Imitation in Death (In Death #17)(6)

"I know the routine. I was on the job for five years."

"You were a cop?"

"Five years, sex crimes primarily. I switched to counseling." I didn't like the streets, or what I saw on them. Here, I can do something to help without facing that day after day. This isn't a picnic, by any means, but it's what I do best. I'll tell you what I can; I hope it helps."

"She spoke to you recently, about her upgrade."

"Denied. She has-had-another year's probation. It's mandatory after her arrests and addiction. Her rehab went well, though I suspect she'd found a substitute for the Push she was hooked on."

"Vodka. Two bottles in her flop."

"Well. It's legal, but it violates her parole requirements for upgrade. Not that it matters now," Tressa rubbed her hands over her eyes and simply sighed. "Not that it matters," she repeated. "She couldn't think of anything but getting back uptown. Hated working the streets, but at the same time never considered, not seriously, any alternative profession."

"Did she have any regulars you know of?"

"No. She once had quite an extensive client list, exclusive men and women. She was licensed for both. But, to my knowledge, no one followed her downtown. I believe she would've told me, as it would've boosted her ego."

"Her supplier?"

"She wouldn't give a name, not even to me. But she swore there had been no contact since her release. I believed her."

"In your opinion, did she hold back the name because she was afraid?"

"In mine, she considered it a matter of ethics. She'd been an LC -nearly half her life. A good LC is discreet and considers her clients' privacy sacred, much as a doctor or a priest. She considered this along the same lines. I suspect her supplier was also a client, but that's just a hunch."

"She gave no indication to you during your last sessions that she was concerned, worried, afraid of anything or anyone?"

"No. Just impatient to get her old life back."

"How often did she come in?"

"Every two weeks, per her parole requirements. She never missed. She had her regular medicals, was always available for random testing. She was cooperative in every way. Lieutenant, she was an average woman, a little lost and out of her element. She was not street savvy as she'd been accustomed to a more select clientele and routine. She enjoyed nice things, worried about her appearance, complained about the rate restrictions at her license level. She didn't socialize any longer because she was embarrassed by her circumstances, and because she felt those in her current economic circle were beneath her."

Tressa pressed her fingers to her lips a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm trying not to be upset, not to personalize it, but I can't help it. One of the reasons I was no good out there. I liked her, and wanted to help her. I don't know who could've done this to her. Just another random act, on one of the weaker. Just a whore, after all."

Her voice threatened to break, so she cleared her throat, drew air through her nose. "A lot of people still think that way, you and I both know it. They come to me beaten and misused, humiliated and battered. Some give it up, some handle themselves, some rise to a different level and live almost like royalty. And some are tossed into the gutter. It's a dangerous profession. Cops, emergency and health workers, prostitutes. Dangerous professions with a high mortality rate.

"She wanted her old life back," Tressa said. "And it killed her

Chapter 2

'She stopped by the morgue. It was another chance, Eve thought, for the victim to tell her something. Without any real friends, known enemies, associates, family, Jacie Wooton was presenting a picture of a solitary woman in a physical contact occupation. One who considered her body her greatest asset and had chosen to use it to attain the good life.

Eve needed to find out what that body would tell her about the killer.

Halfway down the corridor of the dead house, Eve paused. "Find a seat," she told Peabody. "I want you to contact and harass the lab guys. Plead, whine, threaten, whatever works, but push them on tracking the stationery."

"I can handle it. Going in. I'm not going to lose it again."

She was already pale, Eve noted. Already seeing it once more-the alley, the blood, the gore. She'd stand up, Eve was sure of it, but at a price. The price didn't have to be paid, not here and now.

"I'm not saying you can't handle it; I'm saying I need the source of the stationery. The killer leaves something behind,.we follow up on it. Find a seat, do the job."

Without giving Peabody a chance to debate, Eve strode down the hall and through the double doors where the body was waiting.

She'd expected Morris, the chief medical examiner, to take this one, and wasn't disappointed. He worked alone, as he often did, suited up in clear protective gear over a blue tunic and skin-pants.

His long hair was corded back in a shiny ponytail and covered with a cap to prevent contamination of the body. There was a medallion, something in silver with a deep red stone around his neck. His hands were bloody, and his handsome, somewhat exotic face set in stone.

He often played music while he worked, but today the room was silent but for the quiet hum of machines and the spooky whirl of his laser scalpel.

"Every now and then," he said without looking up, "I see something in here that goes beyond. Beyond the human. And we know, don't we, Dallas, that the human has an amazing capacity for cruelty to its own species? But every once in a while, I see something that takes even that one hideous step beyond."