Desperation in Death (In Death #55)(53)

Some bumps, of course, along the way. Including now the despicable, ungrateful girls. But a successful business accepted certain losses as part of doing that business. A certain percentage of trainees failed, and that was the reality of it.

She and her partner would discuss it all over dinner.

He’d been a client once, she mused. Long ago, and long ago he’d seen her potential. He’d financed her when she’d launched her own escort service.

A hugely successful one, one that had catered to the wealthy, the exclusive, the famous and infamous. That partnership had done exceedingly well.

Then the government legalized the sex trade—and regulated it. Those regulations, inspections, screenings, taxes cut deep into the profits.

Licensed companions, she thought, disgusted, as if you could license sex and passions and desires. But they had, so no more party packs of drugs to keep an escort fresh—and no more taking the cost—plus service charge—out of the fee. If a client got a little too rough, put some marks or dings on the rental, the girl filed a complaint—and her company had to pay the medical.

Oh, and the medical, she thought. Those steep monthly payments to ensure her stable passed all those annoying screenings.

Now and then, of course—rarely, but now and then—a client might do more than mark or ding. But that added on a hefty disposal fee.

No more of that, and no more standard confidentiality fees added on to the client’s bill.

Worse, many she’d brought in, groomed, trained, decided they no longer needed a madam, and struck out on their own.

Ah well, she thought as she sipped more champagne. When things change, the wise adjust. And innovate.

She heard him coming, angled toward the door, and smiled.

He wore black tie so well, she thought, and always had. Though he’d let his hair go white—and it suited him—it remained thick around a face that had weathered nearly seventy years very well.

It remained angular and sharp with hooded eyes of deep, dark brown. Though he stopped a few inches short of six feet, he had the presence of a tall man.

Perhaps it came from being born into wealth, then inheriting it all before he turned twenty-five.

Jonah K. Devereaux possessed a sharp and canny mind for business, and, she thought, whatever else he wished.

In their long association, she’d seen him burn through lovers—one literally, as he’d ordered the cottage in Switzerland where she’d fled to torched. With her inside.

Auntie admired his decisive ruthlessness, because it melded so well with her own.

Once, she’d bedded him—and others for his viewing pleasure—had jetted and sailed with him. While they remained genuinely fond of each other, their sexual relationship had ended some two decades before.

She knew she’d simply aged out of desirability for him in that regard, and cast no blame.

“Iris, my flower. How lovely you are.”

She rose so they kissed cheeks.

“How was Majorca?” she asked him.

“Warm. I wish you could have joined me, even for a few days.”

“As do I, but it’s all so busy right now.”

“What would I do without you handling all that busy? Let me get you more champagne.”

He topped off her glass, poured his own before lifting it.

“To friendship, and profit. Why don’t we sit, get this discussion out of the way so we can talk of more pleasant things over dinner.”

“Jonah.” She sighed as she sat. “I can’t tell you how angry and disappointed I am. I knew 238 posed some challenges, and I know I was well on the way to overcoming them.”

“You have a sense for these things.”

“I already had two buyers in mind for her. Ones who enjoy a bit of feisty, a touch of sass. We’d already started the marketing plan for her. But 232? The lying bitch.”

Closing her eyes a moment, Auntie held up a hand. “You know I try not to take it personally when one of them doesn’t meet expectations. But honestly, I feel duped. It doesn’t go down well.”

“It’s a rare occurrence.”

“Clearly they plotted together. I blame 238 entirely there. She had a slyness in her, and I admit I admired it to a point.”

“They have her name, her face. The media as well as the authorities.”

“Yes, I know. We should consider that an advantage. I have hunters out, naturally. I expect she’ll run, far and fast, another advantage. With her history, she’d never go to the police, and if they manage to find her, her history and her blood on that wretched 232 go against her.”

“Is there any way she could lead them to the Academy?”

“I don’t see how. She was unconscious and contained when brought in, as is SOP. They fled through the tunnels, a considerable distance. We believe we know where they came out, and in a rainstorm—another advantage. Clearly, she’d already run, leaving 232 to fend for herself.”

Auntie drank again. “Just another street rat, one who killed a foolish runaway for her shoes. Even if they suspect abduction on 232’s part, there’s no trace to us, and the results are the same.”

“It’s a concern.”

“Yes, but one we’ll manage. If the police find her—and I very much doubt it—the network will hear, and we’ll deal with her. With no family behind her, she’ll be forgotten quickly. This is a bump in the road, darling Jonah. We’ve had them before.”