Connections in Death (In Death #48)(23)

“More get her out,” Norton said. “Maybe he did already. Get her gone somewhere until he figures things settle.”

“So, either way, he’s not going to execute her.” Eve stood in the wind, calculating while the neon on the tat parlor began to buzz like a small swarm of bees. “If he didn’t order the hit, squeezes out she was part of it, does he follow the code, have a trial?”

“That’s how he rolls. He’ll gut her himself if it comes to that, but not before they stand her up, make her blubber first.”

“Okay. Sit on the place, tag me if you see anybody leave and head to the underground. That’s a couple blocks west, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“And where’s Wet Dreams from that entrance?”

Now Zutter pushed back his uniform cap, scratched his head. “First tunnel to the right, next left. It’s not down deep. LT, you shouldn’t oughta go down there without a force.”

“Just getting the lay. Appreciate the assist.”

“It’s what we do in this little piece of heaven on earth, right, Zut?”

“You got it.”

Roarke slid behind the wheel. “A couple blocks west, is it?”

“Yeah, then we’ll take a trip to Wet Dreams.”

“Darling Eve, life with you is a never-ending series of them.”

“Funny.”

She directed him to park in a loading zone, switched on the On Duty sign. From the trunk, she studied her choices, and took out two jagged bladed knives, passed one to Roarke.

“Thank you, darling. It’s just my size.”

She knew him, knew he could handle himself. Knew he’d enjoy it.

“What’re you carrying?”

He opened his coat, took from the inside pocket a police-issue stunner.

“Jesus, I should arrest you.”

“Promise you will when we get home.” He leaned in to kiss her. “You know how it thrills me.”

“Still funny,” she muttered. “Keep it handy.”

“You think he might just order that hit?”

“The minute I went in looking for her, she was in the crosshairs. I lean toward the uniforms’ opinion,” she added. “If she was following his orders on Pickering, he’ll hide her until things cool off. But . . .”

“You’re thinking of his reaction, weighing whether it was genuine.”

“It felt real, so if she went rogue, she’s finished. But he has his code, so it’s more likely he’ll try to get to her before I do, haul her in for a trial. And whether or not he ordered the hit, he has to make it look like he’s following the code.”

She took the tag from Norton.

“He’s got three of his crew heading out now,” Eve told Roarke, then rolled her shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

It smelled of human waste and rot and worse. In the echoing dark, shadows slunk away from the penlight Eve held in her left hand. A few huddled against the wall, too stoned to slink anywhere, eyes glassy with whatever they’d ingested or popped.

She skirted around them, then rammed an elbow into the throat of one who leaped forward. As he dropped, she pivoted in time to see Roarke use nearly the same maneuver—though his elbow struck nose cartilage.

“He had a friend,” Roarke said easily, and smiled.

Yeah, she thought again, he enjoys.

“Sometimes they pair up close to the entrances, hoping for a quick score.”

She took the left tunnel. In the distance music thumped, and a few lights glimmered. In the faint glint of them a male, pants around his ankles, hairy ass pumping, pinned a female to the wall. His raspy grunts punctuated each frantic thrust.

Rather than appearing appalled or aroused, the woman merely looked bored. But when her gaze skimmed over Eve and Roarke, she bared what was left of her teeth in something approximating a smile.

“Soon’s done here, give ya a double for half.”

“There’s an offer you don’t get every day,” Roarke murmured as they moved on.

“And the STD comes free.” Eve stepped over a fresh splat of vomit, took the next tunnel.

More lights here as the underground clubs popped up, with some retail scattered. Bondage World boasted live models hyping their products.

A woman with enormous man-made breasts exposed by the cutouts in her fake leather skinsuit moaned impressively as a second woman with a vibrating strap-on demonstrated the proper way to attach the looping chains of nipple clamps to wall hooks.

A couple of bruisers with full-body tats discouraged any potential customers from attempting to take an active part in the demo.

They passed Bang-O-Rama, a bar where volunteers paid for the privilege of being gangbanged onstage. At the moment, a group of women hooted and cheered on somebody named Coco who had the stage—and writhed as sex workers penetrated every orifice in her body.

She wore nothing but a tiara proclaiming her as the Bride to Be.

“A whole new meaning to girls’ night out,” Roarke commented.

Farther down the tunnel someone screamed in a way that didn’t translate into pleasure on any level. Just as the laughter that followed didn’t sound of humor.

Ignoring both, Eve aimed for Wet Dreams.

Smaller than most of the others, it amounted to a hole in the wall with bad lighting, smoky air, recorded music. Eve assumed the lighting was an attempt to disguise the fact that the staff consisted of junkies going through the motions to earn enough for the next fix.