"Rain check," Eve said before Peabody could even nod. "You alone or do you have a client sleeping you off?"
"All alone." The sleepiness began to clear. "Is this official?"
"We're on a case, and I think you may be helpful in certain aspects of it."
"Was it anyone I knew?"
"Bankhead, Bryna. Downtown address."
"The woman who jumped out of her window? Wasn't that suicide?"
"Homicide," Eve corrected. "The media will have that this morning."
"Why don't you sit down? I'll make coffee."
" Peabody, why don't you make it?" Eve chose a seat in the well-appointed living area. Sex, when it was done right, paid well. "The questions I ask you, any portion of this investigation I may discuss with you, is confidential."
"Understood." He sat across from her. "I take it I'm not a suspect this time."
"I'm considering you an expert civilian consultant." She took out her recorder. "Officially."
"Then I assume sex reared its ugly head."
"Consult with Monroe, Charles, licensed companion," Eve announced. "Initiated by Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and on her authority as primary of casefile H-78926B. Also attending, Peabody, Officer Delia. Mr. Monroe, are you willing to consult in this matter?"
He managed to keep his face nearly sober. "Whatever I can do to help as a concerned citizen."
"What do you know about the illegal substance known on the street as Whore?"
Instantly his expression changed. "Did someone use Whore on that poor woman?"
"The question, Charles?"
"Christ." He got to his feet, was pacing as Peabody came back with a coffee tray. "Thanks, honey." He took a cup, drank slowly. "It was already illegal by the time I started training," he continued. "But I heard plenty about it. I took a seminar in my early days. Sexual Deviants: Dos and Don'ts. That kind of thing? Illegals of any kind were a big don't. You can get your license pulled. Of course, that doesn't mean that certain… aids aren't employed by some LCs or clients. But not this one."
"Why?"
"First, since it was once used to make trainees more malleable, we'll say, it has a very bad rep in my business. The sex-slave gambit is fine as a role-playing game, but not in reality. We're professional sexual companions, Dallas. We're not whores or puppets."
"You've never known anyone who used it?"
"Some of the older pros. You hear stories, and most of them involve abuse of one kind or another. Experimentation. Dose the LC trainee with it, then bang away. Like we were goddamn guinea pigs," he said in disgust.
"Still, it's an elitist substance. Any connoisseurs you know of?"
"No, but I can check around."
"Carefully," Eve warned. "What about Rabbit?"
He lifted one shoulder, rather elegantly. "Only amateurs and perverts use Rabbit, on themselves or a partner. In my circle it's considered both tacky and insulting."
"Dangerous?"
"If you're stupid or careless, certainly. You don't mix it with alcohol or any other stimulant. And you don't want to overdose. ODs are extremely rare because the shit costs more than liquid gold."
"You know dealers who handle it? Clients who use it?"
He stared, then looked pained. "Jesus, Dallas."
"I won't use your name."
He shook his head, then walked to the window, lifted the privacy shade. Light washed in.
"Charles, it's really important." Peabody stepped up to him, touched his arm. "We wouldn't ask if it wasn't."
"I don't do illegals, Delia. You know that."
"I know."
"It's not up to me to judge clients who do. I'm no one's moral center."
Eve leaned over, switched off the recorder. "Off the record, Charles. And my word no charges will be brought against your client for illegals use."
"I'm not giving you her name." He turned back. "I'm not violating that trust. But I will talk to her myself. I'll get the name of her dealer. And that I'll give you."
"I appreciate it." Her communicator beeped. "I'm going to take this in the kitchen."
"Charles." Peabody rubbed his arm when Eve left the room. "Thanks. I know we put you in a sensitive position."
"Sensitive positions are my specialty." He grinned. "You look tired, Delia."
"Yeah. I've been hearing that."
"Why don't I fix you dinner one night this week? A nice, quiet evening. I'll check my book."
"That'd be great."
When he leaned down to brush his lips over hers, she closed her eyes, waited for the thrill. And wanted to scream when it didn't come. It was, she thought, like kissing her brother. If any of her brothers happened to be gorgeous as sin.
"What's troubling you, sweetheart?"
"Bunch of stuff." She grumbled. "Bunch of stupid stuff. I'm working it out."
"If you want to talk about it, you know I'm here."
"Yeah. I know."
Eve came out of the kitchen and headed straight for the door. "Let's move, Peabody. Get me a name, Charles, soon as you can."
" Dallas?" With a quick, apologetic glance at Charles, Peabody ran to catch up. "What is it?"
"We've got another one."
CHAPTER SIX
He'd left her on the bed, her legs obscenely spread, her eyes gaping. Some of the pink petals stuck to her skin. Candlewax had spilled and hardened into cold pools over the holders onto the table, the little dresser, the floor, and the cheap, colorful rug.
It was a tiny efficiency apartment that the young woman named Grace Lutz had tried to make cheerful and cozy with frilled curtains and inexpensive prints in inexpensive frames.
Now it stank of death, stale sex, and scented candles.
There was a wine bottle, this time a cabernet. And this time nearly empty. The music came from a cheap audio unit beside the convertible sofa that served as a bed.
There was no mood screen, no video screen, and only a single 'link. But there were books, carefully tended and set proudly on the painted shelf along one wall. There were photographs of Grace with a man and woman Eve took to be her parents. There was a small glass vase filled with spring daisies that were shedding their petals on the dresser top.
The kitchen was no more than a corner with a twoburner stove, a stingy sink, and a mini-fridge. Inside the fridge were a carton of egg substitute, a quart of milk, and a small jar of strawberry jam.
There were no bottles of wine but the one that had killed her.
Grace hadn't spent money on things, Eve mused. Nor on fashion if the contents of her closet were any indication. But, though she'd worked in a library, she'd spent it on books.
And on what looked to be a new dress, now carelessly heaped on the floor.
"He knew what he was doing this time. There's no panic here. What there is, is deliberation."
"Physically they're very different types," Peabody pointed out. "This girl's white bread, sort of tiny. Nails are short and neat and unpolished. Nothing slick or flashy about her."
"Yeah, economically they're from different brackets. Socially, too. This one was a stay-at-home." She looked at the dried blood on the sheets, the smears of it on the victim's inner thighs. "The ME's going to confirm she was a virgin." She bent down. "She's got bruising, thighs, hips, breasts. He was rough with this one. Check the security, Peabody, see what we've got to work with."
"Yes, sir."
Why did he hurt you?Eve wondered as she studied the body. Why did he want to?
Crouched there beside the dead, she saw herself huddled in the corner. Broken, bruised, bloody.
Because I can.
She shoved the image away as she got to her feet. Pain could be sexual, it could be a kind of seduction. But it wasn't romantic. Yet he'd still set the stage with rose petals and candlelight, with wine and music.
Why did this stage seem to be a mockery of romance rather than a cliched attempt at it? Too much wine had been drunk, and some of it spilled on the table and rug. The candles had been allowed to spread into messy drips and pools. The sleeve of her new dress had been torn.
There was a violence here, an underlying meanness that had been absent from the first murder. Was he losing control? Had he found the killing more exciting than the sex?