Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(41)

“Minute by minute, then hour by hour, then day by day. Work is solace,” he said, “friends are comfort. Life is for the living. You and I know that, even though we spend so much time with the dead—maybe because of that we know we have to live. Chale has been a great help to me.”

“That’s good,” she said, thinking of the priest she’d suggested Morris talk to. “You can . . . you know, anytime.”

“Yes.” His lips curved. “I know. You’re work, and a friend, so have been both solace and comfort.” He sighed, looked at the body again. “So.”

“I’ll let you work.”

“Tell me about her,” he said before she turned away. “What’s not in your report.”

“She lived well. She took care of herself, of her business. I think she was smart, and I think she took pride in her work, and I think she must have enjoyed it. I don’t think you can be really good at something, not for the long haul, if you don’t enjoy it. I guess she liked people, and making them feel important and desirable, and she knew how to do it. Not just the sex, I don’t see how that’s enough. She was a native New Yorker, working-class family, parents split when she was a kid. She got her first-level license at nineteen, kept her record clean, took the classes and tests for higher levels, worked her way up. I think she lived just the way she wanted to live, for as long as she had.”

“What else is there? Thank you.”

“I’ve got to get back.” She started for the door, stopped when she reached it. “Listen, Morris, maybe you could come over for dinner or something.” When he simply watched her, smiling, she shrugged. “You know, Roarke could play with that grill he got last year. We could do a summer deal, some friends, some cow meat.”

“I’d like that.”

“Well, I’ll fix it up, let you know.”

As she walked out, she heard him speak into the record. “Victim is mixed-race female.”

She pulled out her ’link as she walked outside, and set for message only on the tag.

Even so, Charles Monroe answered. “Good morning, Lieutenant Sugar.”

“What, is everybody up at dawn today?”

“We are. Louise had night duty at the clinic and just got home. I’m making breakfast. Want an omelet?”

“I was going to leave you a message, see if you could give me a little time today.”

“For you, any . . .” The smile faded from his face. “I wasn’t thinking. You call at this hour, someone’s dead. Someone I know?”

“I’m not sure. Ava Crampton.”

“Ava?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Yes, I know her. What happened? Can you tell me?”

“I’d rather not over my pocket ’link. I’m out in the field, not that far away. I could—”

“Come over.”

“On my way.”

The garden Louise had planted in the days before she and Charles married thrived. More sweet than elegant, with just a touch of wild, it added another layer of personality to the townhouse they shared.

Louise met her at the door, her blond curls still a little damp from her shower. She took Eve’s hand, drew her in to kiss her cheek. “I wish somebody didn’t have to die for you to come by.”

“You look good.” Still sun-kissed from the honeymoon, Eve thought, and still glowing from the happiness marriage brought her. “Sorry to cut in on your personal time.”

“We’re having breakfast. Charles is cooking—really cooking. His omelets are incredible. So you’ll eat with us while you talk to Charles.”

Louise walked her back to the kitchen as she spoke. Charles stood over the stove, shaking a skillet back and forth. “Just in time,” he said. “Have a seat.”

“Is your AutoChef broken?”

“I like to cook when there’s time and a reason.”

“It smells good.” Louise put a mug in her hand, and Eve drank automatically. “Oh, this is real coffee. This alone is a reason to believe in God.”

“Wait till you taste my omelet. You’ll testify. What happened to Ava?”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

“We were friendly, but not really close. I liked her, you had to. She was charming and bright and just interesting. I can’t believe it was a client. She was so careful.”

“It was and it wasn’t. He set her up, used false ID, covered himself thoroughly from the way it looks. She met him at the amusement park on Coney Island. Public place. She’d vetted him. I don’t see she’d have had anything to question.”

“You’re saying she didn’t even know him?”

“It looks that way. Like I said, she vetted him—or so it reads in her appointment book. How would she go about that?” With a skill that surprised Eve, Charles slid a fluffy omelet onto a plate, then poured more egg mixture into the skillet.

“Eat that while it’s hot,” he told her. “She’d have done a background check, similar to what police or private investigators would do. She’d access his criminal record, if he had one, his employment, his marital status.”

“Basic data?”

“Yeah. Then she’d do a search for articles on or by him, mentions in the media. Then, I have to assume she’d run a program that would extrapolate all the information she’d gathered and give him a rating. By the time she met him, she’d have a good idea who he was, what his habits were, his lifestyle. It’s a matter of protecting yourself, but also a method to give the LC a sense of what the client may be looking for.”