Festive in Death (In Death #39)(77)

Peabody grabbed her, squeezed. “Okay, okay.” Eve tapped her on the back. “Okay, okay.”

“I love you. People don’t say that to people enough, so I’m saying it. I really love you, and I’m going to let go in a second because I know it weirds you. But thanks. Thank you so much.”

“Okay.”

“I have to go thank Roarke.” Peabody pulled back. “And show McNab. Then I need to put it away safe. Is there someplace I can put it?”

“Give it to Summerset. He’ll stow it.”

“Right. Oh, wow. Just wow. I’m thanking you again right now by not hugging you again and kissing you on the lips.”

“And I’m saying you’re welcome by not putting a boot up your ass.”

Still wearing the coat, Peabody bolted out.

Eve took another minute. She really hadn’t signed off on the pink, but that was okay. In the big picture way, the color had been the icing on the Peabody cake, so it was okay.

Eve opened the door just as Charles Monroe and Louise walked up. “Hey.”

Charles did kiss her on the lips. “Merry Christmas, Lieutenant Sugar.”

“Merry Christmas. Hey, if I give you a present,” she said to Louise, “can I have a couple minutes to talk to Charles?”

“What kind of present?” Smiling, looking elegant and sleek in a shimmer of winter white, Dr. Louise DiMatto winked at her husband. “He’s a pretty special present himself.”

Eve stepped back, gestured them in. She found the gift bag for Louise. “This kind.”

“I was kidding, but I’ll take it.” Louise pulled out froth after froth of sparkly tissue paper, unearthed the handbag.

It borrowed its shape from the old-fashioned doctor’s bag, changed it up with the color of smoky lavender, the silver buckles.

The inestimable Tiko had polished it off with one of his scarves—deep purple, metallic silver, tied artistically on the handles.

“Oh, I love it! Dallas, it’s fabulous. It’s gorgeous—and the scarf is just lovely. Thank you.”

Eve got another hug, a buss on the cheek.

“Good, welcome. Now give me a couple minutes with Charles. If you see Summerset, he’ll stow that for you.”

“I can build an outfit around this bag and scarf.”

When she left them alone, Charles gestured to the ice bucket. “Mind?”

“No, go ahead. It’s a party. I just wanted a couple minutes to pick your brain—exploit your two careers, if it’s okay?”

“It’s always okay. So you’re picking for sex?”

“You could say. When you were an LC—and I guess now, too, in your sex therapist job, did/do you run into many people who trade sex for money? Unlicensed. Who just make a sideline out of it?”

“Sure. Not always money, but compensation. Clothes, jewelry, a favor, a trip. Some live their lives trading sex for money or things. You’d know that.”

“Yeah.” But this was different, she thought. “I mean someone who pursues it as a serious sideline, even keeps books.”

“Well, that would be less common.” He sat, a vid-star handsome man who might have been born with a flute of champagne in his hand. “I haven’t worked with anyone in therapy who has that issue, but I knew a few in my LC days.”

“And what sort of clientele are we talking? What drives the bargain, on both sides?”

“For the provider? Sex is a commodity or a power or so confused with their self-worth they can’t separate the two. For the receiver, it’s most usually romantic confusion. They can tell themselves it’s not business, which in this case it is, just not legal business or structured business. Or, often if there’s an age or monetary gap, the receiver feels they’re simply taking care of the giver. Simply providing them with little gifts or advantages. This gives them the power, or at least the illusion of it, in the relationship.”

“Why not just go to an LC, keep it . . .”

“Inside the lines? For some it might be more exciting, or more intimate, or it could be the relationship devolved into pay for play. Who was killed?” he asked. “The provider or the receiver?”

“Provider. I also suspect him of blackmail. And I know in several cases it wasn’t a receiver in the sense they agreed. He dosed them.”

His eyes changed, hardened. “That changes quite a bit. Do you know if he’d attempted to get a license?”

“Not as far as I can tell. He kept a spreadsheet, kept his money off the books, but kept a personal record. Women only for the sex. And some were fine with paying him. Others, generally younger than the willing ones, some of them married, he lured in, dosed, raped, then blackmailed.”

“He’d never have gotten through the training or the psych tests to get a license, not in New York. Not even street level if he’d been screened. What you’re describing, to me, is someone who felt no real connection to the receiver. It’s a business transaction, of course, but an intimate one that requires, at least on the higher levels, some finesse, some care and considerable training to handle various needs and situations. Above all, there has to be trust in the provider. A man like this would never have been able to gain real trust. You’ve spoken with Mira?”

“Yeah, and this is all running along her lines and my own. But you’ve been in the life, and now you treat people for sex stuff.”