Naked in Death by J. D. Robb Page A
Authors: J. D. Robb
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery Fiction, Political, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, New York, New York (State), New York (N.Y.), Policewomen, Mystery & Detective - Series, Eve (Fictitious character), Dallas, Twenty-first century, billionaires, Policewomen - New York (State) - New York, Dallas; Eve (Fictitious Character)
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TWO OF SIX
“One a week,” she said softly. “Jesus Christ, Feeney, he isn’t giving us much time.”
“I’m running her logs, trick book. She had a new client scheduled, 8:00 P. M., night before last. If your prelim checks, he’s our guy.” Feeney smiled thinly. “John Smith.”
“That’s older than the murder weapon.” She rubbed her hands hard over her face. “IRCCA’s bound to spit our boy out from that tag.”
“They’re still running data,” Feeney muttered. He was protective, even sentimental about the IRCCA.
“They’re not going to find squat. We got us a time traveler, Feeney.”
He snorted. “Yeah, a real Jules Verne.”
“We’ve got a twentieth-century crime,” she said through her hands. “The weapons, the excessive violence, the hand-printed note left on scene. So maybe our killer is some sort of historian, or buff anyway. Somebody who wishes things were what they used to be.”
“Lots of people think things would be better some other way. That’s why the world’s lousy with theme parks.”
Thinking, she dropped her hands. “IRCCA isn’t going to help us get into this guy’s head. It still takes a human mind to play that game. What’s he doing, Feeney? Why’s he doing it?”
“He’s killing LCs.”
“Hookers have always been easy targets, back to Jack the Ripper, right? It’s a vulnerable job, even now with all the screening, we still get clients knocking LCs around, killing them.”
“Doesn’t happen much,” Feeney mused. “Sometimes with the S and M trade you get a party that gets too enthusiastic. Most LCs are safer than teachers.”
“They still run a risk, the oldest profession with the oldest crime. But things have changed, some things. People don’t kill with guns as a rule anymore. Too expensive, too hard to come by. Sex isn’t the strong motivator it used to be, too cheap, too easy to come by. We have different methods of investigation, and a whole new batch of motives. When you brush all that away, the one fact is that people still terminate people. Keep digging, Feeney. I’ve got people to talk to.”
“What you need’s some sleep, kid.”
“Let him sleep,” Eve muttered. “Let that bastard sleep.” Steeling herself, she turned to her tele-link. It was time to contact the victim’s parents.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––—
By the time Eve walked into the sumptuous foyer of Roarke’s midtown office, she’d been up for more than thirty-two hours. She’d gotten through the misery of having to tell two shocked, weeping parents that their only daughter was dead. She’d stared at her monitor until the data swam in front of her eyes.
Her follow-up interview with Lola’s landlord had been its own adventure. Since the man had had time to recover, he’d spent thirty minutes whining about the unpleasant publicity and the possibility of a drop-off in rentals.
So much, Eve thought, for human empathy.
Roarke Industries, New York, was very much what she’d expected. Slick, shiny, sleek, the building itself spread one hundred fifty stories into the Manhattan sky. It was an ebony lance, glossy as wet stone, ringed by transport tubes and diamond-bright skyways.
No tacky Glida-Grills on this corner, she mused. No street hawkers with their hot pocket PCs dodging security on their colorful air boards. Out-of-doors vending was off limits on this bite of Fifth. The zoning made things quieter, if a little less adventuresome.
Inside, the main lobby took up a full city block, boasting three tony restaurants, a high priced boutique, a handful of specialty shops, and a small theater that played art films.
The white floor tiles were a full yard square and gleamed like the moon. Clear glass elevators zipped busily up and down, people glides zigzagged left and right, while disembodied voices guided visitors to various points of interest or, if there was business to be conducted, the
TWO OF SIX
“One a week,” she said softly. “Jesus Christ, Feeney, he isn’t giving us much time.”
“I’m running her logs, trick book. She had a new client scheduled, 8:00 P. M., night before last. If your prelim checks, he’s our guy.” Feeney smiled thinly. “John Smith.”
“That’s older than the murder weapon.” She rubbed her hands hard over her face. “IRCCA’s bound to spit our boy out from that tag.”
“They’re still running data,” Feeney muttered. He was protective, even sentimental about the IRCCA.
“They’re not going to find squat. We got us a time traveler, Feeney.”
He snorted. “Yeah, a real Jules Verne.”
“We’ve got a twentieth-century crime,” she said through her hands. “The weapons, the excessive violence, the hand-printed note left on scene. So maybe our killer is some sort of historian, or buff anyway. Somebody who wishes things were what they used to be.”
“Lots of people think things would be better some other way. That’s why the world’s lousy with theme parks.”
Thinking, she dropped her hands. “IRCCA isn’t going to help us get into this guy’s head. It still takes a human mind to play that game. What’s he doing, Feeney? Why’s he doing it?”
“He’s killing LCs.”
“Hookers have always been easy targets, back to Jack the Ripper, right? It’s a vulnerable job, even now with all the screening, we still get clients knocking LCs around, killing them.”
“Doesn’t happen much,” Feeney mused. “Sometimes with the S and M trade you get a party that gets too enthusiastic. Most LCs are safer than teachers.”
“They still run a risk, the oldest profession with the oldest crime. But things have changed, some things. People don’t kill with guns as a rule anymore. Too expensive, too hard to come by. Sex isn’t the strong motivator it used to be, too cheap, too easy to come by. We have different methods of investigation, and a whole new batch of motives. When you brush all that away, the one fact is that people still terminate people. Keep digging, Feeney. I’ve got people to talk to.”
“What you need’s some sleep, kid.”
“Let him sleep,” Eve muttered. “Let that bastard sleep.” Steeling herself, she turned to her tele-link. It was time to contact the victim’s parents.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––—
By the time Eve walked into the sumptuous foyer of Roarke’s midtown office, she’d been up for more than thirty-two hours. She’d gotten through the misery of having to tell two shocked, weeping parents that their only daughter was dead. She’d stared at her monitor until the data swam in front of her eyes.
Her follow-up interview with Lola’s landlord had been its own adventure. Since the man had had time to recover, he’d spent thirty minutes whining about the unpleasant publicity and the possibility of a drop-off in rentals.
So much, Eve thought, for human empathy.
Roarke Industries, New York, was very much what she’d expected. Slick, shiny, sleek, the building itself spread one hundred fifty stories into the Manhattan sky. It was an ebony lance, glossy as wet stone, ringed by transport tubes and diamond-bright skyways.
No tacky Glida-Grills on this corner, she mused. No street hawkers with their hot pocket PCs dodging security on their colorful air boards. Out-of-doors vending was off limits on this bite of Fifth. The zoning made things quieter, if a little less adventuresome.
Inside, the main lobby took up a full city block, boasting three tony restaurants, a high priced boutique, a handful of specialty shops, and a small theater that played art films.
The white floor tiles were a full yard square and gleamed like the moon. Clear glass elevators zipped busily up and down, people glides zigzagged left and right, while disembodied voices guided visitors to various points of interest or, if there was business to be conducted, the
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