Festive in Death (7 page)

At the moment, some eighteen hours after she’d walked out its doors, the prospect of walking in again mainly brought relief.

She got out of the car, into the cold where the wind kicked at her like a bad-tempered child. She dragged the shopping bags out of the
back. How had she bought so damn much? The entire event seemed like some kind of fever dream now, leaving her exhausted and with a low-level headache.

She dragged, pulled, lifted. How did she even know so many people in the first damn place? How had it happened?

Tissue flicked, threatened to fly, boxes clunked. She told herself if the bags ripped she’d leave the whole stupid lot wherever it fell.

With bags thumping against her legs she hauled everything to the door, fought it open, staggered in.

He was there, of course, lurking—the scarecrow in a black suit that was Summerset. Roarke’s majordomo stood in the brilliantly lit foyer, a smirk on his pale, bony face, and the fat cat Galahad squatting like a furry Buddha at his feet.

“Is this the Ghost of Christmas Present?” Summerset wondered aloud.

Eve narrowed her eyes. She wanted to fling something back, some sharp-edged retort about cadavers on holiday, but . . .

She dumped everything where she stood. “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to wrap everything in here.”

His stone-gray eyebrows winged up. “I can’t be bought. However,” he said as the cat padded over to sniff at bags and tissue. “I could be persuaded.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re hosting a party night after next.”

“I know that. Of course I know that.” Night after next took it down to one day, didn’t it? She didn’t want to think about it.

“Preparations for welcoming two hundred and fifty-six people into your home begin at eight
A.M.
”

She thought:
Two hundred and fifty-six people? Jesus Christ. Why?
But she said, “Okay.”

“Participate.”

“But what if . . .” She looked down at the pile of bags, at the ass-end of the cat as he tried to burrow into one. Surrendered. “Done.”

She shed her coat, tossed it over the newel post—a small defiance.

There was no shame in retreat, Eve told herself as she bolted up the stairs. There would be other battles, other wars. She aimed straight for the bedroom, and on a moan flung herself on the glorious blue lake of the bed.

Ten minutes, she vowed. She’d take ten minutes to recover from shopping trauma and Summerset negotiations. Then she’d go to her office, set up her board there. Clear her head and start working on who killed Trey Ziegler.

Asshole or not, he deserved the best she had.

Ten minutes, she thought again, and dropped into sleep like an anchor into the sea.

She drifted out again. There was a weight on her ass she recognized as the cat. Fingers twined with hers—Roarke’s.

She opened her eyes, looked into the impossible blue of his.

The bedroom tree twinkled. He’d lit the fire, so the flames simmered low and red. All things being equal, she’d have curled up against him and gone right under again.

But all things were rarely equal for a cop.

“I shopped,” she said.

“Dear God! Are you all right? Should I call for the MTs?”

“Smart-ass. I hooked the kid—you remember the kid. Tiko.”

“Ah, yeah, the young entrepreneur. I remember, fondly, the pie his grandmother baked us.”

“He’s got two other kids working for him for the holidays. Expanded his stock, too. He dragged me over to this place I busted.
New tenants. They sort of look like they could be related to Peabody. Free-Agey. And then . . . it was like I’d walked through some portal into an alternate universe.”

“The alternate universe of a retail establishment, without crime.”

“That,” she agreed. “So there was all this stuff, and somebody was like this would be good for this person, and I’m okay fine. Then it’s this would be good for that other person, and fine. Jesus, okay, fine. But it kept going and going. And the kid started hauling in stuff from his stall, saying you put this scarf or whatever with that thing, and this thing with the other. I just kept saying okay, fine, okay, because I wanted it to be over.

“I might have post-traumatic stress.”

He kissed her lightly. “Poor baby.”

“You don’t mean that. You think it’s funny. You think it’s funny because you’d have actually enjoyed all of it. But it gets worse.”

“How is that possible?”

“I was weakened by the experience. I made a bargain with Summerset.”

He pressed lips to her brow as if checking for fever. “It may be too late for the MTs.”

“Ha ha. Now because he’s going to wrap all that stuff, I have to
participate
in preparations for the party. Why are there two hundred and fifty-six people coming?”

“I believe it’ll be closer to two-seventy, and we welcome your participation. You’re a boss, remember? You’ll assign, delegate, decide, order. You might even enjoy it, a little.”

“I don’t think so, but a deal’s a deal.” She shifted a little, studied him. She thought of her reaction that morning when he’d walked out of her office unexpectedly.

So perfect, so pretty. All hers.

“You’re not wearing your suit.” She ran a hand down the cloud softness of his stone-gray tee.

“I’ve been home a bit longer than you. Actually got a quick swim in.”

“Huh. That doesn’t seem fair. You get a refreshing swim, relaxing clothes, and I get murder and shopping mayhem. Plus I’m still wearing my boots.”

“It doesn’t seem just, does it? Let’s see what I can do to even it all out.”

He levered up, lifted one of her legs, worked off the boot. Repeated the process. “Better?”

“It’s a start.”

“We might both be more relaxed if you weren’t armed.” He released her weapon harness, peeled it off. Laid it on the floor with her boots. “Now?”

“Murder and mayhem,” she reminded him. “You had money and meetings.”

“Quite a bit of both, actually.” He straddled her, drew off the navy V-neck she’d pulled on in the middle of the night. “How would you feel about owning a little town in Tuscany?”

“A town? Come on.”

“A village, actually, and quite charming.” Smiling down at her he unhooked her belt. “An old ramshackle villa that could be a showpiece with the right touches. Lovely views, narrow cobbled streets, the remains of a medieval wall.”

“You bought a town.”

“Tomorrow I will.” He drew her trousers down, down, off. “My wife has such long, amazing legs.”

“They help me get from point A to point B.”

He ran his hands up them, calf to thigh. “You’re not going anywhere at the moment.”

The diamond he’d given her when she’d accepted he loved her hung around her neck, resting on her simple white tank. He lifted it, rubbed his fingers over the teardrop shape of it, remembering how shocked she’d been by the gift—the diamond, and the love.

“More relaxed now?”

“I’m getting there. When I drove home I thought what I need is a really big glass of wine. Then I got here and I thought, No, what I need is to fall on my face for ten minutes. But that wasn’t quite it, either.”

“What was?”

“What I needed—what I need—” She pushed up, wrapped her arms around him. “Is you.”

Those long, amazing legs hooked around his waist. Her hands slid up, gripped his hair. Holding on, he thought, to him, to them, to what they made.

All warmth and welcome, all strong and real.

He could shed his day as she shed hers, mouth to mouth, heart to heart.

They swayed there on the big bed, holding on, sliding into what was for both of them home.

He pressed his lips to her throat, to the pulse that beat for him. “I missed our time this morning, just that bit of time over coffee and breakfast.”

“I know. Me, too.”

“It makes it all the more precious.” His lips brushed her cheekbone, her temple. “Those times, these times.”

She burrowed into him. “Every time.”

She lay with him, gentle strokes and long, soft kisses that washed
away the hours between. Just him, just them for this little space outside the world with all its noise and harsh lights, mean shadows.

She slipped his shirt up and away, gave herself the pleasure of the warm flesh, the lean muscle, arched like a purring cat under the skill of his hands. Her heart began to kick, its beat spurred by his lips, his tongue, his teeth.

Need spread, simmering low like the fire in the hearth, then snapping into flame.

He took her over, he always could, so need and pleasure knotted together, tight, tight, driving her up, holding her on that single pinpoint of glory, then over to release.

She could have wept from the simple joy of it.

Cupping his face in her hands, she found his mouth with hers again. Sank with him, sank deep. Murmuring, she eased him onto his back. Now she straddled him, now she took him in. Slowly, slowly, slowly, her eyes on his face. she took his hands, pressed them to her heart as she began to move.

Fluid as water, building on the pleasure, drawing it out and out while her heart thudded under his hands.

He let her take, let her give while the beauty of it burned in his blood. Firelight shimmered gold on her skin, caught in her eyes. Gauzy layers of sensation thickened until he wondered he could breathe through them.

She pressed a hand to his heart, leaned over to take his mouth with hers.

“Eve.”

“I know, I know, I know.” Rising up again, she let her head fall back, let her eyes close, and rode them both into the perfect dark.

Now in comfortable at-home clothes, a glass of wine in her hand, and slices of some sort of savory chicken along with little golden potatoes and some unidentifiable leafy green on her plate, Eve figured the long day had rewards.

She felt loose and relaxed now instead of tired and traumatized. And though they’d missed their morning ritual, at least they’d preserved the evening’s.

She’d set up her board—or started to—and now she could roll through the day over dinner at the little table in her home office.

“First,” Roarke began, “what did you buy?”

“A lot of stuff. Heavy on bags.”

“A lot of stuff makes for a heavy bag.”

“Exactly.” She pointed at him with her fork, then stabbed some chicken. “If people didn’t cart around so much stuff, they wouldn’t need bags to hold it all. Handbags, shoulder bags, tote bags. People carry their life around with them, like refugees. I don’t get it.”

“But you bought them anyway, as gifts, which is what giving is all about, isn’t it?”

“There were socks, too. Fuzzy socks,” she remembered, dimly. It was like the fog of war, she realized. “And caps, and things to put other things in that go in the bags. They make fancy little cases just for lip dye. It’s crazy.”

“You can’t be serious!” He widened his eyes, got a narrowed stare from hers. “Astonishing.”

“Funny. And I got roped into buying a talking unicorn.”

“Excuse me, a what?”

There, at least, she’d surprised him, she decided—and wasn’t sure why she found it satisfying.

“A talking unicorn that goes in the unicorn bag for Bella that matches the big-ass unicorn bag for Mavis. It’s pink—the unicorn—with a silver horn thing, and it says stuff. And it dances. It’s probably going to scare the shit out of her.”

“I wager she’ll love it.”

“It kind of scared me. But Tiko kept zipping out, then zipping back with more stuff. He had to tag his grandmother, get a little extra time due to all the zipping out and back. I think he put the whammy on me.”

“Yet here you are, with your shopping done.” He toasted her. “Kudos.”

“I’d rather go hand-to-hand with a couple of Zeused-up chemi-heads than go through that again. What is this green stuff?”

Roarke only smiled. “Any progress on your investigation?”

“I’m learning the vic was probably a bigger asshole than I already thought. I’ll verify tomorrow when I go by the lab, but I think he roofied one woman, and probably more.”

Roarke’s smile faded. “That makes him more than an asshole.”

“Yeah, it does. And if I’m right, it’s a damn shame he won’t get his ass kicked for it. But since he got himself murdered, I’ve got to do the job.”

“A woman who found out what he did to her? I’d be inclined to take her side of it.”

“He deserved a cage, not a slab. Maybe a woman who found out he’d given her a boost, maybe a husband or boyfriend who found out. Maybe a woman who didn’t like him juggling her with others, or a guy who didn’t like being cheated on. A lot of variables. Then you add in the money, so maybe blackmail, which never ends well.”

“And yet remains a classic,” Roarke commented.

“Secrets plus greed generally equals a slab for somebody.”

“Cop math.” Roarke lifted his wine. “And usually accurate.”

“His client list skews heavily female, though he’s got men on it. It also skews heavily monied.”

“And somewhere along the line he tapped the wrong well.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking. I think, too, this new area of business—the money for sex and/or blackmail—was fairly new. Not that he didn’t cheat and reap some reward, but going into it heavier. He kept Trina’s friend around until a couple weeks ago, but he added the locks two or three weeks earlier.”

“Hedging his bets, perhaps,” Roarke suggested.

“Making sure he had a nice stockpile, working on sniffing up the ex before this ex. It could be. And yeah, tapped the wrong well.”

She glanced over at her board, at the IDs she’d started putting up. “He had a lot to choose from. I’m going to have to talk to Sima again, and that means I have to talk to Trina again.”

“Did you buy her a gift?”

“No.” Appalled, she gaped at him. “Why would I—I don’t have to— Do I? I’m not going back there, Roarke. They were decent, the bag people, but I’m not going back.”

“Why don’t I take care of that for you? She is your hair, face, body consultant—whether you want her to be or not. A small token would be appropriate.”

“This is way, way out of hand.” She poured more wine. “It’s completely out of hand.” In her shock, she ate the leafy green stuff. “You’ve got her coming over here, don’t you, to jump all over my hair, face and body before the party?”

“It’s the price you pay, darling Eve, for hosting what many consider an important holiday event.”

“I’m finding those chemi-heads,” she muttered. “I’m going out and hunting out a couple of Zeused-up chemi-heads.”

“Won’t that be fun? Would you like me to check your asshole vic’s financials? See if he had any more tucked away.”

“I don’t think he did, but it wouldn’t hurt if you’ve got time for it.”

She looked back toward the board. “If he wanted to trade sex for money, why not get a license? Potentially, he could’ve made more, and made it legit.”

“Some, including you, still see licensed companions as prostitutes.”

“Well, sex for money.”

Roarke shook his head, offered her a roll. “Licensed, regulated, taxed, safe. People pay for therapy, for physical training,” he added, nodding at the board. “For spiritual guidance, and so on and so on. People pay for all manner of basic needs, and others train to provide those needs. Sex is a basic need.”

“It’s legal so I’ve got no beef with it. But you’ve got a point.” She considered her board while she ate. “He didn’t see it as a business transaction—or didn’t want to. Didn’t want to see himself as selling
a service. He was doing them a favor, allowing them to bask in the wonder of his looks, his body, his skill. The money, the money he justified as it allowed him to keep up his looks.”

She sipped at her wine. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It starts off for fun, for the conquest—and you get to have sex in a nice hotel suite maybe, have some champagne, a good meal—maybe she buys you a token or two. She had a good time, didn’t she? Then maybe you decide to work it so she understands a little token or some under-the-table cash would really be appreciated. You gave her a good time, she gives you a little bonus. What’s the harm? You’re not selling yourself; she’s just showing her gratitude. Just a friend, just a client, giving you something extra because you gave her something extra.”

“It sounds like you’re getting to know him.”

“Maybe. The one I talked to today, the one I think he roofied? He charged her two grand for an in-home massage—that was always going to be sex for him. So he could call it a massage, a service, something special for a client, and he could set a rate. I bet he’s done a lot of in-homes recently. Massages, personal training. A couple, three thousand a shot. It adds up. Add in the pillow talk, and yeah, you could work some blackmail into it. Fucker.”

“But he’s your dead fucker.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

•   •   •

S
o she gave Ziegler her time, her attention, the best she had.

She wrote up her notes, put together a progress report, including all the interviews conducted.

She created a chart listing the clients who had so far admitted to having any kind of sexual relationship with Ziegler, and how much each had admitted to paying in cash, gifts, hotel expenses.

Beside each name she added marital status, or cohab status, added how many of those husbands, cohabs, were also on Ziegler’s client list.

She ran each one, digging in for any instance of violent behavior or criminal offenses.

She cross-checked with the names Trina had provided, did a pass on coworkers.

And considered.

When Roarke walked in, she had her feet up on the desk. “Another angle,” she began.

“It’s not the financial one. Unless he’s a great deal more clever than I give him credit for, he doesn’t have any accounts other than what you have on record.”

“Didn’t figure on it, but it’s good to have an expert opinion on it. A competitor. I’ve been narrowly focused on clients and sex. But he was bashed with a trophy. He gets and keeps a lot of wealthy female clients not only because—by all accounts—he’s good at his work, but because he offers them some hard-bodied sex. He makes solid commissions, the extra from sex, and he gets recognition. The trophy—I checked—also comes with a cash prize of a grand. He’s won the last three years running, and was favored to win this year. But instead of going to AC for the conference, and campaigning for the competition, he’s in the morgue.”

“You think another trainer killed him for a thousand dollars and a trophy?”

“Prestige, potentially more clients, bragging rights. He didn’t have friends at Buff Bodies. I bet he didn’t have any at other centers, either. Somebody he knew—it was a face-to-face, close-in attack. So, yeah, maybe a competitor, an associate, a peer who’d had enough of him.”

“An associate,” Roarke repeated, “a competitor or a peer. You could add the sex in—because you can never have too much of it—and speculate that this competitor was also used for sex, or cheated on.”

“That’s a good one. That’s a thought. I’d say Peabody and I are going back to the gym tomorrow.”

“With that in mind.” He took her hand, pulled her up. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Didn’t we do that already?”

“And sleep. It’s nearly midnight. If you keep at this much longer you’ll have been up for twenty-four hours.”

“I feel like I want to push it, and it’s because I don’t like him.”

“You won’t like him any better tomorrow. You can push then.”

“It looks like I will. Whatever else you can say about Ziegler, he wasn’t lazy. Between work and sex, the guy kept revved every damn day.”

“As you do.” He tugged her along. “Time to shut down the engines.”

•   •   •

S
he woke to the scent of coffee, and really, it didn’t get better than that.

And yet it did.

When she slit open her eyes, she saw Roarke. Fully dressed in one of his ruler-of-the-business-world suits—the cat sprawled over his lap. He sat on the sofa in the bedroom sitting area, working on a tablet. Financial numbers, data, codes, scrolled by on the screen he’d switched to mute.

The faint blue wash from tablet and screen provided the only light, making him look both mysterious and fascinating.

She had no idea of the time, was too lazy to look. Instead she
watched him work while she ticked off the order of what she needed to do that morning.

She needed to tag Peabody, tell her partner they’d meet at Buff Bodies, pursue the angle of competitor killer. Swing by the lab, browbeat or bribe Dickhead—Chief Tech Dick Berenski—on the tea and incense. Talk to Trina and Sima again. And she thought another pass through the crime scene was in order, this time looking specifically for tea and incense.

Do that, she decided, before the lab. Have the samples right there in hand—if she found more.

And onto more interviews with the vic’s clients.

Someone who knew him. Someone he’d let in the apartment, let into the bedroom while he packed for his business trip.

Client. Coworker. Blackmail mark. Lover.

Would he have been confident or arrogant enough to let a mark or a seriously pissed-off client, lover, associate into the bedroom?

She suspected not, but it wouldn’t hurt to get an expert opinion.

Add a quick session with Mira to the list.

“Lights on, twenty percent,” Roarke said, looking over into her eyes. “You might as well have some light since you’re thinking so loud.”

“I was thinking very quietly. You have bat ears.”

“When it comes to you, apparently.”

She pushed up to sit. “What’re you working on? I can take an interest,” she added when he cocked an eyebrow. “At . . . shit, five-thirty-eight in the morning.”

“Actually, you might be interested. We’ve made a few changes to the design of An Didean, and have added a memorial roof garden.”

The old building in Hell’s Kitchen, she thought, he’d bought with the plan to rehab and turn it into a safe house for troubled kids. And
where the bones of twelve young girls had been discovered behind the walls.

“That’s nice.”

“We’ll have a dome so it can be used year-round, and those we house there can learn something of horticulture. The architect’s wondering if we should use stones or benches with the names of the girls who died there.”

Eve rose, saying nothing as she crossed to the AutoChef for coffee. The cat deserted Roarke to sprint over to her, winding slyly between her legs, ever hopeful, she knew, that food was involved.

“I think, I guess you’re asking what I think.”

“I am,” he told her.

“I think creating a garden shows respect. And I think the kids you’d shelter there, educate there, don’t need to be reminded of cruelty and death, but of life. Of the, well, garden of possibilities of life.”

“I think you’re exactly right. Thank you.”

“Anytime. I’m going to grab thirty in the gym before I get ready.”