, I like that one—he feels entitled to them. They’re expensive, exclusive. They’re indulgences only people with enough scratch can have, so buying them makes him important. Now he wants more bang for the buck, isn’t that the expression? And he wants to show off his smarts, his skills, his . . . creativity. He doesn’t mess them up, no smacking around, mutilation, no sexual assault.”

“Time would have been a factor,” Mira pointed out.

“Yeah, but if you can plan it out that well, you could plan more time if you wanted to mutilate, to rape or humiliate. He doesn’t, as far as I can tell, bother with souvenirs. Crampton had a lot of jewelry on her. It only takes a second to rip off a necklace, pull off a ring.”

“He doesn’t care about what’s theirs,” Mira said. “I agree.”

“It’s not personal, it’s not passionate, it’s not even a little pissed off. It’s just plan it out, play it out, and walk away. But he leaves the weapon so we can see how frosty he is.”

“You’re considering these thrill kills. No motive other than the kill itself.”

“We haven’t found a connection between the vics. Nothing. We’ll keep digging, and when he kills the next one, we’ll look there. But we won’t find it. They’re just part of the package.”

“He’ll be mature, as I said. Educated, well spoken, able to assume roles and adapt to situations. He had to convince his two victims he was who they expected. A man of certain means planning to surprise his wife with a romantic gesture. A man, again of certain means, looking for sex and companionship after the failure of his marriage. Different types, different dynamics. He had to assume both personas long enough to position his quarry in the kill zone.”

Mira sipped more coffee, shifted so her pretty necklace caught some of the light through Eve’s narrow window. “He’s certainly outlined and researched the next victim type, location, method. The time and timing. He most likely lives alone, or with someone he dominates. Both killings took place late in the evening and took considerable time to set up. It would be difficult to do that if he has a spouse or cohab unless he isn’t questioned in the home, or manufactured careful reasons to be absent. He made no attempt to disguise what he’d done by the pretense of robbery. So I’ll add confident, and arrogant.”

Mira checked the time. “I need to go.”

“Thanks for the time.”

Mira rose, handed Eve the empty cup, then, smiling, laid her palm on Eve’s cheek. “Get a little sleep, Eve.”

“Yeah, I’ll work it in.”

But when Mira left, she turned to the work. And she smiled grimly when she scanned Peabody’s update. She and McNab had made the shoe.

“Emilio Stefani, leather loafer, high shine, sterling silver buckle detail. Retails for . . . you have got to be kidding me. Three thousand for a pair of knock-around shoes?”

It simply offended her sensibilities. But she moved on.

“This many outlets carry this bastard? What is wrong with people? Still, it’s a good lead.”

She read further, nodded again. McNab might dress like a psychotic clown, but he had a cop’s brain. He’d done some comp magic and estimated the shoe size as between ten and ten and a half, leaning toward the ten.

Now it was a damn good lead.

She ordered background checks on both Dudley and Moriarity, ordered the computer to analyze the shoe vendors and produce the three most exclusive. With that running, she arranged for a couple of uniforms to bring Mitchell Sykes and his cohab in for questioning.

Her incoming signaled, so she read Morris’s preliminary report. No surprises. She considered snarling at the lab for more information on the bayonet but decided she was too fuzzy in the brain to deal with the new, improved Dickhead.

It seemed the second wind—or the omelets—had worn off.

Thirty minutes down, she told herself, and locking her door, stretched out on the floor. “Computer, set wake-up alarm for thirty minutes.”

Acknowledged.

It was the last thing she heard.

Minutes later, Roarke bypassed her locks and stepped in to find her. Facedown on the floor, he thought, sprawled out like the dead she stood for.

He thought surely there was a better place for a nap, but reengaged the locks before stretching out beside her.

He fell into sleep in seconds.

Dallas, your thirty-minute rest period has ended.

“Crap. I’m up.” She opened one eye, then jerked awake. “Jesus, Roarke.”

“You’re entitled to a larger office, you know. One big enough to accommodate a couch. And I much preferred what we did together on the floor yesterday to this.”

She rubbed her gritty eyes. “Didn’t I lock that door?”

He only smiled. “I need to go into my own office for a few hours, and wanted to kiss my wife good-bye. Why didn’t you go up to the crib for your thirty-minute rest period?”

“It’s disgusting. You don’t know who’s going to walk in, or who was in there last, or what they were doing with whoever else might’ve been in there.”

“That’s a point.” He sat up so they were face-to-face. “But I’m not sure this is better.” As Mira had, he laid a hand on her cheek. “You need more sleep.”

“Skillet, pan.”

“What?”

“You know, the skillet says the pan’s the same deal.”

He thought a moment. “I believe that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Whatever, kitchen stuff can’t talk anyway. McNab and Peabody made the shoe.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Three large for something you wear so your foot’s not walking on the ground.”

He decided against telling her how much he’d paid for the boots she was currently wearing. “You should be pleased. They’ll be easier to track than something you could pick up for a hundred at Discount Shoes.”

“True. I’ve got to screw with the little bastard—the drug pusher—then I’m going to go have a chat with The Third and The Fourth.”

“You have fun.” He leaned in to kiss her. I’ll see you at home when we get there.” He stood, pulled her to her feet, then pleased himself by drawing her into his arms. “We’ll catch up on all this, and each other, over dinner.”

“Yeah, I . . .” She leaned back, met his eyes with a smile in hers. “That’s it.”

“Is it?” he murmured and rubbed his lips to hers.

“Not that it. I went by to see Charles to talk to him about the second vic. And he’s making breakfast for Louise because she pulled an allnighter at the clinic. I mean cooking, like with eggs and that skillet thing. And we’re sitting there eating omelets—”

“You had an omelet, and I get a bag of crisps.”

“It just worked out that way. He’s talking to me about LC stuff, and how he worked with the vic a couple times. And I’m thinking isn’t this weird for her, for Louise to sit there and eat breakfast while we’re talking about sex and S&M and clients? But it’s not. It’s their deal, that’s all it is. It’s kind of like you and me talking murder over dinner. It’s just part of the package.”

“I like our package.” He tapped her on the chin. “Try not to work my cop until she falls down.”

“He’s going to kill again, and soon,” she said when Roarke walked to the door. “He’s already booked the appointment, or at the very least keyed it into his schedule. And it won’t matter who it is, but what they are. He’ll enjoy it, and that really pisses me off.”

“Then think how pissed off he’ll be when you stop him.”

“I’m counting on it. See you later.”