It was kick-in-the-guts sexy.
“A full-bodied red, I think.” He glanced back, caught her look. “And what’s that about?”
“I spent about ten, fifteen minutes with the asshole ex before I came home. And it just struck me, you could toss away all your money—”
“Then how would we afford this very nice wine?”
“I mean without the money, or being so damn pretty, you’re everything he’s not.”
He opened the wine, brought it and two glasses back to the sofa. “I assume that’s a compliment.”
“You can bank on it, ace.”
He sat, leaned over, kissed her lightly. “Thanks for that then. And is that where you want to begin? With the asshole ex?”
“It sort of starts there, with DeLano and the books.”
While she talked, he poured the wine, sat back with her. Galahad rearranged his bulk, stretching out so he took up part of both laps.
“She could have destroyed him,” Roarke commented. “She’s a popular writer—add single mother supporting her two daughters, her own mother. She could have destroyed him by using the media. But she didn’t.”
“She built a good life for herself, for her family. They’re tight. It’s kind of admirable. A lot of—you know—estrogen in the house. It sort of simmers in the air.”
“Simmering estrogen.” Roarke sipped his wine. “Sounds bloody dangerous.”
“It’s plenty girlie, but not weak.”
“Too many regard the female circle as weak.” He stroked a hand over Eve’s hair—much as she’d stroked the cat. “To their peril.”
“The killer’s female.”
“You have a witness? That’s burying the lede, darling.”
“Process, not a wit. She killed the first victim as a woman, killed the second in the guise—and mind-set—of a man.”
She told him of the security video, moved through to the conversation at the DeLano house.
“The younger kid—Piper—strikes me as scary smart. Not just with the school stuff and math and whatever. Just … canny. That’s one of your words.”
“Is it?”
“It even sounds Irish. Anyway, she makes this woman from the printouts—no hesitation. Describes what she’s wearing, and it was two months ago. DeLano’s nervous because the suspect was that close to her family, obviously following them around, but she’s not surprised the kid remembers. Apparently she remembers shit.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen—sister’s got a couple years on her. But here’s the thing, and something I didn’t say to any of them. I think, yeah, maybe the kid observes and remembers, but I don’t think a fourteen-year-old girl pays that much attention to some random woman, not when she’s juiced about Christmas, in the shopping mode.”
“You think something about the woman had her paying more attention.”
“Probably subconscious. Just an instinct. She might have seen her otherwise—looking different—but something triggered something.”
“Are you concerned for DeLano and her family?”
“Not yet.” But she’d fully apprised Brooklyn PSD. “Eight books in the series, and she’s going to want at least a couple more. She’s planning on all of them, but she might snap before eight.”
Because she worried about that snap, Eve frowned into her wine.
“Then she’ll go for DeLano. Or one of the kids, the mother, to make her suffer first. I’ve got Brooklyn keeping an eye on things, and I gave the family the precautions to take. Mira thinks the killer’ll turn on what she calls the creator at some point, but not yet. She’s having too much fun to eliminate the source.”
“What do you hope to find in the books?”
“DeLano’s not a cop or a killer, but she has to try to think like one. And she taps a retired cop for some research when she needs to. I’ve got three detectives I know of who say she hits the mark.”
“Add an expert consultant, civilian.”
“Okay. But in a story, there’s got to be a trail or a screwup, or some luck, right? It seems to me our killer’s real familiar with the books, and she’d avoid that trail, screwup, try to block the luck.”
“Ah.” Understanding her, Roarke managed to top off their wineglasses without disturbing the snoring lump of cat. “She’ll need to do some editing.”
“You could say. The first’s a serial, but she’s not going to go after another LC. That’s not the point. Did that, move on. In the second, the killer—male—was connected to a competitor of the victim. She won’t have a connection.”
“So you’re looking for what not to look for.”
“Sort of. You’ve still got to cover the ground, but I have to figure she’s copying the book, so she thinks: Doing this led to Killer A’s downfall. So I’m going to do this instead. The other thing is, for the first book the killer’s just targeting street-level LCs between eighteen and twenty-two, because that’s what her husband goes for, for sideline fucks. Our killer needed to find a more specific type, one that matched the first victim. Eighteen, in her first two months in the life, who used a time-in-and-out flop.”
“Writing it’s one thing, a blank page. Re-creating is more limiting.”
“Bang. And still, with street-level LCs it’s not hard. You troll around some, you cull out the ones who fit the age bracket. Maybe you take some pictures on the sly, find a way to get info on them. It’s going to take a little time, but you’re a planner, and planning well takes time.”
Understanding where she was going, Roarke nodded. “The second’s more difficult. A young actress with a vid habit. A classic vid habit. The Hitchcock vid—was it the same vid in the book?”
“DeLano said it was the Bitchcock—”
“Funny.”
“It’s got a ring. It was him, but another vid. Ah, shit, M Stands for Murder—I need my notes, because that’s not it.”
“Dial M for Murder.”
“That’s the one, and the killing’s during a big scene where the main female character fights off a killer.”
“Grace Kelly. Ray Milland’s her husband who’s hired—more blackmailed—someone to strangle his very wealthy wife, while he’s at another location, but on the phone—it’s mid-twentieth century—with her.”
“Solid alibi.”
“Exactly so. He rings her up—the husband does—to get her on the line, the killer attacks. And she struggles while the husband listens.”
“Cold.”
“But she manages to get her hand on the scissors she was using earlier, still on the table, and she kills the killer.”
“And in the theater, everyone’s focused on the screen, like with Chanel Rylan’s murder. The killer stabs her in the back of the neck, walks out. I haven’t read it yet to see where it diverges. Has to be some.”
“I’ll take that one. And this?” He tapped another book.
“Dark Deeds—third book. She’s already working on it, already selected the vic. I have to read it, find out more about the book vic, then start looking for potential targets.”
“Well then.” Roarke picked up the second book. “What do you say we settle in for an hour or so, then we can have our own murder book club over dinner?”
“Okay, but we’re looking for—”
He patted her hand. “I’ve got it.”
He put his feet up on the bench table beside hers, opened the book. Smiled at his wife. “It’s nice.”
“It’s work.”
“It’s nice work.”
With the cat spread over both of them like a furry blanket, the fire simmering, their bodies hip-to-hip on the sofa, she couldn’t deny it.
She dug into it, into the dynamics between the partners. A good balance and contrast, as far as Eve could tell, with Hightower’s more straight-arrow leveling out Dark’s instinctive moves and gut plays. And vice versa.
She reread a section from the victim’s point of view, clearly saw the similarities to Rosie Kent. The youth, the recklessness, the inexperience.
And both from solid, suburban, edging toward conservative backgrounds.
The murder itself where the author kept the killer’s gender neutral. To keep the reader guessing, Eve supposed. The meet when the killer approached Pryor/Rosie just as the young LC strolled onto the street to start the night’s work.
The killer showed—more likely faked—nerves to give the victim the false confidence of being in charge. And yeah, yeah, just as Eve had imagined it, the killer requests her “date” freshen up. More vic point of view, washing up a little, thinking smugly how this one should be easy money, thinking about a pair of mag shoes she’d be able to buy. How her lame sister just doesn’t get how much fun this is.
Steps out, finds wine on the table. Sure, sugarplum, let’s have a drink and relax. Followed by the shy request for the LC to undress first.
As she drinks, Pryor/Rosie does a little striptease, something she’s practiced in front of the mirror. Her date for the evening looks like money, and sometimes money added a nice tip, so she played it up.
Starts to feel a little dizzy, laughs it off, and keeps rolling her hips, doesn’t argue when her date insists she finish the wine.
Doesn’t hesitate when she’s told to lie down. So sleepy. She wonders vaguely why her date takes the time to pick up the clothes, to fold them neatly, like her own mother used to.
It’s the last thing she thinks—the last thought of the dead girl is about her mother.
The killer studies the girl on the bed, the firm, perfect breasts and the smooth, perfect skin. The young face under the whore’s makeup, the nails—fingers and toes—inexpertly polished a glittery pink.