“It does. We could have them to dinner sometime. And you could grill him like a trout.”
Maybe she’d enjoy that, maybe she would. But … “She’s all grown up and capable of making her own decisions on who she’s banging and hooked with. Besides …” Eve ate more stew.
“You ran him, didn’t you now?”
“Yeah, sure. So?”
He laughed, grabbed her hand to kiss it. “I’d say having a man you may be or become serious about run by a cop when that cop is your friend is one of those unwritten rules.”
“It ought to be actually written down somewhere, if you ask me.”
“Either way. Well then, let’s have it. Do we have to worry about our Nadine being hooked with a scoundrel?”
She pointed at him with her spoon. “That’s a fancy word, and it comes off like a compliment. Jake Kincade was arrested about fifteen years ago for assault, disturbing the peace, and destruction of property. All charges were dropped, as numerous witness statements, and three videos—as some people in the bar where this occurred got right on that—clearly showed the drunk asshole he eventually ass-kicked dogging him, then taking a couple of swings. Which Kincade avoided. It also showed Kincade turning his back on said drunk asshole, walking away, just as it showed the asshole jumping him from behind, and getting in a couple of rabbit punches before Kincade shoved him off. At which time the asshole grabbed a chair, threw it at Kincade, went back for more. Then, and only then, did Kincade kick his ass, which thoroughly deserved it.”
He caught the admiration in her tone, understood it. Agreed with it. “So, he can handle himself.”
“Sounds like. Other than that, no arrests. A lot of speeding tickets. A serious lot of speeding tickets—all over hell and back. He bought his mother a house.”
“Is that so?”
“When their first recording hit pretty big, he bought his mother a house. All five original band members are still with it, and two of them have been pals with him—and each other—since they were kids. One of them’s done a couple of stints in rehab, had some bumps, but not Kincade. He’s never been married, but he did cohab with a woman—same woman—for about six years. That’s been off for almost as long. He owns a converted warehouse downtown—I bet it’s not bollocks coincidence that it’s on Avenue A—and outfitted it into a recording studio. He lives there, too.”
She shrugged. Roarke smiled.
“You’re all right with it then?”
“It’s not for me to be all right with it or not. And if Nadine didn’t check him out, I’ll eat raw turnips for a week.”
“I think you and turnips are safe there, as I agree with you.”
“Back to the point, he might know something about these guys that doesn’t show on a run. The attitude, the personal choices that don’t rise up to data. I could tap Nadine about tapping him on it, so it’s not weird.”
“Is she happy?”
“I guess. Off her stride some, but she still landed the one-on-one where we aimed it. And I’m hoping that throws Strongbow off stride some. She’s—shit, I forgot—she took Quilla on. Quilla, the kid from Higher Power.”
“She …” Obviously surprised, he sat back a moment with his wine. “Nadine’s fostering a teenage girl? That’s considerably more than off her stride.”
“No, no, hired her. Or whatever it’s called. As an intern. She wanted to mentor somebody, so—”
“I recall that now, remember her saying something about that. And you telling her you might have someone in mind. You had Quilla in mind.”
“Struck me, that’s all. Smart kid, pushy but smart—and so’s Nadine. Smart and pushy. Anyway, she brought the kid with her to my office. Quilla said they had a tour of the new shelter.”
“There’s been enough progress for it, and we’ve the core of the staff hired.”
“She was juiced about it, about it being ready in a couple months. But the memorial on the roof, that meant a lot. She snuck away from the group—no surprise there. But she did it to stay up there awhile because it meant a lot.”
“That’s good to know. You may have changed her life by pointing her at Nadine.”
“That’s up to them.”
“It is, yes, but you did the pointing. You gave them both the choice. Summerset changed my life, then you turned it yet again. The badge changed yours.”
“Yeah, then you turned it again. Pretty much upside down.”
“We’ve righted ourselves, darling Eve. Won’t it be interesting to see where these new connections, relationships, take Nadine?”
She started to speak, then turned around in her chair to look at the board. “The skank list—they tend to know each other, compete or hang. Go to the same clubs, shop in the same shops, frequent the same restaurants or events. It’s like that with the motive list. They’re all in the same business, more the same subset of that business. There’s going to be overlap on who’s laying who. In the book, the victim and the motive had—or had had—a serious, if twisted and unhealthy, relationship. At the same time …”
She got up, walked to the board. “The killer—our killer—isn’t a part of that world like the character of the killer in the book. She’s absorbed the role, but her experience is limited. Peabody called this group skanks because they basically are. They dress like it, act like it, fuck around like it. Peabody—Free-Ager, cop, monogamous relationship. Sews, crafts, bakes. She’s a cop, a good one, and she knows how the world works, knows what’s in it, but still, she’s outside this particular world. So when she looked at a group like this, she puts them together in one lump of skank.”
“Interchangeable, you’re saying.”
“Yeah. She knows better, and she knows how to separate them into individuals. But Strongbow? They’re all the same.”
“You think it won’t matter which? She’d kill any of them?”
“I think I was off figuring she focused on one here, two at the most. I think we find out which ones have had a thing—even just a quick bang-in-the-dark thing—with more than one of the motives. Crossover. It’s still the motive who matters. But maybe, maybe any one of these who present the opportunity would do.”
“How would you begin to find out how many of these wankers—because Christ, they all look at least a bit like wankers—each individual woman has shagged?”
“I start by asking them. They’ll brag about it. It’s a badge of honor in Skankdom.”
“Visited Skankdom, have you?”
“With a badge and in the line. I’m going to contact them, start working on a cross-reference. You could take a look at the wankers, dig down a bit. Give me your take on which ones have the most potential. Musically, creatively. The guy in the book has some actual charm, talent, and that potential. Unless he’s too busy smoking, swallowing, guzzling, or popping whatever illegals come to hand—and chasing them down with a whole bunch of alcohol. Then he’s a dick.”
“So—to clarify,” Roarke said. “I’m rating the wankers on their level of potential as musicians and human beings if and when they cease the smoking, swallowing, guzzling, popping, and chasing themselves into a dick?”
“Yeah. Oh, and sex. Another addiction.”
On that, Roarke pushed up from the table. “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. What an interesting way to spend our evening.”
Eve sat down and started at the top of her list by contacting Loxie Flash.
About ten minutes after Eve got a bang-brag list from Loxie and moved on to the next on the list, Loxie lit up a joint of Zoner, poured a glass from the bottle of top-shelf vodka she’d stolen at a party, and switched on the porn channel.
She hated winter in New York and wondered why the hell she wasn’t in St. Barts. The fact that her finances were, at the moment, a little squeezed added to her foul mood.
So fuck it, she’d head out to naked beaches in the morning. She could always hitch a ride on a private shuttle, talk Petra at the Beach House into a suite in exchange for some publicity.
Bored, irritated by the skinny cop, and since she’d reeled off all those sex partners, itchy, she reached for her ’link to start wrangling a ride and some digs in sunnier climes.
It pinged in her hand with an incoming text.
Hey bitch where u at? Got r jam going @ Screw U. Place is banging & I scored some prime. Guess who just walked in with a couple hos? G-man, u guessed it. Come on slut time 2 party.
Loxie took another pull of Zoner, drew deep as she considered. If Janis was there, probably most of the usual crew was, too, because Janis was too lame to party without the usual.
Still, she thought of the cold, the ice, the effort of pulling herself away from Zoner, vodka, and porn, getting herself dressed and sexed—mega-style, since her ex turned up.
A lot of work.
The warning about staying out of clubs, about poison and all that bullshit played through her mind. But the idea of pumping Janis—the bitch had the rich—for that private ride trumped all.
She left the porn running on-screen because now that itch felt real good, now she’d pick some lucky bitch or bastard to scratch it.
She answered the text.
B there in an hour. Save me a party favor.
Yola Bloomfield tossed her ’link aside and brooded. She wasn’t going to feel guilty for confessing—that’s what you did to cops—she’d cheated on the Stoner a few times.
Not all of it was cheating anyway. Sometimes they’d been on a break, and once they’d gotten trashed at some after-party and had had a free-for-all.
Besides, the Stoner had cheated right back.
And she was clean now, and mostly sober.
She studied the painting she’d just finished, decided it spoke to the inevitability of death, and the suffering that preceded it. The dark choices that made the suffering and the inevitability worthwhile.