Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(51)

“Yeah. So that’s not in play. It’s not—from a twisted thinking—the punishment fits the crime. It’s either escalation or she had more reason to want Pettigrew to suffer.”

“Taking us back to the ex.”

“To the ex, to someone else he screwed with, or to the current.” Eve pulled out. “Let’s go to Brooklyn.”

“Okay, warrant’s in.” Peabody studied her ’link. “Jenkinson and Reineke are on tap to handle it. And … hey, the offices for Discretion are on the way to Brooklyn. We’d have time to hit there before we talk to Horowitz.”

“Even better. Plug it in.”

As she did, Peabody frowned. “They might want a warrant, too. Discretion, right?”

“We’ll risk it. They have a dead customer,” Eve pointed out. “One who got his johnson whacked off. Seems they’d want to prove one of their LCs didn’t do it.”

“That’s an angle. Do you think if sex was your job it’d get really boring, or more exciting because you were always mixing it up?”

“I think because it’s not just sex that’s the job, it’s pretending attraction to somebody who put me on their credit card—or, lower level, picked me up on the street, and on the upper levels you actually have to have conversations with the john like you give a rat’s ass what they think about anything—I’d rather work the night shift in some factory that tests cat food.”

“Like they have to taste it, the cat food? They don’t do that, do they?”

“How the hell do I know? I don’t work at a cat food factory. There!”

She spotted a curbside slot, hit vertical, did a one-eighty in midair, and dropped down.

“I woulda walked,” Peabody managed. “I’d’ve been happy to walk blocks. Loose pants. And more no cardiac arrest.” Because her legs still trembled, she eased out carefully to stand on the sidewalk.

“It’s starting to rain,” Eve pointed out.

“A walk in the rain’s refreshing.”

“A walk in the rain’s wet.” Pleased, Eve walked into the soaring downtown office building.

A small horde of business types moved at a quick pace in the lobby. To elevators, from them, with briefcases, suits, earbuds, take-out fake coffee.

She walked straight to the security desk, held up her badge. “Discretion.”

The short man with thin, graying hair gave them a once-over. “Sign in please, with the name of the party you’re here to see.”

“I’ll know the party when I get there. What floor?”

“Twelfth floor, east bank.” He checked his log screen. “Twelve hundred for the main office.”

Eve scrawled her name, waited for Peabody to do the same, then headed for the east bank.

They got on the elevator along with more business types. She tuned out the talk of marketing strategies, Jenny in accounting’s birthday, brainstorming sessions, lunch meetings as the damn car stopped on every damn floor to let some off, let more on.

She grieved for the glides at Central.

Everything smelled like too much perfume, cologne, fake coffee, somebody’s mid-morning muffin, somebody else’s fear sweat.

On twelve she stepped out into a moment of blessed quiet.

Discretion’s office, behind double-frosted glass doors, held more quiet yet, and the faint scent of … she didn’t know what the hell, but it was good—and probably discreet.

The waiting area held deep scoop chairs, each with an individual screen. Maybe to preview choices of companions, she thought.

A single female—late twenties, silky blond hair, sharp green eyes, and a red suit that showed just a hint of black lace at the cleavage—sat at what looked like an antique desk or excellent replica.

She swiveled away from her comp screen, smiled. “Good morning and welcome to Discretion. How can I assist you?”

Eve pulled out her badge. “Manager.”

The smile faded. “We’re fully licensed and inspected.”

“Not my area, not my question. We need to speak to whoever runs the show, regarding a dead guy.”

“Wh—how— Please wait.”

She didn’t call back from the desk, but popped up and rushed away on shoes so high Eve wondered she didn’t suffer nosebleeds.

“You’ve got to give them classy,” Peabody decided. “The colors, the furnishings—and those are real miniature orange trees over there. In blossom. What a great smell.”

Okay, Eve thought, so that was it.

Another woman came back—tall heels again, these with toes so pointed Eve imagined they could jab a hole in brick. A good two decades older than the desk girl, she had an air of what Peabody would have called class.

The dark suit with its short skirt showcased excellent legs; the fitted jacket, an excellent body. Her hair, a kind of caramel, coiled tidily at her nape. Her skin, a few shades lighter, all but glowed, and her eyes, sea green, showed only polite curiosity.

“I’m Araby Clarke. Why don’t we speak in my office?”

“Okay.”

She gestured, led them to a wide doorway, into a long hall. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your names, but I swear … have we met?”

“Don’t think so. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.”