The In Death Collection 06-10 (77 page)

“Before that?”

“Across the hall. Look, I got my license, my health checks. I’m solid.”

“Were you one of Spindler’s?”

“Yeah.” The door opened another fraction. The other eye and a hard mouth appeared.
“So the fuck what?”

“You got a name?”

“Mandy. So the—”

“Yeah, I got that part. Open up, Mandy, I need to ask you some questions about your former
boss.”

“She’s dead. Been dead. Those’re the only answers I got.” But she opened
the door. Her hair was short and spiked. Easier, Eve imagined, for her to don one of the many wigs street LCs liked to play with. She
was
probably no more than thirty, but looked ten years older if you went by the face.

Whatever profit Mandy made obviously went into her body, which was lush and curved, with huge, uptilted
breasts that strained against the thin material of a dingy pink robe.

It was, Eve decided, the right investment for a woman in her field. Johns rarely looked at the face.

Eve stepped inside and noted that the living area had been converted so that it accommodated both ends of
the business. A curtain was drawn down the center, cutting the room in two. In one half were two beds on casters with rates and
services clearly posted on a board between them.

The other half held a computer, a tele-link system, and a single chair.

“Did you take over Spindler’s business?”

“Four of us got together to do it. We figured, hell, somebody’s got to run the stables, and if
it’s us, we can cut back on street time.” She smiled a little. “Be like, executives. Trolling for johns in the
winter’s murder.”

“I just bet. Were you around the night Spindler was killed?”

“I figure I was around—in and out, you know, depending. I remember business was pretty
good.” She took the single chair, stretched out her legs. “Wasn’t so freaking cold.”

“You got your book handy?”

Mandy’s eyes went sulky. “You got no need to poke into my books. I’m being
straight.”

“Then tell me what you know, where you were. You remember,” Eve said before Mandy
could deny it. “Even in this kind of flop, you don’t get your boss carved open on a nightly basis.”

“Sure I remember.” She jerked a shoulder. “I was catching a break when Lida found
her and went nutso. Jesus, she screamed like a virgin, you know? Came screaming and crying and beating on my door. Said how the
old bitch was dead and there was blood, so I told her
to shut the fuck up and call the cops if she wanted to. I
went back to bed.”

“You didn’t come in and check it out for yourself?”

“What for? If she was dead, fine and dandy. If she wasn’t, who cares?”

“How long did you work for her?”

“Six years.” Mandy yawned hugely. “Now I work for me.”

“You didn’t like her.”

“I hated her guts. Look, like I said to the other cop, to know her was to hate her. I didn’t see
anything, didn’t hear anything, and I wouldn’t have cared if I did.”

“What cop did you talk to?”

“One of her kind.” She jerked up her chin in Peabody’s direction. “Then one
of your kind. They didn’t make a big deal out of it. Why should you?”

“You don’t know my kind, Mandy. But I know yours.” She stepped closer, leaned
down. “Woman runs a stable, she keeps some cash around. She deals in cash, and she doesn’t run out at night to
make a deposit until the shift’s over. She was dead before that, and I don’t see anything on the report about any cash
being found in this place.”

Mandy crossed her legs. “So, one of the cops helped himself. So the fuck what?”

“I think a cop’s going to be smart enough not to take the whole stash. I don’t think
there was anything to take once they got here. Now, you either play straight with me, or I’ll take you and your book into
interview and sweat it out of you. I don’t give a damn if you took her stash, but I can care about what happened in here that
night.”

She waited a beat to make sure Mandy caught the full drift. “To review: Your pal came screaming to
your door and told you what was up in here. Now, we both know you didn’t turn around and go back to bed. So let’s
try that part again.”

Mandy studied Eve’s face, measured. A woman in her profession who intended to survive until
retirement
learned to read faces and attitudes. This cop, she decided, would push until she got her answers.
“Somebody was going to take the money, so I did. Lida and I split it. Who cares?”

“You went in and looked at her.”

“I made sure she was dead. Didn’t have to go past the bedroom door for that. Not with the
blood and the smell.”

“Okay, now tell me about the night before. You said you were in and out, busy night. You know the
kind of johns that use this place. Did you see anybody who didn’t fit?”

“Look, I’m not getting tangled up in some cop shit over that old bitch.”

“You want to stay untangled, you tell me who and what you saw. Otherwise, you become a material
witness, one who may have compromised the crime scene.” A new and nastier drift, Eve mused, another pause to let it sink in
thoroughly. “I can get an order for a truth test out of that, and some time for you in holding.”

“Goddamn it.” Mandy pushed out of the chair, walked over to a minifridge, and found a
beer. “Look, I was busy, working my ass off. Maybe I saw a couple guys who looked out of place coming out of the building
when I was bringing a john in. I just thought,
Fuck it, I got this half-wit to get off, and one of the other girls got these two dudes
who looked like they had money enough to tip just fine.”

“What did they look like?”

“Expensive coats. They were each carrying something, like bags. I figured they brought their own
sex toys.”

“Men? You’re certain you saw two men?”

“Two of them.” Her lips pursed briefly before she took another slug of beer. “I
figured them for men, but I didn’t get a good look because the half-wit was already drooling on me.”

Eve nodded, sat on the corner of the desk. “Okay, Mandy, let’s see if talking all this over
again improves your memory.”

Normally, Eve approached splashy social events like medicine. She avoided them whenever
possible—which wasn’t often enough now that she was married to Roarke—and when she couldn’t
wiggle out, she gritted her teeth, swallowed fast and hard, and tried to ignore the bad taste in her mouth.

But she was looking forward to the fund-raiser for the Drake Center.

This time, she approached the event like a job.

But she was going to miss the comforting weight of her weapon. There was no place to conceal it in the
dress she wore. It had seemed appropriate to wear one of Leonardo’s designs, as he would be one of the couturiers
spotlighted in the fashion show.

She’d had a lot to choose from. Since Leonardo had come into Mavis’s life—and
therefore Eve’s—her wardrobe had expanded dramatically from jeans, trousers, shirts, and one boxy gray suit to
include what she considered enough fancy clothes to outfit a theater troupe.

She’d picked the dress out of the closet at random, because she liked the dark copper tone of it. A
long, smooth column, it fell straight from its off-the-shoulder neckline
to her ankles, which made her consider
strapping her clutch piece to her calf.

In the end, she stuck it and her shield in the little evening bag she carried. Just, she told herself, in case.

Weapons seemed out of place in the glitter of the ballroom, in the sweeping sparkle of beautiful people
dressed in shimmering clothes and draped with glinting gold and flashing stones. The air was rich with the fragrances of hothouse
flowers, of perfumed flesh and hair. And music, a low, elegant throb, played discreetly.

Champagne and other fashionable, exotic drinks were served in crystal glasses by waiters in distinguished
black uniforms. Conversation was a sophisticated murmur, punctuated by an occasionally muted laugh.

To Eve’s eye, nothing could have looked more contrived, more staged, or more tedious. She was
about to say just that to Roarke when there was a delighted squeal, a flurry of color and movement, and the sharp sound of crystal
shattering on the floor.

Mavis Freestone waved a jubilant hand that was stud-ded with rings on every finger, offered a giggling
apology to the waiter she’d bumped, and dashed across the ballroom through the perfectly poised crowd on five-inch silver
heels designed to show off toenails painted a blistering blue.

“Dallas!” She squealed again and all but launched herself into Eve’s arms.
“This is
so
mag! I didn’t think you’d show. Wait till Leonardo sees you. He’s back in the
dressing area having a real case of nerves. I told him to take a chill pill or something or I swear he’s just going to woof all over
somebody. Hey, Roarke!”

Before Eve could speak, Mavis had leaped over to hug Roarke. “Man, do you two look frigid! Have
you had a drink yet? The tornadoes are killers. I’ve had three.”

“They seem to agree with you.” Roarke couldn’t help but grin. She was small as a
fairy, lark happy, and well on her way to being completely drunk.

“Yeah, you bet. I’ve got some Sober-Up with me so I
can maintain
while Leonardo’s designs hit the ramp. But for now . . .”

She started to snag another glass from a passing waiter, nearly teetered over. Eve simply slid an arm around
her shoulders. “For now, let’s check out the eats.”

They made an interesting picture: Roarke, sexy and elegant in suave black tie; Eve, long and lanky in her
copper column; and Mavis, in a silver dress that looked wet to the touch and faded into transparency a wink below her crotch, while a
temporary tattoo of a grinning lizard slithered up her right thigh. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and was dyed the same eye-popping
blue as her nails.

“We get real food after the show,” Mavis commented, but popped a canapé into her
mouth.

“Why wait?” Amused by the brilliant shine in Mavis’s eyes, Eve nonetheless piled a
plate with finger food, then held it while her friend plowed through.

“Man, this stuff rocks.” She swallowed. “What is it?”

“Fancy.”

With a snorting laugh, Mavis pressed a hand to her stomach. “I better watch it or I’ll be the
one woofing. I guess I’ll take my Sober-Up and go back to see if I can hold Leonardo’s hand. He gets so wired up
before a show. Really glad you guys are here. Most of these people are, you know . . . drags.”

“You get to go back and hang with Leonardo,” Eve said. “I have to stay out here and
talk to the drags.”

“We’ll sit together at dinner, okay? And make fun of them. I mean, some of these
outfits!” With a shake of her blue hair, she scampered off.

“We’re releasing her recording and video later this month,” Roarke told Eve.
“What is the world going to make of Mavis Freestone?”

“They won’t be able to resist her.” Smiling now, she looked up at Roarke.
“So, introduce me to some of the drags. I’m hoping to make somebody very nervous tonight.”

Eve didn’t think of the tedium now. Every new face she met was a potential suspect. Some smiled,
some
nodded, some lifted eyebrows when they learned she was a homicide cop.

She spotted Dr. Mira, Cagney, and with some surprise, Louise Dimatto. She’d save them for later,
Eve decided, and held out her hand to formalize her introduction to Dr. Tia Wo.

“I’ve heard of you, Lieutenant.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I never miss the local news. You’ve been featured quite a bit the last year or
so—through your own exploits and your connection with Roarke.”

Her voice was gravel rough but not unpleasant. She looked both stark and dignified in basic black. She wore
no jewelry but for a small, gold pin, the ancient medical symbol of two snakes wound around a staff topped by wings.

“I never thought about police work being exploits.”

Wo smiled, a kind of quick reflex that curved the lips up for a brief instant, left the eyes unwarmed, then
settled down again. “No offense meant. I often consider the news the highest form of entertainment. More than books or
videos, it shows people in their genuine form, reciting their own lines. And I’m quite fascinated with crime.”

“Me, too.” As openings went, it was perfect. “I have one you’d find
interesting. I’m investigating a series of murders. The victims are sidewalk sleepers, addicts, street LCs.”

“It’s an unfortunate life for them.”

“An unfortunate death for some. Each of these victims had an organ surgically removed. Quite
skillfully removed, stolen from the unwilling donor.”

Wo’s eyes flickered, narrowed. “I’ve heard nothing of this.”

“You will,” Eve said easily. “I’m making connections right now, following
leads. You specialize in organ transplants, Dr. Wo.” She waited a bit while Wo’s mouth opened and closed. “I
wonder if you might have any theories, from a medical standpoint?”

“Oh, well.” Her wide fingers lifted to toy with her pin.
Her nails were
trimmed short, left unpainted. “The black market would be a possibility, though the easy availability of artificial organs has cut
that venue down dramatically.”

“These weren’t healthy organs.”

“Unhealthy? A madman,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’ve never
understood the mind. The body is basic, it is form and function, a machine that can be repaired, tuned, so to speak. But the mind,
even when clinically or legally healthy, has so many avenues, so many quirks, so much potential for error. But you’re right,
it’s quite fascinating.”

Her eyes had shifted, making Eve smile to herself.
She wants to be gone,
Eve thought,
but
hasn’t quite worked out how to ditch me without insulting Roarke—and all his money.

“My wife is a tenacious cop.” Roarke slid a hand over Eve’s shoulder. “She
won’t give up until she finds who and what she’s looking for. I suppose you have a lot in common,” he
continued smoothly. “Cops and doctors. A demanding schedule and a singular purpose.”

“Yes. Ah—” Wo signaled, lifting one finger.

Eve recognized Michael Waverly from his photo on his data sheet. He was the youngest on her list of
surgeons, single, she recalled, and the current president of the AMA.

He was tall enough, she decided, to have had Ledo looking up at him. He was slickly attractive, at ease, and
slightly less traditional than his colleagues. His gilded hair curled toward his shoulders, and he wore a black, collarless shirt with dull
silver buttons with his formal tux.

His smile was a quick nova flash of power and charm.

“Tia.” Despite her stiff posture, he kissed her on the cheek, then held out a hand to Roarke.
“Nice to see you again. We at Drake very much appreciate your generosity.”

“As long as it’s put to good use, it’s my pleasure. My wife,” Roarke said,
keeping a possessive hand on Eve’s shoulder. He understood the look of pure male interest in Waverly’s eyes as they
settled on her face. And didn’t
particularly appreciate it. “Eve Dallas. Lieutenant
Dallas.”

“Lieutenant?” Waverly offered his hand and another potent smile. “Oh yes,
I’m sure I knew that. I’m delighted to meet you. Can we assume the city’s safe as you’re free to join
us tonight?”

“A cop never assumes, Doctor.”

He laughed, giving her hand a friendly squeeze. “Has Tia confessed her secret fascination with
crime? The only thing I’ve ever seen her read other than medical journals are murder mysteries.”

“I was just telling her about one of mine. Of the nonfiction variety.” She outlined the facts,
watched a variety of expressions cross Waverly’s face. Mild interest, surprise, puzzlement, and finally understanding.

“You believe it’s a doctor—a surgeon. That’s very difficult to
accept.”

“Why?”

“Dedicating yourself to years of training and practice to save lives only to take them for no apparent
reason? I can’t fathom it. It’s baffling but intriguing. Do you have a suspect?”

“A number of them. But no prime, as yet. I’ll be taking a close look at the top surgeons in
the city at this point.”

Waverly gave a short laugh. “That would include me and my friend here. How flattering, Tia,
we’re suspects in a murder investigation.”

“Sometimes your humor falls very flat, Michael.” With anger sparking in her eyes, Wo turned
her back on them. “Excuse me.”

“She takes things quite seriously,” Waverly murmured. “Well, Lieutenant,
aren’t you going to ask me my whereabouts on the night in question?”

“I have more than one night in question,” Eve said easily. “And that would be very
helpful.”

He blinked in surprise, and his smile didn’t shine quite so brightly. “Well this hardly seems
the time and place to discuss it.”

“I’ll schedule an interview as soon as possible.”

“Will you?” His voice had dropped several degrees and bordered on cold.
“You’re straight to the point, I see, Lieutenant.”

Eve decided she’d insulted him but hadn’t unnerved him. He wasn’t a man who
expected to be questioned, she concluded. “I appreciate your cooperation. Roarke, we should say hello to Mira.”

“Of course. Excuse us, Michael. That was smoothly done,” he murmured in Eve’s
ear as they moved through the crowd.

“I’ve watched you cut somebody off at the knees politely often enough to get the hang of
it.”

“Thank you, darling. I’m so proud.”

“Good. Find me another one.”

Roarke scanned the crowd. “Hans Vanderhaven should suit your mood.”

He steered her through the crowd toward a big man with a gleaming bald head and a natty white beard,
standing beside a tiny woman with enormous breasts and a waterfall of gilt-edged red hair.

“That would be the doctor’s newest wife,” Roarke murmured in Eve’s
ear.

“Likes them young, doesn’t he?”

“And built,” Roarke agreed, moving forward before Eve could add a pithy comment to his
observation. “Hans.”

“Roarke.” His voice was huge, barreling out and echoing through the room. Lively eyes the
color of chestnuts landed on Eve, took her measure. “This must be your wife. Enchanted. You’re with the police
department?”

“That’s right,” She didn’t much care for the way he took her hand, or the
way those eager eyes played over her as he kissed her knuckles. But it didn’t seem to bother the newest Mrs. Vanderhaven,
who stood smiling inanely with a glass of champagne in one hand and a diamond the size of Pittsburgh on the other. “My wife
Fawn, Roarke and . . .”

“Dallas, Eve Dallas.”

“Oh.” Fawn giggled, batted eyes of Easter egg blue.
“I’ve never talked to a policewoman before.”

If Eve had anything to do with it, they weren’t going to change that record by much. She merely
smiled, giving Roarke a light but none-too-subtle elbow nudge. Understanding, he shifted toward Fawn and, recognizing type and
priorities, began to compliment her on her dress.

Eve turned away from the giggle and gave her attention to Vanderhaven. “I noticed Dr. Wo had a pin
like the one you’re wearing.”

He lifted a wide, capable hand to the gold pin on his lapel. “The caduceus. Our little medal of honor.
I imagine those in your profession have their own symbols. Now, I don’t imagine you asked Roarke to distract my delightful
wife so we could discuss accessories.”

“No. You’re observant, Doctor.”

His eyes sobered, his barrel voice lowered. “Colin told me you were investigating a homicide that
involves organ theft. Is it true you believe a surgeon is involved?”

“That’s right, a very skilled one.” So there would be no dancing, no pleasantries.
Vanderhaven might have been on her short list of suspects at the moment, but she could find room to be grateful. “I hope I
can count on your cooperation. I’ll be scheduling interviews over the next several days.”

“It’s insulting.” He lifted a short, squat glass. From the color and scent, she took it
to be whiskey, straight up, rather than one of the elegant party drinks. “Necessary from your viewpoint, I’m sure, but
insulting. No surgeon, no doctor would have willfully, uselessly terminated a life as you described to Colin.”

“It’s only useless until we know his motive,” Eve said evenly and watched
Vanderhaven’s lips tighten. “The murder was done, the organ taken, and according to several expert sources, the
surgical procedure was performed by skilled hands. Do you have another theory?”