Chapter 5

Now in comfortable at-home clothes, a glass of wine in her hand, and slices of some sort of savory chicken along with little golden potatoes and some unidentifiable leafy green on her plate, Eve figured the long day had rewards.

She felt loose and relaxed now instead of tired and traumatized. And though they'd missed their morning ritual, at least they'd preserved the evening's.

She'd set up her board—or started to—and now she could roll through the day over dinner at the little table in her home office.

"First," Roarke began, "what did you buy?"

"A lot of stuff. Heavy on bags."

"A lot of stuff makes for a heavy bag."

"Exactly." She pointed at him with her fork, then stabbed some chicken. "If people didn't cart around so much stuff, they wouldn't need bags to hold it all. Handbags, shoulder bags, tote bags. People carry their life around with them, like refugees. I don't get it."

"But you bought them anyway, as gifts, which is what giving is all about, isn't it?"

"There were socks, too. Fuzzy socks," she remembered, dimly. It was like the fog of war, she realized. "And caps, and things to put other things in that go in the bags. They make fancy little cases just for lip dye. It's crazy."

"You can't be serious!" He widened his eyes, got a narrowed stare from hers. "Astonishing."

"Funny. And I got roped into buying a talking unicorn."

"Excuse me, a what?"

There, at least, she'd surprised him, she decided—and wasn't sure why she found it satisfying.

"A talking unicorn that goes in the unicorn bag for Bella that matches the big-ass unicorn bag for Mavis. It's pink—the unicorn—with a silver horn thing, and it says stuff. And it dances. It's probably going to scare the shit out of her."

"I wager she'll love it."

"It kind of scared me. But Tiko kept zipping out, then zipping back with more stuff. He had to tag his grandmother, get a little extra time due to all the zipping out and back. I think he put the whammy on me."

"Yet here you are, with your shopping done." He toasted her. "Kudos."

"I'd rather go hand-to-hand with a couple of Zeused-up chemi-heads than go through that again. What is this green stuff?"

Roarke only smiled. "Any progress on your investigation?"

"I'm learning the vic was probably a bigger asshole than I already thought. I'll verify tomorrow when I go by the lab, but I think he roofied one woman, and probably more."

Roarke's smile faded. "That makes him more than an asshole."

"Yeah, it does. And if I'm right, it's a damn shame he won't get his ass kicked for it. But since he got himself murdered, I've got to do the job."

"A woman who found out what he did to her? I'd be inclined to take her side of it."

"He deserved a cage, not a slab. Maybe a woman who found out he'd given her a boost, maybe a husband or boyfriend who found out. Maybe a woman who didn't like him juggling her with others, or a guy who didn't like being cheated on. A lot of variables. Then you add in the money, so maybe blackmail, which never ends well."

"And yet remains a classic," Roarke commented.

"Secrets plus greed generally equals a slab for somebody."

"Cop math." Roarke lifted his wine. "And usually accurate."

"His client list skews heavily female, though he's got men on it. It also skews heavily monied."

"And somewhere along the line he tapped the wrong well."

"Yeah, I'm thinking. I think, too, this new area of business—the money for sex and/or blackmail—was fairly new. Not that he didn't cheat and reap some reward, but going into it heavier. He kept Trina's friend around until a couple weeks ago, but he added the locks two or three weeks earlier."

"Hedging his bets, perhaps," Roarke suggested.

"Making sure he had a nice stockpile, working on sniffing up the ex before this ex. It could be. And yeah, tapped the wrong well."

She glanced over at her board, at the IDs she'd started putting up. "He had a lot to choose from. I'm going to have to talk to Sima again, and that means I have to talk to Trina again."

"Did you buy her a gift?"

"No." Appalled, she gaped at him. "Why would I—I don't have to— Do I? I'm not going back there, Roarke. They were decent, the bag people, but I'm not going back."

"Why don't I take care of that for you? She is your hair, face, body consultant—whether you want her to be or not. A small token would be appropriate."

"This is way, way out of hand." She poured more wine. "It's completely out of hand." In her shock, she ate the leafy green stuff. "You've got her coming over here, don't you, to jump all over my hair, face and body before the party?"

"It's the price you pay, darling Eve, for hosting what many consider an important holiday event."

"I'm finding those chemi-heads," she muttered. "I'm going out and hunting out a couple of Zeused-up chemi-heads."

"Won't that be fun? Would you like me to check your asshole vic's financials? See if he had any more tucked away."

"I don't think he did, but it wouldn't hurt if you've got time for it."

She looked back toward the board. "If he wanted to trade sex for money, why not get a license? Potentially, he could've made more, and made it legit."

"Some, including you, still see licensed companions as prostitutes."

"Well, sex for money."

Roarke shook his head, offered her a roll. "Licensed, regulated, taxed, safe. People pay for therapy, for physical training," he added, nodding at the board. "For spiritual guidance, and so on and so on. People pay for all manner of basic needs, and others train to provide those needs. Sex is a basic need."

"It's legal so I've got no beef with it. But you've got a point." She considered her board while she ate. "He didn't see it as a business transaction—or didn't want to. Didn't want to see himself as selling a service. He was doing them a favor, allowing them to bask in the wonder of his looks, his body, his skill. The money, the money he justified as it allowed him to keep up his looks."

She sipped at her wine. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. It starts off for fun, for the conquest—and you get to have sex in a nice hotel suite maybe, have some champagne, a good meal—maybe she buys you a token or two. She had a good time, didn't she? Then maybe you decide to work it so she understands a little token or some under-the-table cash would really be appreciated. You gave her a good time, she gives you a little bonus. What's the harm? You're not selling yourself; she's just showing her gratitude. Just a friend, just a client, giving you something extra because you gave her something extra."

"It sounds like you're getting to know him."

"Maybe. The one I talked to today, the one I think he roofied? He charged her two grand for an in-home massage—that was always going to be sex for him. So he could call it a massage, a service, something special for a client, and he could set a rate. I bet he's done a lot of in-homes recently. Massages, personal training. A couple, three thousand a shot. It adds up. Add in the pillow talk, and yeah, you could work some blackmail into it. Fucker."

"But he's your dead fucker."

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

···

So she gave Ziegler her time, her attention, the best she had.

She wrote up her notes, put together a progress report, including all the interviews conducted.

She created a chart listing the clients who had so far admitted to having any kind of sexual relationship with Ziegler, and how much each had admitted to paying in cash, gifts, hotel expenses.

Beside each name she added marital status, or cohab status, added how many of those husbands, cohabs, were also on Ziegler's client list.

She ran each one, digging in for any instance of violent behavior or criminal offenses.

She cross-checked with the names Trina had provided, did a pass on coworkers.

And considered.

When Roarke walked in, she had her feet up on the desk. "Another angle," she began.

"It's not the financial one. Unless he's a great deal more clever than I give him credit for, he doesn't have any accounts other than what you have on record."

"Didn't figure on it, but it's good to have an expert opinion on it. A competitor. I've been narrowly focused on clients and sex. But he was bashed with a trophy. He gets and keeps a lot of wealthy female clients not only because—by all accounts—he's good at his work, but because he offers them some hard-bodied sex. He makes solid commissions, the extra from sex, and he gets recognition. The trophy—I checked—also comes with a cash prize of a grand. He's won the last three years running, and was favored to win this year. But instead of going to AC for the conference, and campaigning for the competition, he's in the morgue."

"You think another trainer killed him for a thousand dollars and a trophy?"

"Prestige, potentially more clients, bragging rights. He didn't have friends at Buff Bodies. I bet he didn't have any at other centers, either. Somebody he knew—it was a face-to-face, close-in attack. So, yeah, maybe a competitor, an associate, a peer who'd had enough of him."

"An associate," Roarke repeated, "a competitor or a peer. You could add the sex in—because you can never have too much of it—and speculate that this competitor was also used for sex, or cheated on."

"That's a good one. That's a thought. I'd say Peabody and I are going back to the gym tomorrow."

"With that in mind." He took her hand, pulled her up. "Let's go to bed."

"Didn't we do that already?"

"And sleep. It's nearly midnight. If you keep at this much longer you'll have been up for twenty-four hours."

"I feel like I want to push it, and it's because I don't like him."

"You won't like him any better tomorrow. You can push then."

"It looks like I will. Whatever else you can say about Ziegler, he wasn't lazy. Between work and sex, the guy kept revved every damn day."

"As you do." He tugged her along. "Time to shut down the engines."

···

She woke to the scent of coffee, and really, it didn't get better than that.

And yet it did.

When she slit open her eyes, she saw Roarke. Fully dressed in one of his ruler-of-the-business-world suits—the cat sprawled over his lap. He sat on the sofa in the bedroom sitting area, working on a tablet. Financial numbers, data, codes, scrolled by on the screen he'd switched to mute.

The faint blue wash from tablet and screen provided the only light, making him look both mysterious and fascinating.

She had no idea of the time, was too lazy to look. Instead she watched him work while she ticked off the order of what she needed to do that morning.

She needed to tag Peabody, tell her partner they'd meet at Buff Bodies, pursue the angle of competitor killer. Swing by the lab, browbeat or bribe Dickhead—Chief Tech Dick Berenski—on the tea and incense. Talk to Trina and Sima again. And she thought another pass through the crime scene was in order, this time looking specifically for tea and incense.

Do that, she decided, before the lab. Have the samples right there in hand—if she found more.

And onto more interviews with the vic's clients.

Someone who knew him. Someone he'd let in the apartment, let into the bedroom while he packed for his business trip.

Client. Coworker. Blackmail mark. Lover.

Would he have been confident or arrogant enough to let a mark or a seriously pissed-off client, lover, associate into the bedroom?

She suspected not, but it wouldn't hurt to get an expert opinion.

Add a quick session with Mira to the list.

"Lights on, twenty percent," Roarke said, looking over into her eyes. "You might as well have some light since you're thinking so loud."

"I was thinking very quietly. You have bat ears."

"When it comes to you, apparently."

She pushed up to sit. "What're you working on? I can take an interest," she added when he cocked an eyebrow. "At... shit, five-thirty-eight in the morning."

"Actually, you might be interested. We've made a few changes to the design of An Didean, and have added a memorial roof garden."

The old building in Hell's Kitchen, she thought, he'd bought with the plan to rehab and turn it into a safe house for troubled kids. And where the bones of twelve young girls had been discovered behind the walls.

"That's nice."

"We'll have a dome so it can be used year-round, and those we house there can learn something of horticulture. The architect's wondering if we should use stones or benches with the names of the girls who died there."

Eve rose, saying nothing as she crossed to the AutoChef for coffee. The cat deserted Roarke to sprint over to her, winding slyly between her legs, ever hopeful, she knew, that food was involved.

"I think, I guess you're asking what I think."

"I am," he told her.

"I think creating a garden shows respect. And I think the kids you'd shelter there, educate there, don't need to be reminded of cruelty and death, but of life. Of the, well, garden of possibilities of life."

"I think you're exactly right. Thank you."

"Anytime. I'm going to grab thirty in the gym before I get ready."

Coffee in hand, she took the elevator down, got in a good run along a simulated shoreline with blue waves breaking.

After a blistering hot shower with the multi-jets on full, she stepped into the drying tube.

"It's too bad the rest of the world can't be heated up like a shower," she commented as she headed for her closet.

"Since it can't you'll want to dress for it. Not as windy today, though, according to the questionably reliable forecast."

She grabbed a sweater she knew to be warm despite being thin and soft as a tissue, straight-legged pants and a vest that would add warmth and cover her weapon harness.

After pulling on clothes, she grabbed a pair of boots.

"Not those boots," Roarke said with barely a glance when she came out to sit and pull them on.

"What's wrong with these boots?"

"Not a thing, but the gray with the mock laces will pick up the color of that sweater, polish things off."

"I don't need to polish... Fine, fine, fine." Easier, she figured, to change the damn boots than get into a fashion debate she'd certainly lose.

Plus she wanted to see what was under the silver domes on the table. If she changed the boots, maybe it wouldn't be oatmeal.

He poured her coffee as she sat down again. "Good morning, Lieutenant."

"We'll see about that." She lifted the dome. "Oh hell yeah, it's a good morning."

"I thought, considering yesterday, you'd earned pancakes."

She immediately drowned them in syrup.

"They're all apple and cinnamonny."

"And deserve better than being a vehicle for syrup, but ah well."

In any case, he loved watching her appreciation of food, especially since she so often forgot to eat it.

"I might need a bribe for Dickhead," she said between bites. "Considering he's had twenty-four hours, my wrath should be enough, but just in case."

"Take him a bottle of unblended scotch," Roarke suggested."We've several already in gift bags. It'll throw him off-balance straightaway if you offer him a holiday token."

"It would, wouldn't it? I really hate to go bearing gifts and all, but any lack of cooperation after that would make him an even bigger Dickhead than he is. It's kind of win-win for me."

"It's the old catching more flies with sugar than vinegar."

"Why would anyone want to catch flies? What you want is to make them go the hell away."

"That's a point, and now another classic adage bites the dust." He patted her leg. "Breakfast with you is a continuing education."

"I do what I can. If it turns out the vic's blend of tea included a date-rape drug, I can use that to pry open more of his clients. Outrage tends to turn off filters."

"You've never mentioned next of kin."

"Only child, parents divorced when he was ten. Both remarried. He bounced between the mother in Tucson and the father in Atlanta until he was of age. Neither of them have seen him for more than six years. They were both shaken, but I didn't get any sense of close family ties."

"So no friends or family."

"Not really. And from what I can tell, by his own choice. Friends and family take work."

She thought of her forty-minute battle for sanity with Tiko and the bag people. Fucking A, it took work.

"All his work was focused on himself," she added. "Speaking of family, I guess you got all the gifts off to Ireland."

"I did, yes. You did some work there."

"I didn't shop."

"You helped me decide on several things, and the Cops and Robbers comp game for young Sean was your idea."

"He was an easy one. Peabody and McNab are doing an in-and-out shuttle for Christmas to her family. You don't want to do something like that, do you?"

"We had Thanksgiving, and that worked well for me, having them all here. I like having our Christmas, you and I."

"I do, too. And since I'd really like to get this case closed before that, I'd better get going. Good pancakes," she said, leaned over and kissed him.

"I'll see you tonight. We might talk about strategy for the deal you've made with Summerset."

"I'm trying not to think about that." She shoved up. "Where's the hooch—for Dickhead?"

"Fourth-floor gift room."

She stared at him for ten silent seconds. "We have a gift room?"

On a half laugh, he shook his head. "One day, darling Eve, you really should go through the entire house. East wing, fourth-floor tower."

"Okay." Since she wasn't completely sure where that was, she walked to the elevator. Ordered it.

"Don't bother shaking boxes," he called out. "None of yours are in that location."

"I don't snoop," she said as the doors shut.

But, of course, now she wanted to.

Gift rooms, she thought. Who gave so many gifts they had to have an actual dedicated room to hold them?

The doors opened; she stepped out. Her jaw dropped.

Apparently they did.

Shelves and counters held a colorful array of wrapped gifts with shiny, elaborate bows. Gift bags in silver or gold or red or green stood like uniformed soldiers.

She opened one of the doors along the wall, discovered more shelves with rigorously organized gifts not wrapped. Fancy candle sets or fancy bath sets—male, female, or unisex varieties.

Boxed wineglasses, elegant picture frames, electronics, even some toys.

Why the hell did she have to go shopping when she could just come up here?

She found more ruthless—to the point of scary—organization with gift boxes, wrapping paper, tissue paper, ribbons and bows.

Everything as pristine as some high-end gift boutique and all in the tall tower room complete with a wall screen and a comp. She just bet the comp held a complete catalog of the contents of the room, down to the last inch of shiny ribbon.

She grabbed one of the silver gift bags, checked the contents.

Bourbon.

Checked a gold one, found the scotch, then, out of curiosity, checked one of the red bags. Cognac. She found Irish whiskey in the green bags—figured.

Both impressed and intimidated, she got back in the elevator, ordered the main floor.

She grabbed her coat off the newel post, and decided a man who owned half the world anyway might as well have a room loaded with stuff he prepared to give away.

At least she knew just where to go the next time she needed a bribe.

She'd left early enough that traffic stayed light and gave her the opportunity to bypass Mira's admin who'd give her grief for asking for a quick session. Instead she shot a v-mail straight to Mira's 'link.

"I'd like a quick consult today if you can fit me in. I'm sending you the Ziegler file. Mostly I want to be sure I've got the right handle on him. If you can't squeeze in a consult, maybe an overview profile, vic and killer. Appreciate it."

The first ad blimp lumbered across the sky as she hit the edges of the West Village. It announced a last-minute SALE SALE SALE at the SkyMall running until ten P.M. Christmas Eve.

Jesus, even she wasn't so lame she waited till Christmas Eve to grab a gift.

Then, amazing to her, it announced a door-buster SALE SALE SALE at the SkyMall beginning at one A.M. on December twenty-sixth.

Why would people do that? What could they possibly need to buy the day after Christmas, in the middle of the night the day after? Her second thought was she believed she would self-terminate if she had to make a living in retail.

She parked, noted she was about ten minutes early. Rather than wait for Peabody, she opted to go in, get started.

Ear-splitting music greeted her again, but this time with some amusement as she recognized Mavis's voice wailing about having fun now that love was done.

She spotted Lill crouched beside a puny guy who struggled sweatily through some push-ups.

Eve crossed over, heard the man wheezing even over Mavis and the thump, thump of feet racing nowhere on treads.

"Need a minute."

Lill nodded. "Come on, Scott, just two more. Don't you quit on me. All right!" she shouted when he collapsed in a heap. "Thirty-second breather, then I want you to do ten minutes on the tread. Level five, Scott. Don't wimp out."

"Okay." He got shakily to his feet. "Okay, Lill." And staggered toward the tread.

"I've got to keep an eye on him," Lill says. "He's really coming along."

"Did he start out at a crawl?"

"Just about. It's clients like Scott make this job worthwhile. He really tries, he really works. Do you have news about Trey?"

"I've got some follow-up questions. This trainer of the year thing, how competitive?"

"Very, or else what's the point? I submit progress reports for all my trainers, showing the improvements of their clients. And each trainer submits three separate original programs they've put together. The trainer's fitness and established routines are also factored in. It's a process. Why?"

"Who was his main competition?"

"Hard to say for certain, but in the BB franchise, I'd go with Juice—Jacob Maddow. But then he's one of mine, so I'm biased. And there's Selene, she's right up there. She's out of our Morningside Heights location. Outside BB, I'd lean toward Rock. He has his own gym—bare-bones place in Midtown—West Side. Rock Hard it's called—and he is. But I have to say I figured Trey would grab the prize again this year. He'd worked up some fierce programs."

"Did they all know each other?"

"Sure, you tend to. Rock and Juice hang together, have for years. I'd've lost Juice to Rock Hard, but most of Juice's clients wouldn't have gone with him. They like the perks here."

"Any trouble between any of them and Ziegler?"

"Crap." Sighing, she rubbed her orange hair. "Juice is a go-along guy, a family man. He sure wasn't a fan of Trey's, and maybe they had a few words now and again. But Juice isn't one to start trouble. I don't know Selene all that well, but I heard Trey hit on her. Didn't matter to him she's gay—she has tits, and that was enough for Trey to give it a shot. Rock hated his ever-fucking guts, but they didn't run in the same circles."

"Then why the hate?"

"Some time back—maybe close to a year—Trey banged Rock's sister. They were both at some club, and she was pretty wasted. He took her home and banged her, then bragged about it. He knew she was Rock's sister. Juice warned him to shut up, and finally I had to tell him to shut up, at least around here. I heard he and Rock squared off about it, and Trey backed down. But I don't have the details. I didn't want them. The truth is Trey was a personal pain in my ass. But professionally, he was an asset, and it's my job to hold on to the assets around here."

"Okay."

"About Rock. I didn't think of him yesterday because it was close to a year ago, and as far as I know those two never see each other except maybe at the AC conference or the competition we have in New York every spring. That's it."

"I still need to talk to him. To the three of them. Where would I find Juice?"

"See the guy over there bench-pressing about one-fifty? That's Juice."

"Okay, thanks."

"He's a nice guy. He's got a wife, a kid, and another kid coming."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Eve moved over to the weight area, and the man currently bench-pressing more than she weighed.

"Jacob Maddow?"

"Juice, yeah." He continued to press, sweat slicked on his pleasant face, on his very impressive biceps. But he gave her a quick smile. "What can I do for you?"

"Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD." She showed him her badge. "I'd like to talk to you."

"About Ziegler? I heard yesterday, when I came in." He set the bar in the safety, slid out from under.

He hit about six feet, Eve gauged, and most of it muscle. He wore his streaked brown hair in a stub of a tail.

"We can take it in the private classroom. Nobody's in there right now, and we won't have to yell at each other."

"Works for me." She spotted Peabody. "One minute, that's my partner."

"Mind if I get a drink?" He gestured toward the juice machine in the corner.

"Go ahead."

"Get you something?"

"No, thanks." She signaled to Peabody, then motioned her over to the machine. "Detective Peabody, Jacob Maddow. Goes by Juice. We're going to talk in private."

"It's just through here."

He led them into a room with frosted glass walls where the noise level dropped to a backbeat murmur.

"I want to say I'm sorry about what happened to Ziegler, but I'm not going to lie. We weren't friends."

"Why don't you tell us where you were the evening before last, from say five P.M. to seven."

"Home. My day off, so we don't get a sitter. I had my kid while my wife was at work. She got home about five. We ate about six, I guess, and then she took Mimi up for a bath. I spent the next two hours putting this tricycle thing together for Mimi for Christmas. It comes cheaper unassembled, but let me tell you, it ain't worth it."

"You didn't get sent to AC?"

"Lill would've sprung for it, but this close to Christmas, I want to be home with my family. Plus, my wife's pregnant. Seven months along."

"I heard you're one of the top competitors for the next trainer of the year award."

"I got a shot." He chugged down juice. "It'd be nice—the cash prize—with another kid coming along. Another girl," he said with a quick smile. "I'm surrounded by girls."

"I also heard you had some words with Ziegler over your friend Rock's sister."

"Okay, sure—that was a while back, but sure. Look, I've known Kyria since she was a kid. When this happened, she was barely legal, and, okay, sowing some wild—but he didn't have any business touching that. But that was Ziegler. I know damn well he messed with her because she was Rock's. I didn't like hearing him brag about it, so I told him to knock it off, and I warned him he didn't want the shit he was spreading to get back to Rock."

"And when it did?"

"Rock did what any brother would do. He got in his face about it. And as soon as he did, as soon as he did, Ziegler backed off."

After a look of disgust for the cowardice, Juice guzzled some of his drink. "He shut up," Juice continued, "and he slunk off. He wasn't going to risk a pounding. I know he spread some shit about Rock's place, but that didn't matter. Rock Hard doesn't cater to the same kind of clients we do here, so that wasn't any skin off Rock. But that was the only way Ziegler could try to get his own back, smearing Rock's rep."

"If somebody smears my rep, I'm going to want to get up in their face," Eve commented.

"It didn't matter. The guy was like a gnat buzzing. You just ignore it. The way I figured, either me or Rock would take that award next spring, and that would pay Ziegler back."

"He was favored."

"Not anymore." Juice shook his head. "I know how that sounds, but I said I wasn't going to lie. I hated the son of a bitch."

Outside, Eve headed for her car. "A competitor may just be a good angle here. I'll fill you in on the three top candidates I got from Lill on the way to Ziegler's apartment."

"Did you see the arms on that guy? And the pecs?" Peabody bundled herself in the car. "I wonder what he charges for personal training."

"You've got access to a gym right at Central," Eve reminded her.

"I don't have access to those arms." Peabody glanced back as Eve pulled into traffic. "Or those pecs."