Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(16)

She dropped into the car, put her head back. “Or favors,” she considered. “Like slipping something into some guy’s drink at a club. No way she’d have risked doing that herself. Maybe she hired the LCs, but that’s easy. Unlikely Bellami’s friend,” she considered. “We’ll check the story, check him, but it’s tough seeing a friend ruin the lives of two people who helped him launch his career.”

“She might have had something on the friend as well.”

“Yeah, winding that around, but unless I find he’s a scumbag, I don’t see it. Triplets, for God’s sake.”

She shuddered once.

“I need to see her place. It’s on Park.”

“You need food. So do I.”

“Oh. Yeah. Probably.”

“We’ll stop for—God help me—a pizza, then on to Park.”

“That’ll work.”





4

As Eve considered a couple of slices and a tube of Pepsi—no wine on duty—the perfect meal, she figured she owed Roarke points for reminding her to have a meal in the first place.

And the forty minutes or so spent on eating it gave her time to reorganize the current data in her mind.

“You’re in the women’s room,” she began as she took the passenger seat once again.

“Then I hope all the women therein are nubile and scantily clad.”

“Perv.” She waved a finger in the air. “Reboot. I’m in the women’s room. Another female walks in, I don’t react, barely notice, keep doing what I’m doing.”

“Men imagine that to be grooming yourself and the other nubiles while scantily clad. The loo version of the classic pillow fight.”

“I repeat the perv comment.”

“I’m forced to say you’re wrong—not necessarily re the perv, but in your setup. If you’re in there, Lieutenant, and another female walks in, you’d not only notice but be fully capable of describing her in minute detail with a single glance out of those cop’s eyes of yours.”

“Okay, a civilian female is in the women’s room, another female walks in. She doesn’t think twice about it. A man walks in, she reacts. Possibly amusement if she’s not alone in there or if said man looks embarrassed and backs out again. Possibly outrage if she’s inclined in that direction, anxiety or fear if he appears threatening. But she reacts, notices, and is on guard.”

“So you lean toward a female killer?”

“Not necessarily. Those are generalities. Specifically, Mars is in the women’s room, someone walks in. A female, she doesn’t necessarily react—unless she knows said female. A male, she reacts, one way or the other. If she knows him, she probably leans toward amused or interested. If it’s one of her marks, which is a hell of a lot more logical than some random killer strolling in and slicing some random woman—plus, according to statements, she used the bar regularly—she has another sort of reaction. Maybe amusement, maybe annoyance, maybe curiosity, depending on her attitude toward said mark. But she’s not afraid.”

“Why do you conclude that?”

“Her lip dye’s on the shelf in front of the mirror. She hung her purse on the handy hook, took out her lip dye—and she had fresh on when she collapsed, so she used it. So he walks in. She either keeps putting it on, or closes it, sets it on the shelf. She’s got pepper spray, a panic button, and an illegal stunner in her purse, open and within easy reach, but she doesn’t go for any of them—her purse was organized, no jumble like you might get if you’re grabbing out a weapon or a defense. And she puts the lip stuff down.”

Eve could see it clearly enough in her head. The sweep of blond hair, the pink skin suit, the pink lips to match.

“I need Morris to verify, but both logic and my on-scene assessment say she faced her killer when he cut her. So she set down the lip gunk, turned. She’s like: Well, mark of mine, did you make a wrong turn? If he’s smart, he just steps up to her, slices, steps back out of the initial spray. Maybe he holds there for a few seconds, maybe he files a sweet, sweet memory of the shock on her face, of her slapping a hand over the wound, of the blood pumping out. Then he books it. It has to be fast. The place is crowded, and somebody else might come in.”

She frowned as Roarke drove uptown on Park. “He—or she—isn’t real smart. Real smart would have been to bring something along to block the door, let her bleed out in there, give himself more time, possibly more time. But in any case, the killer bolts—keeps it easy and casual when he gets back upstairs, strolls right out. Button up the coat if you got any blood on you—a few drops is almost inevitable, and Bellami didn’t have even a drop. Same suit and shirt and tie he wore in the bar.”

“You don’t suspect him in any case.”

“No, but that’s one more reason why. Minutes, it all takes just a couple minutes. Slice, step back, walk out, up, out. It’s likely she staggered out shortly behind, a little panic at first, then confusion, weakness. A couple more minutes and she staggers into the bar. Another minute, she’s dead.

“If the killer’s female, she may not have recognized her. If the killer’s male, she did. I’ll run probability, but that’s how I see it.”

He pulled up in front of a tall spear of a building that read gold in the streetlights. At the entrance, within a deep inward curve of glass, a doorman stood in hunter green livery with gold trim.