Seduction in Death (15 page)

"Again, follows pattern. He takes his time. With this pattern he'd have studied her in real life. Finding a place near her apartment or her workplace. We check both."

She glanced over as the door opened. Trueheart, young and ridiculously fresh in his uniform, flushed as heads turned in his direction. "Sorry. Excuse me, sir. I'm late."

"No, you're on schedule. Report?"

"Sir, subject Cline's condition remains unchanged. No one without authorization entered her hospital room. I remained on post, inside the room, throughout the shift."

"Were there any calls of inquiry relating to her?"

"Several, Lieutenant, beginning at approximately oh six hundred when the first media report hit. Five inquiries from reporters requesting medical information."

"That jibes as I've had double that on my office 'link. Sign out, Trueheart. Go get some sleep. I want you to resume your post at the hospital at eighteen hundred. I'll clear your duty sheet with your sergeant."

"Yes, sir. Lieutenant? I appreciate you requesting me."

Eve shook her head when he'd closed the door behind him. "Thanking me for sticking him with the most boring duty on or off planet. Okay, Roarke's digging into Allegany. I want all pertinent data on J. Forrester, and this Theodore McNamara who's currently dodging my messages. And we slog away at the online dealer. We concentrate on the chemicals. How, why, and where they get their supply."

"My source in Illegals only came up with one strong possible," Feeney said. "One known local dealer who specialized in the upper-end sex trade and made a profit. Name's Otis Gunn, and he was in the swim about ten years ago. Had a pretty good line going until he got cocky and started cooking and serving his own Rabbit at parties."

"What's he up to now?"

"Year nine of twenty." Feeney pulled a bag of nuts out of one of his sagging pockets. "Rikers."

"Yeah? I haven't visited the old homestead in a while. Wonder if they've missed me?" She broke off as her communicator signalled, paced away to answer. "I just cleared Louise through," she said as she tucked the communicator away again. "She claims to have some information on last night's hit."

She looked at the case board, at the new picture she'd pinned to it. She'd kept Moniqua's face separate from the dead. She wanted it to stay there.

When she turned back she saw something pass between McNab and Peabody. Something with just a little heat, so she looked away fast.

"Peabody, why don't I have any damn coffee?"

"I don't know, sir, but I will rectify that immediately."

Peabody popped up, was actually humming under her breath as she programmed the AutoChef. And there was a bright look in her eyes when she carried the coffee to Eve.

"Eat any good pizza lately?" Eve muttered, and the light in Peabody's eyes turned instantly to embarrassed guilt.

"Maybe. Just a slice... or two."

Eve leaned in. "Ate the whole damn pie, didn't you?"

"It was really good pizza. I sort of, you know, missed the taste of it."

"No more humming on duty."

Peabody squared her shoulders. "No, sir. All humming will cease immediately."

"And no sparkly-eye crap either," Eve added and yanked open the door to look for Louise.

"You can look pretty sparkly-eyed after really good pizza, too," Peabody muttered, then decided not to press her luck when Eve snarled.

"Dallas." Louise double-timed it down the corridor. She wasn't wearing a power suit this morning, but the worn jeans and roomy shirt she usually donned for the clinic. "I'm so glad you are here. I didn't want to go into all this over a 'link."

"Sit down." Because Louise was pale despite her rush through Central's labyrinth, Eve took her arm and pulled her to a chair. "Take a breath, then tell me what you've got."

"Last night. I had a date last night. Drinks at The Royal Bar."

"Roarke's place? In The Palace Hotel?"

"Yes. I saw them. Dallas, I saw them sitting in a booth near our table. I spoke with her in the ladies' lounge."

"Slow down. Peabody, some water here."

"I wasn't paying attention," Louise continued. "If I had been I'd have seen... I can see her face right now as she sat in front of the mirror. It wasn't just champagne. I'm a doctor, goddamn it, I should have seen she was drugged. I can see it now."

"We see all kinds of things after. Here." She shoved the water into Louise's hands. "Drink, then suck it in, Louise. Suck it in and tell me everything you remember."

"Sorry." She sipped once. "When I saw the media report this morning, I recognized her. Realized." She drank again. "I called and checked on her condition on the way over. There's been no improvement. None. Her chances decrease every hour."

"Last night. Concentrate on last night. You're having drinks in the bar."

"Yes." She drew in a breath. Steadied. "Champagne, caviar. It was lovely. We were talking. I wasn't paying much attention to anything but him. But I did notice, sort of absently, the couple in the booth. They had champagne and caviar, too. I think, I'm nearly sure, they were already seated when we got there. They were sitting very close together. Very intimate. They were a very attractive couple."

"Okay, what next?"

"We danced. I forgot about them. But I went into the lounge, sat down to freshen up, and to get my balance. It was a very intense first date for me. While I was there, she came out of the stalls. She was throwing off all kinds of sexual sparks. Told me to congratulate her, that she was going to get very lucky. I was amused, and half wishing I could be that confident. They were leaving when I came out. They were leaving, and I never gave it a thought."

She sighed. "Her color was too high, her eyes were glassy. I can see it now."

"What do you remember about him?"

"Polished, attractive. They looked right together, and he looked natural in that sort of setting. I wish I'd noticed more. Maybe Charles did."

Eve felt the jolt in her belly, saw it in the quick jerk of her aide's shoulders. "Charles?"

"Yes. Charles Monroe. I tried to reach him this morning, but he has his 'link on message mode only."

"Okay." Oh boy. "I may need to talk to you again."

"You can reach me at the clinic all day." She got to her feet. "I wish I was more help."

"Everything helps."

Eve said nothing about it as she drove. She intended to say nothing about it ever in this lifetime. But Peabody's absolute silence broke her down.

"You okay about this?"

"I'm thinking about it. It wasn't a job."

"What?"

"They had this vibe going yesterday. It was a date, not a job. I'm okay with it," she decided. "I mean, we're just friends. It was just kind of a shock, that's all."

She glanced over, at the entrance to Charles's building, when Eve pulled to the curb. Apparently, she'd better be all right with it.

He was heading to the elevator as they stepped off. "Dallas. I was just coming in to see you. I just saw -- "

"I know. Let's go inside first."

"You know, but... Louise. Is she upset? I need to call her."

Eve's eyebrows raised as he fumbled with the keycode of his door. The unflappable Charles was definitely flapped. "Later. She's okay."

"Not thinking straight," he confessed, and ran a hand absently over Peabody's shoulder as they all stepped inside. "I spent an hour in the relaxation tank this morning. Didn't turn on the screen until a few minutes ago. The report hit me in the face. We saw them, just last night. Him and the woman he tried to kill."

"Tell me."

It was almost identical to Louise's statement, save for the interlude in the lounge. But Charles's speculation that the man was an LC interested her.

"Why did you think that?"

"He was detached, just a little. It's hard to explain. He was very solicitous, very smooth, but there was calculation under it. He let her make all the physical advances and let her pay the check. I was preoccupied," he admitted, "but I noticed the way he looked after her when she went into the lounge. Calculation, again. And smugness. Just a quick impression on my end. Some LCs think of clients that way."

"How about clients?"

"Sorry?"

"Some clients look at LCs that way."

He studied Eve's face, then nodded. "Yes. You're right about that."

She turned for the door. "Check with some of your associates for me, will you, Charles? For a client who likes classical music, pink roses, and candlelight." She tossed a glance over her shoulder. "And poetry. You people keep client files on preferences, right?"

"If we want to stay in business, we do. I'll ask around. Delia? Can I have a minute?"

Eve kept going. "I'll get the elevator."

"I know we'd penciled in dinner this evening," he began.

"Don't worry about it." She found it easy to kiss his cheek. That's what friends were for. "I like her."

"Thanks." He gave Peabody's hand a squeeze. "So do I."

CHAPTER TWELVE

It usually made employees nervous when Roarke showed up unexpectedly at one of his companies. To his way of thinking, a few nerves helped keep people on their toes.

He paid well, and the working conditions that were found in all his companies, factories, subsidiaries, and offices throughout the world and its satellites were unquestionably high.

He knew what it was to be poor, and to be surrounded by the dingy, the dark, the dirty. For some -- himself, for instance -- those were motivators to achieve more. By whatever means possible. But for most, a stingy wage and an airless box in which to earn it fostered hopelessness, resentment. And pilfering.

He preferred a higher overhead, which tended to keep those who belonged to him comfortable, loyal, and productive.

He walked through the main level of Allegany, making mental notes on what might need to be adjusted in security, in decor. He found no glitches in communication as within moments of his requesting to speak with the chief chemist he was being escorted to the thirtieth floor. The flustered receptionist who led the way offered him coffee twice and apologized for the delay in locating Dr. Stiles a total of three times before they'd reached the man's office.

"I'm sure he's very busy." Roarke glanced around the large, somewhat disorganized room where the sun and privacy screens were both firmly fixed to the window.

The place was as dim as a cave.

"Oh yes, sir. I'm sure he is, sir. May I bring you some coffee while you wait?"

Three for three, he thought. "No, thank you. If Dr. Stiles is in one of the labs, perhaps -- "

He broke off when the man stalked in, all flapping lab coat and scowl. "I'm in the middle of a project."

"So I imagined," Roarke said mildly. "I'm sorry to interrupt you."

"What are you doing in here?" he demanded of the horrified receptionist. "Haven't I told you I don't want people fussing around in my office?"

"Yes, but -- "

"Scoot. Scoot." He scooted her personally, waving his hands at her like a farm wife scattering chickens. "What do you want?" he said to Roarke and slammed the office door smartly.

"It's nice to see you again, too, Stiles."

"I don't have time for chitchat and politics. We're working on the new heart regenerative serum."

"How's it going?"

"It has momentum, which you're stopping by calling me out of my lab."

He sat, gracelessly, a beefy man with the shoulders of an Arena Ball fullback. His face was dominated by a nose that sliced down the center of his face like an ax through granite. His eyes were black and brooding, his mouth set in a permanent frown. His hair, a dingy gray he refused to change, sprang up out of his scalp like steel wool.

He was ill-mannered, ill-tempered, surly, and sarcastic.

Roarke liked him very much.

"You worked here when Allegany was associated with J. Forrester."

"Hah." Stiles took out a pipe he hadn't filled in fifteen years and chewed on the stem. "I've worked here since you were still sucking your thumb and drooling on your chin."

"Fortunately I grew out of both distressing habits. The partnership had to do with a particular project."

"Sexual dysfunction. People didn't worry about sex so much, they'd get more done."

"But what would be the point?" Roarke lifted a box filled with what appeared to be a decade's worth of periodical discs, set it on the floor.

"Married now, aren't you? Sex goes out the window."

Roarke thought of Eve rising over him in the dark. "Is that what happened to it?"

The amusement in the tone had Stiles snorting out what might have been a laugh.

"In any case," Roarke continued, "I need information about the partnership, the project, and the players."

"I look like a fucking data bank to you?"

Roarke ignored the question. More, he ignored the delivery, something he wouldn't have done for many. "I've already accessed considerable data, but the personal touch is helpful. Theodore McNamara."

"Asshole."

"As I believe that's your affectionate term for nearly everyone in your acquaintance, and out of it, perhaps you could be more specific."

"More interested in profit than the results. In glory than the big picture. Administrate you to death and back again just for the enjoyment of proving who was pushing the buttons. Wanted a name for himself. He was top dog around here then, and he made sure we all knew it by pissing on everyone as often as possible. Courted the media like a publicity whore."

"I take it you didn't get together for a quick beer after a hard day over the petri dish."

"Couldn't stand the son of a bitch. Can't knock his professional skills. There's a brilliant mind in that puffed up prima donna."

He sucked on his pipe a little, thinking. "He hand-selected most of the teams. Brought his doormat of a daughter in on it. What the hell was her name... Hah, who gives a shit? Good brain, worked like a dog, and had nothing to say for herself."

"Can I assume from this the project was primarily McNamara's baby?"

"He made the majority of decisions, made the blueprints for the direction the work took. It was a corporate project, but McNamara was the figurehead, spokesperson, main son of a bitch in charge. There was a lot of money riding on the deal. Corporate money, private investors. Sex sells. We had some luck in a couple areas."

"Considerable."

"Guaranteeing a man he can still get a boner when he's a hundred and two and letting a woman keep her biological clock ticking past the half-century mark." Stiles shook his head. "Money and media from that bumped things up. The less snappy stuff we accomplished -- infertility aids without the risks of multiple births -- wasn't as newsworthy. The brass was looking for more, and McNamara put on the pressure for us to give them more. We were working with dangerous elements, unstable ones. Tempting ones. The costs rose, and experiments were pushed too fast to make up the margin. Bad chemistry. Side effects, unsanctioned use. Recreational, too. Lawsuits started piling up, and they shut the project down."

"And McNamara?"

"Managed to stay out of the stink." Stiles's mouth turned down in disgust. "He knew what was going on. Nothing ever got by him."

"What about staff? Anyone you remember who had a particular affection for recreational use?"

"Do I look like a weasel?" Stiles barked.

"Actually... ah, you meant metaphorically, not literally."

"Give it another fifty years, you won't look so pretty either."

"Just one more thing to look forward to, Stiles." Roarke switched gears, sobered, leaned forward. "This is hardly gossip. Two women murdered, one in a coma. If there's a possibility the source springs back to that project -- "

"What women? What murders?"

Roarke nearly sighed. How could he have forgotten who he was talking to? "Get out of the lab occasionally, Stiles."

"Why? There are people out there. Nothing fucks things up faster than people."

"There's a person or persons out there right now drugging women with the very chemicals you and this lab experimented in. Drugging them to death."

"Not bloody likely. Do you know how much it would take to induce death? The cost of the elements involved?"

"I have that data, thank you. The cost in this case doesn't seem to be an issue."

"Hell of a lot of money, even if he's cooking it himself."

"What would it take to cook it himself?"

Stiles thought for a moment. "Good lab, diagnostic and equation units, first-class chemist. Air-seal lock for holding during stabilization process. Has to be privately funded, black market. Any accredited lab or center was working on this, I'd know about it."

"Put your ear to the ground," Roarke told him, "and see if you hear about anything that's not accredited." His pocket-link beeped. "Excuse me."

He engaged privacy mode, flipped on the earpiece. "Roarke."

Eve hated cooling her heels. She particularly hated it in a space where she was considered as much Roarke's wife, maybe more, than a badge. The Palace was one of those spaces.

She hated it only slightly less after being escorted to Roarke's hotel office where she could interview the waiter who'd served Moniqua and her attacker.

She preferred her visit to Rikers where the facilities were spare, the staff snarly, and the inmates vicious. Even if her interview with Gunn had been a dead end, it had been in more comfortable surroundings.

"I'll have Jamal brought up to you the moment he arrives." The ruthlessly sleek lounge hostess gestured when the elevator doors opened. "If there's anything else I, or any of the Palace staff, can do to aid in your investigation, you've only to ask."

It required both a thumbprint and a code to unlock the office, and this required enlisting the help of the executive office manager.

Security was never taken for granted in a Roarke Industries holding.

"In the meantime" -- the hostess smiled warmly -- "may I offer you any refreshment?"

"A sparkling mango." Peabody leaped in with the request before Eve could throw up the wall against such niceties. She met Eve's dour look. "I'm kind of thirsty."

"Of course." The hostess glided over to the carved cupboard that held the refreshment center and programmed the AutoChef. "And for you, Lieutenant?"

"Just the waiter."

"He's due in very shortly." She offered Peabody the mango in a tall, fluted glass. "If there's nothing else I can do for you, I'll give you your privacy."

She stepped out, closing the doors discreetly behind her.

"These are really good." Peabody savored each swallow. "You should go for one."

"We're not here to slurp down fancy drinks." Eve wandered the room. Despite the cutting-edge equipment, it was more luxury apartment than office. "I want the waiter's statement before I hit Dr. McNamara. Stop guzzling that and check on Moniqua Cline's condition."

"I can do both."

While she did, Eve contacted Feeney. "Give me something."

"You been to Rikers already?"

"Come and gone. Gunn and I passed a few pleasantries during which he suggested I perform various sexual acts on myself that, however inventive, are either anatomically impossible or illegal."

"Same old Gunn," Feeney said, with some affection.

"Otherwise, he was a washout. He was pissed off enough to find out somebody was out there making money in his area for me to believe he doesn't know a damn thing. So give me something."

"I told you it was gonna take time."

"Time's passing. One of them may have a date tonight."

"Dallas, you know how much crap's passed through this unit? It's a public rental for Christ's sake. I can't just reach in and pluck a single user out like a frigging rabbit out of a hat."

"You've got Cline's unit. Can't you run the crosscheck?"

"Do I look like this is my first day on the job? He didn't play with her on this one. Not that I can find. You want me to explain what the hell I'm doing here, or you want me to do it?"

"Do it." She started to cut off, caught herself. "Sorry," she added, then cut off.

"No change," Peabody told her. "She's still critical and comatose."

The door opened. Eve told herself she shouldn't have been the least surprised to see Roarke walk in.

"What are you doing here?"

"I believe this is my office." He glanced around. "Yes, I'm sure it is. Jamal, this is Lieutenant Dallas and Officer Peabody. They're going to ask you some questions, and require your full cooperation."

"Yes, sir."

"Relax, Jamal," Eve told him. "You're not in any trouble."

"No. This is about the woman in the coma. I saw a bulletin, and wondered if I should go to the police station or to work." He glanced at Roarke.

"The surroundings are a bit more comfortable here," Roarke said easily.

"So you say," Eve muttered under her breath.

"Sit down, Jamal," Roarke invited. "Would you like anything to drink?"

"No, sir. Thank you."

"Would you mind," Eve interrupted, "if I conducted this interview?"

"Not at all." Roarke walked over, took a seat behind his desk. "And no, I'm not leaving. Jamal's entitled to have a representative present."

"I would like to help." Jamal sat, his back arrow-straight, and folded his hands neatly on his lap. "Even if I hadn't been instructed to give full cooperation, I would want to help. It's my duty."

"Well, that's a refreshing attitude, Jamal. I'm going to record this. Peabody?"

"Yes, sir. Record on."

"Interview with Jamal Jabar, regarding the attempted murder of Moniqua Cline. Casefile H-78932C. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, conducting the interview. Also present Peabody, Officer Delia, as aide and Roarke as subject Jabar's chosen representative. Jamal, you're employed as waitstaff in The Royal Bar of the Roarke Palace Hotel. Correct?"

"Yes. I've been serving here for three years."

"And last night, in that capacity, you served a couple in station five of your section."

"I served four couples at that station during my shift."

Eve took out the stills, held them up. "Do you recognize these people?"

"I do. They were in my section last night, at station five. They had a bottle of Dom Perignon '56, beluga caviar with full accompaniments. The gentleman arrived at just before nine o'clock and was very specific in what he wished to be served, and how."

"He arrived first."

"Oh yes, nearly thirty minutes before the lady. But he instructed me to bring the champagne right away, and to open the bottle. He wished to pour himself. The caviar was to be served after she arrived."

"Did he have a bag, black leather, long strap, with him?"

"He did. He didn't wish to check it. He kept it on the booth beside him. He made one call on his 'link. I assumed it was to the lady as he was waiting so long for her. But he didn't seem impatient, and when I stopped by to make certain he was comfortable and inquired if his guest was late, he told me she was not."

"When did he pour the champagne?"

"I didn't notice precisely, but when it was nearly nine-thirty, the glasses were full. She arrived shortly after that. And I realized -- thought I realized why he had come so early if indeed she was timely. I assumed he'd been nervous as this was a first date."