Festive in Death (22 page)

“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.”

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?”

He drank again, shook his head. “I’m no cop, so I can’t say, and imagine you see plenty who’ve been stabbed in that area without any love gained or lost, but . . .”

“Yeah, but. Something else to think about. I appreciate it.”

“Absolutely anytime.” He rose, took her hand to walk out with her.

“You and Louise still look pretty shiny.”

“I feel pretty shiny. Marriage is an adventure. And a comfort.”

For some, Eve thought. For others? She thought of Quigley and Copley. For others, maybe a competition.

The music rolled now, and the ballroom throbbed with it, and with people. So many, Eve realized, had arrived in the time she’d been in the salon.

She spotted Feeney—wearing not a monkey suit but a black one she knew he kept for memorials and funerals—by one of the bars chewing the fat with Jenkinson. And Nadine, wearing ice-pick silver, dancing with the damn-near seven-foot Crack. The ace reporter and the sex-club owner looked to be having a hell of a good time.

She’d have to get Nadine in the salon, give out that gift.

And there was Mira and the truly adorable Mr. Mira sitting at one of the tables laughing with Commander and Mrs. Whitney. She probably had to go over there, say something. But she rarely saw her commander yucking it up, so she’d just wait on that.

“And there you are.”

She turned to Roarke. “Yeah, right here. I guess you know Peabody liked the coat.”

“There’s little more satisfying about giving than in seeing the receiver so genuinely happy.”

“Ha, that slides along with my quick talk with Charles about sex. Case-related sex.”

“Naturally.”

“Plus I wanted to give Louise her thing. I need to get Mira and Nadine and the others to give those things. Then I’ll be done.”

“And if you take a few moments to brainstorm—case-related? I’m fine with it. As long as you dance with me.”

“But—”

The music had changed, turned slow, romantic, a little dreamy. Still, she always felt so damn awkward dancing in public. He gathered her in, circled with her, laughed into her eyes.

“You have such interesting areas of modesty. Couples routinely hold each other when they dance slow.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I bet not that many of them have their commanding officer watching.”

“A dance. I’m not taking off your clothes, Eve.”

“I bet you are in your mind.”

“Well, I am now, so thanks for the idea.”

When she laughed at that, he caught her for a quick, light kiss. She responded by linking her arms around his neck.

“What the hell. It’s a Christmas party.”

Eve always felt strange and a little awkward socializing with Commander Whitney. Her strongest image of him would always be of him behind his big desk, New York City rising up in the window behind him. His dark, careworn face sober, his broad shoulders holding the weight of command.

So seeing him dancing (including the booty shake already mentioned by McNab) with his elegant and somewhat scary wife just threw her world out of kilter.

She didn’t have the knack for mingling—not like Roarke, who apparently knew everyone on or off planet, or had the talent to act as though he did. Still she handled the small-talk thing, even with people she didn’t know. Bigwigs from what she thought of as the Roarke Universe, their spouses or dates, research-and-development types, business colleagues.

Mostly they wanted to talk to each other, or dance or hit the bar and buffets so she could do the duty, and move on.

But it struck her odder yet to see her people mix with his. To see Baxter leaning on one of the tables chatting up one of Roarke’s R&D execs. Then again, the exec was female, single, and sexy, so it wasn’t a shock.

And there was Caro, Roarke’s efficient admin, dancing with the adorable Dennis Mira. Over there, Santiago engaged in an obviously animated discussion with a couple of Roarke engineers over tall glasses of brew.

“Here.” Nadine walked up, handed Eve a flute. “Even in that amazing dress you look too much like a cop just standing over here.”

“The worlds have collided. I observe,” Eve said and sipped. “And there doesn’t seem to be any damage or destruction.”

Nadine scanned as Eve did. “You’ve thrown parties including both worlds before.”

“Yeah, but they seem to get more heavily populated, and the natives from each have more crossover.”

“And still, the planet spins,” Nadine finished. “I love your parties. First because I know there are going to be so many people here I know and like, and people I may not know who are interesting. And second, in a case like tonight, I get a fabulous gift. I really do love that bag.”

“Why do you haul around so much stuff? That’s the question.”

“How do I know what I might need at any given time during the day? It’s better to be prepared for anything. Oh, Morris is going to play with the band. I love when he plays the sax. He’s better,” she said quietly, “but still carrying a lot of sad. I’ve never lost anyone I’ve really loved. I don’t know how anyone handles it.”

“Silver shirt, red tie, silver band through the braid.”

Nadine angled her head. “What?”

“Color. He’s been wearing more color again for a while. He’s getting through it.”

“You know, I’m observant and fairly intuitive, too—reporter, writer—but I’d never have put that together. You’re right. He’s letting some color back into his life, and that’s good to see. So. What’s the story on him and DeWinter? Are they a thing?”

“No.”

“Well, you certainly sound sure, and, if I’m not mistaken, determined. Don’t you like . . . speaking of which, I believe she’s heading over here. And speaking of amazing dresses.”

DeWinter wore hot, slick red in a long sleek column that hugged every curve. A side slit ran nearly to her hip, revealing a long, long, toned leg and jeweled heels that sparkled like the Christmas lights with each stride.

“Dallas. I haven’t had a chance to thank you for the hospitality. It’s a fabulous party. Your home is beyond spectacular.”

“Thanks. Ah, Nadine Furst, Dr. Garnet DeWinter.”

“We’ve met. The Sanctuary case.” Still DeWinter extended a hand. “I very much enjoyed the last broadcast of
Now
, but I’ve become a serious fan of your work altogether.”

“Thanks. I’m a serious fan of your dress. Valencia?”

“Yes! What an eye you have. It turned out to be a fun choice when I saw Morris had chosen a red tie.” She sipped her own champagne, tossed back her hair—an explosion of caramel-and-gold curls. “I love to hear him play.”

“So . . . you and Morris are dating?”

Nadine’s cheery smile didn’t dim under Eve’s baleful stare.

“Keeping each other company. Neither of us want, or are ready, I’d say, for dating. I have my daughter to consider. And he has
Amaryllis. I think it’s easier for him to talk about her with me as I didn’t know her, or know them together. But he’s certainly made my transition to New York smoother.”

“Oh?” Nadine broadened her smile. “How so?”

“It can be challenging to be the new person, especially the new person in charge. Morris gives me a sounding board, and a good sense of the people I work with. One of the reasons I left D.C. was I felt I’d become complacent, and needed a change. It was a well-run machine—I insist on that—but the structure, and the individual personalities, didn’t allow for much camaraderie or . . . joy. I’ve found both here.”

She gestured to the ballroom. “The work we do? All three of us. It’s difficult and so often dark. Without this? Without the personal connections, the joy, the interest in each other, it can become more difficult, and darker. I want to be able to put on an amazing red dress now and again, listen to a man I find smart and interesting play the saxophone. I want to eat and drink and talk about nothing particularly important—or about the vitally important—with people I like, respect, and admire. Doing so makes me better at my work. It makes me a better mother.”

She sipped her champagne as she studied Eve. “You don’t like me yet, but you will. I’ll grow on you.”

“What? Like mold?”

DeWinter threw back her head and laughed, full and throaty. “Possibly, and I suspect you might do the same on me because I don’t like you yet, either. We’ll see. What I do know, absolutely, is you’re his friend. You’re Li’s good, strong friend. I can promise you I’m his friend. So that’s a beginning.”

“I used to flirt with him now and then,” Nadine murmured. “I stopped after Coltraine was killed.”

“You should start again. Normal keeps him steady. Dallas gives him that. Did you come stag?” DeWinter asked Nadine.

“Yeah. I thought about bringing a date, but I really wasn’t in the mood. Dating over the holidays gets so damn sticky—too important, too symbolic.”

“I
know!
I swear it’s the only time of the year I half wish I was married so people would stop asking if I have a date for Christmas, for New Year’s Eve, for this party, for that event.”

“God, yes! And if you have a date New Year’s Eve, some people are in your face with: So is it serious?”

“Exactly. Last year I was seeing someone,
very
casually, then because I—against my better judgment—asked him to a holiday event, people were all over me!”

“Tell me about it.”

They’d angled toward each other, Eve noted, drawn by the theme like magnets.

“I had to stop seeing someone because he started pressuring me about Christmas plans back in October,” Nadine said. “It makes you crazy.”

“Domestic violence, suicide, and homicide percentages rise exponentially between Thanksgiving and New Year’s,” Eve commented, and got baffled looks from both DeWinter and Nadine. “Carry on,” she decided, and slipped away.

She considered ducking into the salon—ten minutes’ quiet and solitude—but caught voices, laughter, so veered the other way. She could sneak downstairs to her office, she thought, grab those ten. But if she got caught in there—
Summerset
—there’d be hell to pay.

Plenty of other rooms up here, she thought, and headed away from the music, the voices, the lights, turned into what she recalled was a smallish sitting room.

Feeney was sprawled in one of the big, overstuffed chairs, his feet up, his tie loose. He looked half asleep, with the muted wall screen showing basketball.

He shot her a sheepish look. “Just wanted to check on the game, take a break.”

“Great. You’re now my excuse.” She dropped into another chair, heaved out a breath. “Jesus, Feeney, why do people like parties?”

“Like this one? Prime booze and eats, great space. And mostly girls—some of the guys, too—get a charge out of sprucing up fancy. Sheila’s having the time of her life. When I ducked out, she was talking to Ana Whitney and some Roarke exec about knitting. The three of them were into it like it was their religion. I needed ten.”

“I just ducked out on Nadine and DeWinter talking about dating. About holiday dating.”

“Maybe you win this one, but knitting’s pretty close. Music’s solid, though. Roarke knows how to rock the house. How’s the case going?”

“I’ve got some strong lines. I’m looking . . .” She trailed off when she sensed movement, glanced over to see Santiago hesitate in the doorway.

“Private party?” he asked.

“No. Just taking a break from the crowd.”

“Then I’m in.” He brought in a brew with him, grabbed a chair. “It’s a hell of a party, LT. Hell of a party. I was talking to this guy Derrick, works for Roarke. He played minor league ball for a couple years—screwed up his arm, switched to programming and design. Anyway, he’s got a local league plays ball. I’m going to check it out, see if I can get in on that.”

“What do you play?” Feeney asked him.

“High school and college? Shortstop. Got a partial ride in college on the sports scholarship. There’s nothing like baseball.”

“You didn’t stick with it?” Eve asked.

“I wanted the badge. Love to play, but it’s play for me. Not the job. I wanted the job.”

They talked baseball, talked shop. Eve told herself to get up, go back, do her duty. Then Reineke strolled in.

“Hey. Anybody else got the weird seeing Whitney tear up the dance floor?”

“Yes!” Eve and Santiago said together, and Feeney shook his head.

“You think because somebody’s got a few years on you, they don’t have the moves? Me and Jack could dance and drink the lot of you into the ground.”

“I don’t see you out there,” Reineke pointed out, flopped into a chair.

“You will.”

Carmichael came in, looking loose in a little black dress, bare feet, and sparkly red toenails. “Is this the bullpen?”

She sat on the arm of Santiago’s chair, copped his beer for a sip. “Whew! Some party, boss. Some serious party. I just saw Dickhead doing the sexy dance with Dr. DeWinter. I had to remove myself, save my eyes. She’s pretty sexy. If I went for girls, I’d be pretty wound up. But Dickhead’s just scary.”

“Christ. I better get back out there.”

“You could be next in the sexy-dance line.”

Eve started out, paused long enough to tap the tat at the base of her spine.

“What is that?” Reineke demanded.

“It stands for ‘kiss my ass,’” she told him, and left the cop laughter behind her.

Mulling tactics, she took the long way, ducked outside, then started around toward the ballroom terrace. Anybody asked, she’d been doing her mingling out there.

The detour caused her to walk in on Trueheart in a lip-lock with his girlfriend, which caused all three parties a moment of deep embarrassment. Eve kept moving while the couple flushed scarlet behind her.

She ran into Baxter next, just inside the ballroom. “Hey, Dallas, wanna dance?”

“Absolutely not. Don’t you have a date or something?”

“A man can’t bring a date to this kind of shindig. It’s too symbolic of serious business this close to Christmas. And it prevents him from trolling the single females.”

“So that’s actually true, on both sides of the line. Huh?”

“Since it’s a party, and also true, I’m gonna tell you you look incendiary. Love the ass tat.”

“What are you doing looking at my ass, Detective?”

“Because it’s there,” he said, unrepentant. “All wrapped in pretty gold, and we’re off duty and it’s a safe ass to look at as it’s married.”

“Oddly, I find those all reasonable answers, but stop it and look at someone else’s ass.”

“Yes, sir. Want some of this?” He took a flute off a passing tray.

“Why the hell not?” As she sipped, she spotted Roarke, smiling as he leaned down to kiss Mavis.

“It’s nice,” Baxter said with an easy, contented sigh, “when the family gets together.”

She glanced up at him. A damn good cop, she thought, and not nearly as superficial as he liked to pretend.

“One dance,” she decided. “And keep your hands off my ass.”

•   •   •

S
he did see Feeney dance, as promised. It amused her to see him hold his own with the ridiculously energetic Peabody and McNab. When he shed his suit coat for a second round, Eve picked it up, checked the size.

“I want to get him a magic coat,” she said to Roarke. “I should’ve thought of it before. Maybe he’s not in the field much like he used to be, but he should have one. Shit brown because he wears a lot of shit brown, so he must like it. Can we get him a magic coat?”

“Of course we can. Forty-two regular in shit brown.”

“Good.” She slipped an arm around his waist, let her head rest lightly against his shoulder. “My feet are fucking killing me.”

“A number of the ladies have shed their shoes. You could do the same if you didn’t have this naked-feet-in-public phobia.”

“Feet are personal. I don’t know why nobody gets that.”

Amused, in love, he brushed his lips over her temple. “The crowd’s thinning a bit. We can find a table, sit for a while, till it thins more.”