Connections in Death (In Death #48)(25)

“She actually did change her name legally. Rita Razowitz to Taffy Pull. Worked the sex clubs—a couple of high end ones back in the day. A few bumps along the way, but nothing major. About twelve years ago she got into it with one of the other SWs over some dude. The rival set her hair on fire.”

“That’s love for you,” Roarke said.

“It explains the wig, the scars. Spiraled down—taste for opiates of any description, busted for illegals, for unlicensed solicitation. Blah-blah. She’s been running that place for about four years.

“Can’t think the dude was worth it,” Eve considered. “No marriages, no cohabs, no offspring, and no criminal in the last four that shows.”

“The sad life and times of Rita Razowitz.”

People make their choices, Eve thought. Who knows why?

“She’s not going to lie to cover for a junkie who works on and off. Slice is, legally, Marcus Jones, Junior. Looks like Senior, street name Rock, was not only a Banger, but a captain. Didn’t cohab with the mother, did some time. Got himself beaten half to death about ten years ago.”

“A job risk for a gangster.”

“That took Jones Senior out. I’m reading severe head trauma, brain damage. He’s in a medical facility for same. The mother spent Jones Junior’s childhood in and out of lockup, so he was raised primarily by his maternal grandmother.”

Roarke glanced over. “So he had something in common with Lyle Pickering.”

“Yeah. Huh. He owns the building, the flop. Or a percentage of it—and the same with Wet Dreams, and a couple other enterprises. Like the tat parlor in the building, a strip joint. Owns them with a Samuel Cohen and an Eldena Vinn.

“Any bells from those two?” she asked.

“Sorry, no. But that’s very interesting.”

“Yeah, it’s got my attention. I’ll look at his partners. Jones has brains, skill, or luck. Maybe all. He’s been pulled in for questioning plenty, but nothing’s stuck to him since he did six months when he was eighteen.”

“Brains would sell that underground pit and put enough change into that apartment building to charge actual rent—which tells me if he does have brains, he’s not using them for more than show.”

“Such as money laundering, the illegals trade, fraud, fencing, and so on.” She continued to work as Roarke wove through traffic. “Okay, his partner, Cohen was a lawyer.”

“‘Was’?”

“Disbarred, eight years back. Currently lists himself as a consultant. He’s forty-three, also listed as owner of his residence—Lower East, a few blocks—important blocks from Banger HQ. Working-class area. Cohabs with Eldena Vinn, twenty-five, employed at Bump & Bang—the strip club Jones, Cohen and Vinn also own. She’s listed her profession as dancer, which reads stripper.”

Eve sat back as—at long last—Roarke drove through the gates, and the lights of home glinted up ahead.

“How does a gangbanger, a disbarred lawyer, and a stripper become business partners?”

“I have no doubt you’ll find out.”

“Yeah, I will. It may or may not be relevant to Pickering’s murder, but I’ll find out. I smell dirty deeds.”

“It may just be the fragrant remnants of our interesting night on the town. Christ Jesus, I want that shower.”

When they got to the bedroom, he noted Galahad sprawled diagonally across the big bed, all four feet stretched out, belly up.

Enjoy it while you can, Roarke thought as he began to strip.

He also noted the wheels turning behind his wife’s eyes as she unhooked her weapon harness, pulled off her boots.

He decided, as a dutiful husband, he should take her mind off work so she could get a good night’s sleep.

He waited until she’d stripped it all down and reached for a sleep shirt. And scooped her off her feet.

“Hey!”

“We need that shower.”

“I’ll catch one in the morning. I know your pervy games, pal.”

“Maybe I have some new pervy games.” In the bath he ordered the jets on several degrees hotter than his own preference. And took her mouth with his as he stepped with her into the pulsing spray.

She decided a shower wasn’t a bad idea after all, so wrapping around him when he set her on her feet. Steam already pumped, and the pulsing hot beat of the jets felt nearly as good as the glide of his hands on her naked skin.

To get back some of her own, she backed him against the slick, wet tiles and got busy with her own hands, her own mouth.

No, not a bad idea at all, she thought as she gripped and dug into tight, rippling muscle, as she felt his heart trip against hers. She used her teeth, quick, hungry bites, as wet flesh slipped and slithered against wet flesh.

Hitting the dispenser, she filled her palm with liquid soap. Slicked and stroked it over him, around him. Down the solid wall of his chest, down the narrow cut of torso, down the taut belly.

Down.

She might have guided him into her, taken the moment, taken him, but he spun her around. With one arm chained around her waist, pinning her back against him, he glided his hand, the silky soap over her breasts, cupping them, thumb stroking the nipple while he feasted on the back and side of her neck.

Down that long, lean torso while his blood beat hot as the jets. A tease along the blades of hips as those hips began to pump in invitation.