Holiday in Death

  "Where's your partner, Carmichael?"

  "Locating the building manager, sir."

  "Fine. Keep this hallway clear. Stand until relieved."

  "Sir." Carmichael slid her eyes over Peabody as they passed. Among the uniforms Peabody was regarded as Dallas's pet, with varying degrees of envy, resentment, and awe.

  Feeling a combination of all three from Carmichael, Peabody twitched her shoulders as she followed Eve through the door.

  "Recorder on, Peabody?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Lieutenant Dallas and aide, on scene at 23B West One Hundred Twelve Street, apartment of Sarabeth Greenbalm." As she spoke, Eve took a can of Seal-It from her field kit and sprayed her hands and boots before handing it off to Peabody. "Victim, yet to be identified, is white female."

  She approached the body. The bedroom area was no more than an alcove off the main room, the bed a narrow bunk style that could be folded up to afford more room. It had plain white sheets and a brown blanket worn at the edges.

  He'd used red garland this time, wrapping it around her boa style from neck to ankle so that she resembled a festive mummy. Her hair, a shade of violet Eve imagined Mavis would admire, had been neatly brushed and styled into an upswept cone.

  Her lips, slack in death, had been painted a rich purple, her cheeks a tender pink. Pale gold glitter shadow had been carefully applied to her eyelids all the way to the brow line.

  Pinned to the garland just at the center of her throat was a circle of glossy green. Within it two birds, one gold, one silver, nested, beak to beak.

  "Turtledoves, right?" Eve studied the brooch. "I looked up the song. The second day his true love gives him two turtledoves." Gently, Eve pressed a hand to the painted cheek. "She's fresh. I'd bet it hasn't been more than an hour since he finished her."

  Stepping back, she took out her communicator to contact Whitney and request a Crime Scene team.

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight when she got home. Her shoulder was throbbing a little, but she could ignore that. What annoyed her was the fatigue. It came too quickly and too intensely these days.

  She knew what the department's orifice poker would say about it. Not enough recovery time. She'd been entitled to another ten days injury leave. Her return to full duty had been too soon.

  Because it tended to sour her mood to think of it, she blocked it out.

  She'd forgotten to eat, and the minute she stepped inside the warmth of the house the first pangs of hunger hit. Just need a candy bar, she told herself and scrubbed her hands over her face before turning to the scanner near the door.

  "Where is Roarke?"

  Roarke is in his home office.

  Figures, she decided as she started up the stairs. The man didn't seem to need sleep like a normal human. She imagined he'd look as fresh as he had when she'd left him that morning.

  He'd left his door open, so it only took one quick glance inside to confirm her suspicions. He sat at the wide, glossy console, scanning screens, giving orders into his 'link while his laser fax hummed behind him.

  And he looked sexy as sin.

  She thought if she could get her hands on that candy bar, she might just have the energy to jump him.

  "Don't you ever quit?" she demanded as she stepped into the room.

  He glanced over, smiled, then turned back to his 'link. "All right, John, see that those alterations are made. We'll go over this in more detail tomorrow." He broke transmission.

  "You didn't have to stop," she began. "I just wanted to let you know I was home."

  "I was entertaining myself while I waited for you." He angled his head as he studied her face. "Forgot to eat, didn't you?"

  "I'm hoping for a candy bar. Got any?"

  He rose and moved across the polished floor to the AutoChef. Moments later he took out a thick green bowl, steaming with soup.

  "That's not a candy bar."

  "You can feed the child after you take care of the woman." He set the soup on a table, then poured himself a brandy.

  She walked over, sniffed the soup. Nearly drooled. "Smells pretty good," she decided and sat down to devour. "Did you eat?" she asked with her mouth full, and nearly groaned with joy as he set a plate of hot bread on the table. "You have to stop taking care of me."

  "It's one of my little pleasures." He sat beside her, sipping brandy, watching the hot food put color back in her cheeks. "And yes, I've eaten -- but I wouldn't say no to a bit of that bread."

  "Umm." Obligingly, she broke a hunk in half and passed it to him. It was sort of homey, she decided. The two of them sharing soup and bread after a long day.

  Just like, well, normal people.

  "So ... Roarke Industries rose, what, eight points yesterday?"

  His brow winged up. "Eight and three-quarters. Have you developed an interest in the stock market, Lieutenant?"

  "Maybe I'm just keeping an eye on you. Your stock goes down, I might have to dump you."

  "I'll bring that point up at the next shareholders' meeting. Do you want some wine?"

  "Maybe. I'll get it."

  "Sit, eat. I haven't finished taking care of you yet." He rose and selected a bottle already open and chilling in the cold box cabinet.

  While he poured, she scraped the last of the soup from the bowl, barely resisting licking it clean. She felt warm, settled. Home. "Roarke, are we having a party?"

  "I imagine. When?"

  "I don't know when." A line formed between her eyebrows as she looked up at him. "If I knew when, why would I ask? Feeney said something about our Christmas party."

  "December twenty-third. Yes, we're having a party."

  "Why?"

  "Darling Eve." He bent down and kissed the top of her head before he sat again. "Because it's the holidays."

  "How come you didn't tell me?"

  "I believe I did."

  "I don't remember."

  "Do you have your date book handy?"

  Grumbling, she tugged it out of her pocket and plugged in the date. There, clear as crystal, was the information, followed by her initials to indicate she'd logged it in herself.

  "Oh."

  "The trees are being delivered tomorrow."

  "Trees?"

  "Yes. We'll have a formal one in the parlor, several in the ballroom upstairs. But I thought we'd have a smaller, more personal one in our bedroom. We'll decorate that one ourselves."

  Her brows shot high. "You want to decorate a tree?"

  "I do."

  "I don't know the first thing about it. I've never decorated a Christmas tree before."

  "Neither have I, or not in years. It'll be our first."

  The warmth that moved through her now had nothing to do with a hot meal or vintage wine. Her lips curved. "We'll probably make a mess of it."

  He took the hand she held out to him. "No doubt. Feeling better?"

  "A lot, yeah."

  "Do you want to tell me about tonight?"

  Her fingers tightened on his. "Yeah, I do." She released his hand and rose because she would think more clearly on the move.

  "He got another one," she began. "Same MO. Outside security cameras tagged him. The Santa suit, the big silver box with the fussy bow. He left her a pin, two birds in a circle."

  "Turtledoves."

  "Right -- or close enough. I don't know what a damn turtledove looks like. No sign of forced entry, no sign of struggle. I imagine the tox report will show she was tranq'd. She'd been restrained, probably gagged as the unit wasn't soundproofed. There were some fibers on her tongue and in her mouth, but he didn't leave whatever he gagged her with behind."

  "Sexually assaulted?"

  "Yes, same as the first. There was a fresh temp tattoo on her right breast. My True Love. And he'd wrapped her up in red garland, painted her face, brushed her hair. The bathroom was the cleanest place in the apartment. I'm guessing he scrubbed it down himself after he was done cleaning himself up. She'd only been dead an hour by the time I got there. The an
onymous call came in from a pay slot a half a block from her house."

  He could see the frustration working back into her. Rising, he took her glass and his own. "Who was she?"

  "A stripper, lap dancer, worked at the Sweet Spot -- an upscale club on the West Side."

  "Yes, I know where it is." When she turned, eyes narrowed, he handed her the wine. "And yes, it happens to be one of my properties."

  "I really hate when that happens." When he only grinned at her, she blew out a breath. "Anyway, she had the afternoon shift, got off just before five. From what we can tell, she went straight home -- she ran a scan on her AutoChef at six, just about the time the outside camera picked up this bastard going into the building."

  Eve stared into her wine. "I'd say she missed dinner, too."

  "He's working quickly."

  "And having a jolly old time with it. Looks to me like he wants to make his quota by New Year's. I need to run her 'link, her finances, her personal records. I've got to check out the pin. I'm getting nowhere with the Santa suit or the garland. How the hell do I connect a sweet administrative assistant to a lap dancer?"

  "I know that tone." With that he turned and moved to his console. "Let's see what we can do."

  "I didn't say anything about you running scans."

  He flicked a glance in her direction. "It was implied. What was her name?"

  "It was not implied. Sarabeth -- one word, noh -- Greenbalm." She walked over to stand with him behind the console. "I was simply running through my thoughts out loud. The address is 23B West One Hundred and Twelve."

  "Got it. What do you want first?"

  "I can run her 'link in the morning. Go with either personal or financial."

  "Financial would take you longer, let's start with that."

  "No showing off," Eve warned, then laughed when he snaked a hand around her waist and pulled her against his side.

  "Of course I'm going to show off. Subject, Sarabeth Greenbalm," he began, then nuzzled at Eve's throat. "Residing West One Hundred and Twelve." His hand slid up to cup her breast. "All financial records, latest transactions first."

  Working. ..

  "Now," he murmured, and turned Eve until their bodies meshed. "I should just have enough time to ..." His mouth swooped down, drawing deeply from hers and sending the top of her head spinning somewhere near the lofty ceiling.

  Data complete.

  "Well." He nipped her bottom lip. "Maybe not quite enough time. Your data, Lieutenant."

  She cleared her throat, exhaled. "You're good." Exhaled again. "I mean you're really good."

  "I know." And because she was just a bit off balance yet, he sat, pulling her until she tumbled into his lap.

  "Hey, I'm working here."

  "Me, too." Swiveling her to face front, he began to nibble at the back of her neck. "I'll work on this, you work on that."

  "I can't while you're ..." She hunched her shoulders, stifled a chuckle, and tried to concentrate on the data on screen. "Rent's her biggest expense, followed by clothes. She's got most of them marked costume for taxes. Stop it!" She slapped at the clever fingers that had already unbuttoned her blouse to the navel.

  "You don't need your shirt to read data," he said reasonably and began sliding it off her shoulders.

  "Look, pal, I'm still wearing my clutch piece, so -- " She sprang to her feet, making him mutter an oath. "Shit, shit. There it is. Son of a bitch. There's the link."

  Resigned, he tucked away thoughts of seducing her and turned his attention to the screen. "Where?"

  "There. Three thousand to Personally Yours by electronic transaction, six weeks ago."

  Her eyes were hot now, not with passion but power, as she swung around to face him. "She and Hawley used the same dating service. That's not a coincidence. That's a connection. I need her matches," she murmured, then catching Roarke's inquiring look, she shook her head. "No, we'll do it the right way. By the book. I'll go in tomorrow and get them."

  "It wouldn't take me long to access."

  "It's not legal." She struggled to keep her face stern when that grin of his beamed at her. "And it's not your job. But I appreciate it."

  "How much?"

  She stepped back, stood between his legs, and looked down at him. "Enough to let you finish taking care of me." She sat, straddling him. "After I take care of you, that is."

  "How about..." He fisted a hand in her hair and brought her mouth within a breath of his, "we take care of each other?"

  "That's a deal."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Settled in her home office with weak winter sunlight dribbling through the window wall at her back, Eve organized her data. She intended to feed a report to her commander by mid-morning and had several blanks she wanted to fill in first.

  "Computer engage. Detail data on dating service enterprise known as Personally Yours located on Fifth Avenue in New York."

  Working ... Personally Yours, established 2052 in Fifth Avenue location, owned and operated by Rudy and Piper Hoffman.

  "Stop, confirm. Business in question is owned by Rudy and Piper Hoffman?"

  Affirmative. Rudy and Piper Hoffman, fraternal twins, age twenty-eight. Residence 500 Fifth Avenue. Continue scan on Personally Yours?

  "No, search and report, full data on owners."

  Searching. . .

  While her computer juggled its chips, she rose to get a cup of coffee. Fraternal twins, she thought as the AutoChef filled her request. Brother and sister. She'd tagged them as lovers. And now, thinking back, remembering the way they'd touched, moved together, the looks exchanged, she wondered if both she and the computer were right.

  It was a thought that didn't sit well in her gut.

  A movement in the adjoining doorway caught the corner of her eye an instant before Roarke stepped into full view.

  "Good morning. You're up and about early."

  "I want to get my prelim report to Whitney first thing." She took her coffee from the AutoChef, shook back her hair. "You want a cup of this?"

  "Yes, I do." He took hers, smiling when she frowned at him. "I'll be in meetings most of the day."

  "What else is new," she muttered and programmed the unit for a second cup of coffee.

  "But you can reach me, if you need."

  She grunted, then glanced over as her computer signaled data search was complete. "Good. Okay, I've got -- " She yelped in surprise as he grabbed the front of her shirt and tugged. "Hey, what -- Hold data," she called out and shoved at her husband.

  "I like the way you smell in the morning." He leaned in and sniffed at her hair as he spoke.

  "It's just soap."

  "I know."

  "Get ahold of yourself." But damn it, he had her blood up and pumping fast. "I've got work," she muttered even as her arms came around him.

  "So do I. I miss you, Eve." He set his cup aside so he could hold her, just hold her.

  "I guess we've both been busy the last couple of weeks." It felt so good to lean against him and just be. "I can't back off this case now."

  "I don't expect you to." For the pleasure of it, he rubbed his cheek against hers. "I wouldn't want you to." But it was the last case, what it had done to her, that weighed on his mind and his heart. "I'm content to steal a moment here and there." He eased back, brushed his lips over hers. "I've always had a good hand at stealing ... whatever."

  "You're not supposed to remind me." And, smiling, she framed his face with her hands.

  From the doorway, Peabody watched them. It was too late to step back, too soon to step forward. Though they were only standing, his hands on Eve's shoulders, hers on his cheeks, Peabody found it a wrenchingly intimate moment that had her face heating and her heart sighing with envy.

  At a loss, she did the only thing she could think of and worked up the fake, faintly embarrassed cough of the intruder.

  Roarke ran his hands down Eve's arms, and smiled toward the doorway. "Good morning, Peabody. Coffee?"

  "Um, yeah. Thanks. Uh … it's
pretty cold out."

  "Really?" Roarke said as Eve moved back toward her desk.

  "Yeah, it's not supposed to get up to freezing. We might get some snow flurries this afternoon."

  "What are you, the National Weather Service?" Eve demanded, then took a good look at her aide. Peabody's face was flushed, her eyes soft, her hands busily plucking at her brass buttons. "What's wrong with you?"

  "Nothing. Thanks," she said when Roarke brought her a cup of coffee.

  "You're welcome. I'll leave you to work."

  When he walked through the adjoining doorway and closed it off, Peabody sighed. "I don't know how you can remember your name when he looks at you the way he does."

  "If I forget it, he reminds me."

  Though she heard the wry humor in Eve's voice, Peabody stepped closer. "What's it like?"

  "What?" Glancing up, Eve caught the intensity in her aide's eyes and shrugged uncomfortably. "Peabody, we've got work here."

  "Isn't that what it's about?" Peabody interrupted. "Isn't what you've got what those two women were looking for?"

  Eve opened her mouth, then shut it again. She glanced toward the connecting doors, saw that Roarke had closed them, but hadn't engaged locks on either side. "It's more than you think it can be," she heard herself say. "It changes everything, and fixes everything that matters. Maybe you're never going to be the same, and maybe part of you is always afraid of what will happen if... but he's always going to be there. All you have to do is reach out, and he's going to be there."

  Surprised at herself, she slipped her hands into her pockets. "Can you find that by pumping data into a computer system and letting it run personality and lifestyle matches? I don't know. But we've got two dead women who thought it was worth a try. Pull up a chair, Peabody, and we'll see what we've got."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We'll run a full search of Jeremy Vandoren. Instincts aside, we need to confirm or eliminate. Once we have full data on all five matches on the Hawley list, we'll pay another visit to Personally Yours."

  "Detective McNab, reporting for duty."