Younger competition.
The first year she'd worked two shifts, three if she could still stand. She'd worked as a roamer, sliding from club to club and shelling out the hard-line forty percent of take to the managers. It had been a gruesome year, but she'd earned her nest egg.
The second year she'd focused on nailing a regular spot at an upscale club. It had taken nearly all of those twelve months, but she'd carved her niche at the Sweet Spot. During her third year she'd fought her way up the food chain to shift headliner, cagily investing her profits. And, she admitted, she had wasted nearly six months considering the cohabitation offer of the club's head smasher.
She might have done it, too, if he hadn't gone and gotten himself sliced into six separate pieces in a bar fight at a dive where he'd been moonlighting because Sarabeth had insisted he needed a bigger bank account if he wanted her to sleep with him on a permanent basis.
She'd decided to consider it a lucky escape. Now, well into year four, she was forty-three years old and running out of time.
She didn't mind naked dancing. Hell, she was a damn good dancer and her body – she studied it as she turned in front of her bedroom mirror – was her meal ticket.
Nature had been generous, gifting her with high, full breasts that hadn't required augmentation. So far. A long torso, long legs, a firm ass. Yes, she had all the necessary weapons.
She'd had to put money into her face, and considered it a good investment. She'd been born with thin lips, a short chin, and a heavy forehead. But a few trips to a beauty enhancement center had fixed that. Now her mouth was full and ripe, her chin sassily pointed, and her brow high and clear.
Sarabeth Greenbalm looked, in her opinion, damn good.
The problem was she was down to her last five hundred, the rent was due, and some over-eager bozo in the lunch crowd had ripped her best G-string before she could slither out of it.
She had a headache, her feet hurt, and she was still single.
She should never have plunked down the three thousand for Personally Yours. In retrospect what had seemed like a clever investment now appeared to be good money down the sewer. Losers used dating services, she thought as she tugged on a short purple robe. And losers attracted losers.
After meeting the first two men on her match list, she'd gone straight down to Fifth Avenue and asked for her money back. The blond ice queen hadn't been so friendly then, Sarabeth thought now. No refunds, no way, no how.
With a philosophical shrug, Sarabeth walked from the bedroom into the kitchen – a short walk in an apartment barely bigger than the communal dressing room at the Sweet Spot.
The money was gone, a write-off. And a lesson had been learned: She had to depend on herself, and herself only.
The knock on her door interrupted her hopeful scan of the limited offerings of her AutoChef. Absently she tugged her robe closed, then beat a fist on the wall. The couple next door fought like cats and fucked like minks most every night. Her pounding wouldn't change the noise level by a decibel, but it made her feel better.
She turned one suspicious brown eye to the security peep, then grinned like a girl. Hurriedly she disengaged the locks and swung the door wide.
"Hey there, Santa."
His eyes twinkled merrily. "Merry Christmas, Sarabeth." He shook the big silver box he carried, then winked at her. "Have you been good?"
Captain Ryan Feeney sat on the end of Eve's desk and munched on candied almonds. He had the lived-in, vaguely morose face of a basset hound and a wiry thatch of russet hair sprinkled with thin, steely threads of silver. There was a rust-colored splotch on his rumpled shirt – a memory of the bean soup he'd had for lunch – and a small nick on his chin where he'd cut himself shaving that morning.
He looked harmless.
Eve would have gone through any door with him. And had.
He'd trained her, and taught her. Now as captain of the Electronic Detective Division, he was an invaluable resource to her.
"Wish I could tell you the bauble was a one of a kind." He popped another nut into his mouth. "Still there's only a dozen stores in the city that sell it."
"And how many do we have to trace?"
"Forty-nine of them were sold in the last seven weeks." He scratched his chin, worrying at the tiny scab. "The pin runs about five hundred. Forty-eight were credit deals, only one cash transaction."
"That would be him."
"More than likely." Feeney pulled out his memo book. "The cash deal was at Sal's Gold and Silver on Forty-ninth."
"I'll check it out, thanks."
"Nothing to it. Got anything else? McNab's willing and able."
"McNab?"
"He liked working with you. The boy's good and sharp and you could toss him any grunt work."
Eve considered the young detective with his colorful wardrobe, sharp mind, and smart mouth. "He gives Peabody the fish eye."
"You don't think Peabody can handle him?"
Eve frowned, tapped her fingers, shrugged. "Yeah, she's a big girl, and I could use him. I contacted the victim's ex-husband. He's relocated in Atlanta. His alibi for the period in question looks fairly solid, but it wouldn't hurt to look closer. See if he booked any travel to New York, made any calls to the victim."
"McNab can do that in his sleep."
"Tell him to stay awake and do it." She reached for a disc file, handed it over. "All the data I have on the ex is here. I'll be running the names of the matches from Personally Yours. I'll pass those to him after I've taken a look."
"Don't understand places like that." Feeney shook his head. "In my day you met women the old-fashioned way. You picked them up in a bar."
Eve lifted an eyebrow. "Is that how you met your wife?"
He grinned suddenly. "It worked, didn't it? I'll pass this on to McNab," he said as he rose. "Aren't you off the clock, Dallas?"
"Yeah, just. I think I'll run those names before I head out."
"Suit yourself. Me, I'm out of here." He started for the door, stuffing his bag of nuts into his pocket. "Oh, we're looking forward to the Christmas party."
She was already focused on her computer and barely glanced over. "What party?"
"Your party."
"Oh." She searched her mind, found it blank as far as parties went. "Yeah, great."
"Don't know a thing about it, do you?"
"I must." And because it was Feeney, she smiled. "It's just in another compartment. Look, if you see Peabody out in the bullpen, tell her she's off duty."
"Will do."
Party, she thought with a sigh. Every time she turned around, Roarke was giving a party or dragging her off to one. The next thing she knew Mavis would pounce on her about getting her hair done, having face and body work, trying a new outfit designed by her lover Leonardo.
If she had to go to a damn party, why couldn't she just go as she was?
Because she was Roarke's wife, she reminded herself. And as such she was expected to attend social functions looking slightly better than a cop with murder on the brain.
But that was… whenever it was. And this was now.
"Computer, list matches through Personally Yours for Hawley, Marianna."
Working…
Match one of five… Dorian Marcell, single, white, male, age thirty-two.
While the computer listed his statistics, Eve studied the image on screen. A pleasant face – a shy look around the eyes. Dorian liked art, theater, and old videos, claimed to be a romantic at heart looking for a mate for his soul. His hobbies were photography and snowboarding.
Nothing special about Dorian, she thought, but they would see what he'd been up to on the night Marianna had been murdered.
Match two of five… Charles Monroe, single, white, male -
"Whoa, whoa, hold it. Stop." With a half laugh Eve peered at the face on screen. "Well, Charles, fancy meeting you here."