Strangers in Death (In Death #26)(87)

“This isn’t a cop.” The bartender jerked his head at Roarke. “Cops don’t dress like that.”

“I’m not, no,” Roarke said in what seemed like the most pleasant of tones, if you were deaf and didn’t hear the jagged threat under it. “And that’s why I’ll hurt you more, and enjoy it more. Where’s the owner’s peep?”

“Got no reason to cause trouble.” The bartender reached under the bar. Even as Eve braced, she heard a faint buzz. A door behind the bar slid open.

“That’ll do nicely, then. I’ll be matching that first ten when we’re done.” Roarke’s terrifyingly pleasant tone never altered. “Unless you do something to annoy me or my partner here. That happens, I’ll be having the first ten back along with a chunk of you.”

Eve said nothing until they were inside the peep—a small, relatively clean room holding a couple of chairs, a little desk, and boasting a wall of screens that surveyed the club.

“I’ve got the badge. I get to do the intimidating and make the threats.”

“Why’d you ask me for this romantic date if you weren’t aiming to let me play, too?”

“I wanted to scare the albino bartender in the sex club.”

He laughed, tapped his finger on the dent in her chin. “Aw, darling, I promise you can scare the next one.”

“Yeah, because the city’s loaded with them. We’ve probably got a couple minutes. So lightning-round version.”

She zipped through the salients on Bebe Petrelli, skimmed over her theory about the senior Anders to give Roarke a taste, and ended with her supposition Ava might have approached Cassie Gordon.

“She made a mistake with Petrelli,” Roarke pointed out. “Do you think she made another?”

“Won’t know until I ask. Gordon’s done strip and sex work for eight years. A woman makes it through eight years doing that, she probably knows how to read people. She’s got a daughter. Ten-year-old daughter, in the program. Ice skater. No father in the picture. Kid didn’t cop a scholarship, but Anders is paying for her rink time. She’s got a private coach. On paper, Gordon’s paying her.” Eve nodded to the screen. “Do you figure she makes enough in a dive like this to pay for a private coach?”

“Not in a thousand rides on the pole, not here.”

“She’s going to tell us where she’s getting the money for the coach, how many favors she’s done for Ava. And I’m going to know if one of those favors was killing him.”

“There she is.”

Roarke looked away from Eve’s fierce eyes to the screen where a tall blonde in a short green robe swayed through the tables on glossy, high-platform heels. As she passed, one of the men at a table for three reached out, stuck his hand under her robe.

The blonde backhanded him, knocking him out of the chair without breaking stride.

“Well now, there’s another woman who can take care of herself.” He smiled at Eve. “That sort never fails to appeal to me.”

18

IT WAS CERTAINLY INTERESTING, TO ROARKE’S MIND, sharing a small room with the outsized personalities of two women. Cassie Gordon shoved herself into the room, a provocatively dressed Amazon with annoyed eyes the same hard brown as her roots. The eyes latched on Eve, and the wide, mobile mouth curled.

“You got ten minutes. I’m on in twenty. I don’t dance, I don’t get paid, so unless the freaking NYPSD plans on compensating me for my…”

Her gaze tracked over to Roarke, zeroed in. Annoyance one-eightied to pleasure; the lips rearranged themselves from curl to curve. “Well, hello, Officer Incredible. Are you here to search and manhandle me? I hope.”

Roarke didn’t have time to decide if he felt amusement or insult at being mistaken for a cop before Eve stepped into Cassie’s face. “You’re going to want to talk to me.”

“I’d rather talk, and lots and lots of other things, with him.” But she shrugged, dropped into a chair, crossed her long, bare legs. “What’s the beef?”

“Let’s start off with your whereabouts between one and fiveA.M. on the morning of March eighteenth. Tuesday morning.”

“Home.” She skimmed back her hair, gave Roarke what he considered a rather masterful eye-f*ck. “In my big, lonely bed.”

“Cut the crap, Cassie, or we’ll be having this conversation at Central.”

“What’s your twist? That time of night I’m home. I work days.”

“A lot of people in your profession put in overtime. You were acquainted with Thomas Anders?”

“Not especially. I know who he is—was,” she corrected. “My little girl’s in the Anders sports program. She’s a figure skater. She’s a champion. But I didn’t hob with the nob.”

“Ever been to the Anders home?”

“Are you f**king kidding me?” Cassie reared back her head and laughed. “Is she f**king kidding me?” she said to Roarke.

“She’s not, no. Why is the question so amusing?”

“I take my clothes off and turn tricks for a living. Not the kind of dinner party guest I expect the Anderses entertain regular.”

“But Mrs. Anders did indeed entertain you,” Roarke continued. “At retreats, spas, hotels.”