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“One of yours?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It’s one of the murder weapons. Do you own the apartment building on Tenth Street?”
“Which apartment building on Tenth Street?”
She hissed, rifled through her mental files, and gave him the address.
“I don’t believe I do.” He smiled easily. “Now how did I miss that one?”
“Very funny. Well, it’s nice to know I can catch a murder someplace in the city you don’t own.”
“How is a five-hundred-dollar bottle of very nice wine used as a murder weapon? Poison?”
“In a way.” She debated about five seconds, then told him.
“He courts her through e-mail,” Roarke said. “Romances her with poetry, then slips two of the most despicable illegals ever devised into her drink.”
“Drinks,” Eve corrected. “He was plying her through the evening.”
“And sets the stage—romance, seduction—and uses her. Uses her up,” he said softly. “All the while telling himself, I’d think, that she was enjoying it. That it wasn’t rape, but again, seduction, romance. Nonviolent, erotic, and mutually satisfying.”
Eve set down her fork. “Why do you say that?”
“You said he was disguised. Once he was in her apartment, and she was already under the influence, he could have done what he wanted with her. If he’d wanted to hurt her, if violence was part of his turn-on, he could have done so. But he added candlelight, music, flowers. And gave her a drug designed to make her aggressive and needy sexually. The illusion that she was not only willing, but passionate. Did he need that for his ego, to be able to perform physically? Or both?”
“That’s good. That’s good,” she said again with a nod. “I haven’t been thinking enough like a guy. The disguise is part of the seduction, too. The expensive clothes, the hair and makeup. He wanted to look like . . .”
She stopped, stared at the exceptional specimen across from her.
“Oh shit, he wanted to look like you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not you you—he went for really long, curly hair and green eyes. But you as a type. The perfect fantasy.”
“Darling, you’ll embarrass me.”
“Fat chance. What I’m saying is the look was part of his fantasy, too. He wants to be the great lover, the irresistible image. How he looks and what he is, or pretends to be. Rich, traveled, well-read, sophisticated yet hopelessly romantic at the core. There’s a certain type of woman who’s prime target for that kind.”
“But not you, Lieutenant,” he said with a smile.
“I just married you for the sex.” She picked up her fork again. “And the regular servings of red meat. Which brings me to a little sidebar here. Louise Dimatto lives in the same apartment building.”
“Does she?”
“And she was standing on the sidewalk when Bankhead hit the pavement.”
He topped off their glasses. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I swung by the clinic today to bring her up to date. Lot of changes around there.”
“Hmm.”
“Yeah, hmmm. Why didn’t you tell me you’d given the clinic three million dollars?”
He lifted his glass, sipped. “I make quite a number of charitable donations I don’t tell you about.” He offered a smile. “Would you like to be copied on the data in the future?”
