Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(32)

“We’ll check on that.”

Roarke walked in, signaled her to continue as he went into the kitchen.

“It’s in Evidence. I’m going to say that she lives cold. You can have the sparkles, the shoes, a closet full of high-end wear, and still live cold.”

“Cold suits her.”

“It must. But the possible payoff? Tucked away with the vibrators she had a small, unmarked bottle. As it wasn’t labeled, it’s not prescription or OTC.”

“Illegals?”

“That’d be my guess, boss. And since it was tucked with her sex stuff, I’m figuring sex illegals. I didn’t want to risk opening it, so we dropped it at the lab.”

“Good. I’ll check on it.”

“My boy Trueheart’s writing out the full report, then we’re heading out for a brew.”

“You earned it. Thanks.”

“All in a day’s, Dallas. The woman has a good fifty pairs of shoes that haven’t been worn. I stand and salute.”

“That’s just sad,” Eve said, and cut him off.

She sat back, considering, as Roarke came back with two covered plates.

“Shoes and vibrators.”

That stopped him. “Sorry?”

“Gwen Huffman’s place. Baxter admires her many shoes, reports she has a collection of vibrators tucked away—and a lot of sexy underwear.”

“None of that sounds murderous or illegal.”

“They recovered her old ’link from her recycler, so once EDD gets inside and recovers, maybe some murderous.”

“How damaged?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know yet, but maybe they’ll recover any communications she made on the way home from Ariel Byrd’s. And Baxter found an unmarked bottle of as-yet-unidentified liquid squirreled away with her sex stuff.”

“Ah, well then, that may be illegals. Come, bring the wine you’ve barely touched, and eat.”

“Shelby said Huffman was sexually aggressive, and I’m betting that hasn’t changed. Sexy underwear, no surprise. Vibrators, well, a girl’s gotta do. But if that’s a sex illegal, who’s it for? The desk clerks—we checked with all of them and none recognized Ariel Byrd. She hasn’t been to Huffman’s apartment.”

“Perhaps she had yet another lover.”

“Possible,” Eve conceded.

She discovered they had roast chicken with some sort of herb stuff, slices of potatoes in a light creamy sauce and more herb stuff, and asparagus.

It all smelled pretty damn good. After a bite of chicken she decided it tasted the same.

“What if she uses it herself? Men don’t get her revved, but she’s got this fiancé. He wants some touch, so she needs the substance to get revved to have sex with him.”

“Well, that would be a sad state of affairs—pun intended—wouldn’t it now? Then again, the financial payoff’s considerable.”

“How considerable?” She poked her fork in the air. “You got it already?”

“It wasn’t much of a challenge. As her father stands as trustee, and has disinherited his son, the daughter gets the whole pie.”

“How big’s the pie?”

“When she marries—and it does specify she marries a male, a Caucasian male, an American-born citizen, and one approved by the trustee—she receives one hundred million.”

Pleased, Eve stabbed some chicken. “That’s a pretty big pie.”

“Until the time she marries, as specified, she gets much smaller slices of said pie. If and when she conceives—and delivers a child—within that marriage, she gets another hundred million.”

Eve took a small sip of her wine. “It sounds like a really big bribe.”

“It’s precisely that. Right now, she receives a biannual income from the trust. It’s generous, but, at six million annually, paltry in comparison. And if she doesn’t marry by the age of thirty-five, the income is cut off.”

“So, she comes by her manipulative streak honestly. And if she deviates from white, male, American?”

“The trust closes down, the income stops.”

“He may be worse than she is,” Eve remarked. “I haven’t done a deep dive on him yet. That’s next. Speculate,” she invited. “Does Merit Caine know about these terms?”

“Unlikely.”

As she thought it through, Eve ate some more, took another sip of wine. “She’s taking big risks—seeking out at least one lover could cost her that pie. And I’m betting more. A sexually aggressive, self-absorbed woman? A bunch of vibrators isn’t going to do it for her. She needs admiration, excitement. She knew about the trust way back when she was a teenager and hooked up with Shelby. The risks are part of the excitement. But she’s going to pick lovers outside of her own social pool, her stomping grounds. Why be stupid?”

“So a West Village artist.”

“Yeah, away from the Upper East Side, outside her social strata. She wouldn’t want to run into an ex at the next gala. Lots to play with here,” she decided, and speared some asparagus.

And decided to table murder for a few minutes.

“How come that house was so dingy and neglected? It’s prime real estate—even I know that.”