He blushed. She wouldn't have believed it possible, but his strong, handsome face colored painfully and his gaze dropped to his glass. "Jesus, do you know everything?"
"If I knew everything, I'd know the answer. Why don't you give it to me?"
"It's private," he muttered.
"I wouldn't be here if it was. Why have you gone to Personally Yours for consults?"
"Because I want a woman in my life," he snapped. His head came up, and now his eyes were dark and angry. "A real woman, not one who buys me, all right? I want a goddamn relationship, what's wrong with that? In my line of work, they don't happen. You do what you're paid to do, and you do it well. I like my job, but I want a personal life. There's nothing illegal about wanting a personal life."
"No," she said slowly, "there's not."
"So I lied about what I do on the form." He moved his shoulders restlessly. "I didn't want to match up with the kind of woman who'd get some purient thrill out of dating an LC. You going to arrest me for lying on a fucking dating video?"
"No." And she was sorry, sincerely, to have embarrassed him. "You matched up with a woman. Marianna Hawley. Do you remember her?"
"Marianna." He struggled to regain his composure, drank deeply of the iced drink. "I remember her video. Pretty woman, sweet. I contacted her, but she'd already met someone." Now he smiled, shrugged again. "Just my luck. She was exactly the type I was looking for."
"You never met her?"
"No. I went out with the other four from my first match list. Hit it off with one of them. We saw each other off and on for a few weeks." He blew out a breath. "I decided if it was going to go anywhere, I had to tell her what I really did. And that," he finished, toasting Eve with his glass, "was the end of that."
"I'm sorry."
"Hey, there are more where she came from." But his cocky smile didn't reach his eyes. "Too bad Roarke took you out of the running."
"Charles, Marianna is dead."
"What?"
"Haven't you caught the news lately?"
"No. I haven't been watching any screen. Dead?" Then his eyes sharpened, focused in on Eve. "Murdered. You wouldn't be here if she'd died quietly in her sleep. She was murdered. Am I a suspect?"
"Yeah, you are," she said because she liked him enough to be straight with him. "I'm going to want to do a formal interview, just to keep it all official. But tell me now, can you clear yourself for last Tuesday night, for Wednesday, and for last night?"
He stared at her for a long time, just stared with eyes dull with horror. "How do you do what you do?" he demanded. "Day in and day out?"
She met those eyes levelly. "I could ask you the same thing, Charles. So let's not get into career choices. Can you alibi?"
He broke the stare, pushed away from the table. "I'll get my book."
She let him go, knowing she could trust her gut on this one. He wasn't a man who had murder inside him.
He came back carrying a small, elegant date book. Opening it, he plugged in the dates she'd asked for. "Tuesday, I had an overnight. Regular client. It can be verified. Last night I had a theater, late supper, and seduction here. The client left at two-thirty a.m. Got thirty minutes overtime out of it. And a handsome tip. Wednesday I was home, alone."
He slid the book across the table to her. "Take the names, check it out."
She said nothing, merely copied the names and addresses into her own book. "Sarabeth Greenbalm, Donnie Ray Michael," she said at length. "Either ring for you?"
"No."
She looked at him then, steadily. "I've never seen you use enhancements. Why did you purchase lip dye and eye smudger from the Natural Perfection line at All Things Beautiful?"
"Lip dye?" He looked blank for a moment, then shook his head. "Oh, I picked them up for the woman I was seeing. She asked me to get her a couple of things since I was going into the salon for the styling that came with my package."
Obviously confused, he smiled a little. "And why, Lieutenant Sugar, should you care if I buy lip dye?"
"Just another detail, Charles. You did me a favor once, so I'm doing you one. Three people who used the services of Personally Yours are dead, killed in the same manner and by the same hand."
"Three? God."
"In less than a week. I'm not going to give you many details, and what I do give can't be passed on to anyone. It's my opinion that he's using the data from Personally Yours to select his victims."
"He's killed three women in less than a week."
"No." Eve leveled her gaze. "The last victim was a man. You're going to want to watch your step, Charles."
When he understood, the edge of resentment faded. "You think I could be a target?"
"I think anyone in the Personally Yours data bank could be a target. At this point I'm concentrating on the victims' match list. I'm telling you not to let anyone in your apartment you don't know. Anyone." She drew another breath. "He dresses up like Santa Claus and carries a large gift-wrapped box."
"What?" He set down the glass he'd just lifted. "Is this a joke?"
"Three people are dead. It's not very funny. He gets them to let him inside, he drugs them, restrains them, and he kills them."
"Jesus." He rubbed his hands over his face. "This is bizarre."
"If this guy comes to your door, keep it secured and call me. Stall him if you can, let him go if you can't. Don't, under any circumstances, open your door. He's smart, and he's deadly."
"I won't be opening the door. The woman I was seeing -- from the service -- I need to tell her."
"I've got your match list. I'll tell her. I need to keep this out of the media as long as I can."
"I'd rather the press didn't get ahold of the story of the lonely-hearts LC, thanks very much." He grimaced. "Can you get to her right away, to Darla McMullen? She lives alone, and she's ... naive. If Santa came knocking, she'd open the door and offer him milk and cookies."
"She sounds like a nice woman."
"Yeah." Now his eyes were bleak. "She is."
"I'll go see her." Eve rose. "Maybe you ought to call her again."
"No good." He rose and worked up a smile. "But you be sure to let me know if you decide to ditch Roarke, Lieutenant Sugar. My offer's open-ended."
* * *
The heart, Eve thought as she drove, was a strange and often overworked muscle. It was hard to connect the sophisticated, smooth-talking LC with the quiet, intellectual woman she'd just left. But, unless her instincts were way off, Darla McMullen and Charles Monroe were halfway in love.
They just didn't know what to do about it.
On that score, they had her full sympathy. Half the time, she didn't know what to do about the impossible feelings she had for her own husband.
She made three more stops on the way back to her home office, doing interviews with people on the match lists, giving them the basic and specific warning and instructions she had written up and had approved by the commander.
If Donnie Ray had been warned, she thought, he might still be alive.
Who was next in line? Someone she'd spoken with, or someone she'd missed? Driven by that, she accelerated and blew through the gates toward home. She wanted Peabody and McNab to sign up with Personally Yours and get their profiles in before the end of the business day.
She saw Feeney's vehicle parked in front of the house. The sight made her hope her campaign to add him to the investigative team had been successful. With Feeney and McNab doing the e-work, she'd be freed up for the streets.
She headed straight up to her home office, wincing when she heard the blast of music -- if it could be called music -- searing the air of the hallways.
Mavis had one of her video clips on screen. She sang along with herself, screaming out lyrics that seemed to have something to do with ripping out her soul for love. Feeney sat behind Eve's desk, looking bemused and slightly desperate. Roarke stood behind a chair, looking completely comfortable and politely attentive.
Knowing her chances of being heard over
the din were nil, Eve waited until the last notes clashed out and Mavis, flushed with effort and pleasure, giggled and took her bows.
"I wanted you to see the rough cut right away," she said to Roarke.
"It looks like a winner."
"Really?" Obviously delighted, Mavis rushed him, threw her arms around his neck, and squeezed. "I just can't believe it's really happening. Me, cutting a disc for the top recording company on the planet."
"You're going to make me lots of money." He kissed her forehead.
"I want it to work. I really want it to work." When she spotted Eve, Mavis grinned. "Hey! Did you catch any of the cut?"
"The tail end. It was great." And because it was Mavis, she meant it. "Feeney, are you on?"
"Officially assigned." He leaned back in her chair. "McNab's doing his prelim consult at Personally Yours. We profiled him as a computer droid for one of Roarke's companies. His data's been inputted, and his new ID is in place."
"Roarke's company?"
"Seemed logical." Feeney grinned at her. "You got weight, you use it. Appreciate your help, boy-o."
"Anytime," Roarke told him, then smiled at his wife. "We cut a few corners as you're in a bit of a hurry. Peabody's profiled as a security guard at one of my buildings. Feeney thought it would be simplest to keep the profiles somewhat in line with truth."
"Oh yeah, let's keep it simple." But blowing out a breath, she nodded. "Good enough. You own half the damn city anyway, and nobody's going to question it, or find any holes in your personnel files if you had your hand in it."
"Exactly."
"Where's Peabody?"
"Trina's just finishing her."
"I need her now. She's got to get over here and put in her app, get the consult going. She looked okay, for God's sake. How long does it take to primp her up and put some street clothes on her?"
"Trina had some mag ideas," Mavis assured her with such enthusiasm Eve's blood chilled. "Wait till you see. Oh yeah, Trina wants you to plug in a session before your party. She wants to glam you some for it, since it's the holidays."
Eve merely grunted. She had no intention of being glammed -- now or ever.
"Sure, right. Where the hell..." Her voice trailed off as she heard them coming. She turned toward the doorway and blinked. Gaped.
"I have to say," Trina announced, "I'm good."
Peabody snorted, flushed, then smiled hesitantly. "Okay, so do you think I'll pass the audition?"
Her bowl-cut hair had been sheened and fluffed into a dark halo. Her face glowed with deep color smudged around her eyes to accent their shape and size, and her lips were dyed a soft coral pink.
Her body, which appeared so sturdy in a uniform, took on lusher, more feminine curves in a sweeping ankle duster of deep pine green. A tangle of chains in jewel hues were draped around her neck. Peeking out between the layers was a small, wistful tattoo of a gold-winged fairy.
Peabody had selected the tattoo herself after Trina had caught her up in the spirit of things. She hadn't flinched when the quick, capable hands had cupped her left breast to apply the temp. By that time she'd begun to enjoy the sensation of being remade.
But now, as Eve stared at her, Peabody began to shift her feet -- they were clad in toothpick heels that matched the wings of her mystical tattoo. "It doesn't work?"
"You sure as hell don't look like a cop," Eve decided.
"You look beautiful." Amused by his wife's reaction, Roarke stepped forward and took both of Peabody's hands: "Absolutely delicious." So saying, he kissed her fingers and had Peabody's susceptible heart stuttering.
"Yeah, really? Wow."
"Get over it, Peabody. Feeney, you've got twenty minutes to brief her on her profile. Peabody, where's your stunner, your communicator?"
"Here." Still flushed, she slipped a hand into a hidden pocket in the hip of the dress. "Handy, huh?"
"It's not going to replace uniforms," Eve said, then pointed to a chair. "You need to commit the data Feeney's going to give you to memory. Record it. You can replay it on the drive over. We can't afford any slipups. I want you in by end of day, and on match lists by tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." But Peabody fingered the material of the dress lovingly as she walked over to sit with Feeney.
"You're next," Trina said, running a quick, assessing hand through Eve's hair.
"I don't have time for a treatment." Eve backed up. "Besides, you just did me a few weeks ago."
"You don't get regular treatments, you ruin my work. She makes time before the party, or I'm not responsible for how she looks," Trina warned Roarke.
"She'll make time." And to placate her, he took her arm, steering her out as he praised her brilliance with Peabody.
CHAPTER NINE
Finding Nadine Furst lazily filing her nails at Eve's desk wasn't the welcome Eve was looking for when she arrived at Cop Central.
"Get your butt out of my chair."
Nadine merely smiled sweetly, tucked her nail file away in her enormous calf-colored bag, and uncrossed her smooth legs. "Hello, Dallas. So good to see you. Doing a lot of work out of your home office these days? I can't blame you." As she rose, Nadine skimmed her sharp cat's eyes over the cramped, dingy, dusty room. "This place is a dump."
Saying nothing, Eve marched directly to her computer, checked the last log-on time, then did the same with her 'link.
"I didn't touch anything." Nadine added just enough insult to her voice for Eve to be sure the reporter had considered it.
"I'm busy, Nadine. I don't have time for the media. Go chase an MT van or harass one of the droids in Booking."
"You might want to make time." Still smiling, Nadine moved to the only other chair in the office and daintily crossed her legs again. "Unless you want me to go on air with what I've got."
Eve jerked a shoulder -- and found that her muscles had tensed as she sat -- stretched out her own denim-covered legs, and crossed her battered boots at the ankles. "What you got, Nadine?"
"Singles seeking romance find violent death. Personally Yours: dating service or death list? Ace homicide lieutenant, Eve Dallas, investigating."
Nadine watched Eve's face as she spoke. She gave Eve full points -- her eyes didn't flicker -- but Nadine was gut sure she had her full attention.
"You want me to go on with a no comment from the investigating officer on that lead?"
"The investigation is proceeding. A task force has been formed. The NYPSD is pursuing all leads."
Nadine leaned forward, slipping a hand into her bag to turn on her recorder. "Then you confirm that the murders are connected."
"I'm not confirming anything with your recorder on."
Irritation flickered over Nadine's pretty, triangular face. "Give me a break here."
"You turn that recorder off, put it here on my desk in plain view, or I'll give you a break. I'll confiscate it and anything else you have in that suitcase you're hauling around. Recording devises aren't permitted in official areas of Cop Central without authorization."
"Christ, you're strict." Annoyed, Nadine took out her mini, plunked it on the desk, then set her bag aside. "Off the record?"
"Off the record." Because Nadine had said the words, Eve nodded. Nadine could be irritating, tenacious, and a general pain in the ass, but she had integrity. There was no need to search the bag for another recorder.
"The homicides under my investigation were committed by the same person. Personally Yours appears to be the source of the victims. You can go on air with that."
"The dating service." All traces of annoyance faded as Nadine smiled. Eve's subtle hint had nudged her into research on every dating service in the city. She would be able to plug in the correct data and flesh out her report with the flick of a couple of buttons.
"That's right."
"What can you give me on it?"
"Most of my notes are on my office unit." But Nadine pulled out her PPC and called up data. "You have all the standard already: owners, length of time in business, requir
ements. They do some pricey ads on our station. Shelled out ... a cool two mil last year on screen ads. Our credit checks showed they can afford it, that's less than ten percent of their gross."
"Romance is profitable."
"Damn right. I did an informal poll at the station. About fifteen percent of the talent and crew have used services. Informing the public takes a toll on the personal life," she added lightly.
"Anybody you like use Personally Yours?"
"Probably." Nadine cocked her head. "I like a lot of people, being the friendly, sociable sort. Should I be worried about them?"
"All three victims used the dating service, two knew each other casually through it. As yet, we've found no other connection among them."
"So ... your guy's trolling for lonely hearts." And that was a hell of a lead, Nadine decided, already running copy in her head.
"We suspect that Personally Yours is his source." Eve wanted that one element hammered in. She didn't intend to give Nadine much more. "The task force, formed today, is pursuing all avenues of investigation."
"Leads?"
"Are being checked out. I'm not giving you specifics on this, Nadine."
"Suspects?" Nadine said doggedly.
"Interviews are under way."
"Motive?"
Eve considered a moment. "They're sexual homicides."
"Ah. Well, that would fit. You got a bisexual killer? One of the victims was male, two were female."
"I can't confirm or deny the killer's sexual preferences." She thought of Donnie Ray, and guilt scraped along her stomach. "The victims have admitted the killer into their homes. There was no sign of forced entry in any case."
"They opened the door to him? They knew him?"
"They thought they did. You can advise your viewing audience to think twice before opening their door to anyone they don't know on a personal level. I can't give you any more without compromising the investigation."
"He's killed three times in less than a week. He's in a hurry."
"He has a program," Eve said. "That's not for on air. He has a schedule, a pattern, and that's how we'll get him."