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“I’m just between buying continents at the moment. I believe Asia’s up next. And how are you?”
“Okay. I know we had sort of a thing on for tonight—”
“Dinner, I believe it was, followed by naked poker.”
“That was strip poker, as I recall.”
“You’d be naked soon enough. But I’m thinking that competition’s been postponed. You have Tiara Kent, I take it.”
“Heard about her already?”
“Multimillionaire bad girl murdered in her luxury penthouse?” His eyebrows lifted. “Word travels. How did she die?”
“Vampire bite.”
“That again?” he said and made her laugh.
“She was into some kind of vampire cult crap, and it came back to, well, bite her. I’ve got to check out this club where she likely met her killer. It doesn’t open until sunset, so I’m going to run late.”
“Almost as interesting as naked poker. I’ll meet you at Central by six. Darling Eve,” he continued before she could speak, “you can’t expect me to pass up the opportunity to accompany my wife into the den of the undead.”
She considered a moment. He’d be useful; he always was. And another pair of eyes, another set of reflexes would come in handy underground.
“Don’t be late.”
“I’ll leave in plenty of time. Should I pick up some garlic and crosses on the way?”
“I think Peabody’s on that. Later,” she said, and clicked off.
While she was at her desk, she contacted the lab to give them a not-so-gentle push, then began to research vampire lore. She broke off when Peabody poked her head in.
“Did you know there are dozens of websites on vampirism, and any number of them have instructions on how to drink from a victim?”
Peabody cocked her head. “This surprises you because?”
“I know I say people suck, but I didn’t mean it literally. And it’s not just kids in their I’m-so-bored twenties into this.”
“I’ve got a couple of names we might want to look at, but meanwhile, Tiara Kent’s mother just came in. I had one of the uniforms take her to the lounge.”
“Okay, I’ll take her, you keep digging.” Eve pushed back from her desk. “Roarke’s going to tag along tonight.”
“Yeah?” Relief showed on Peabody’s face before she controlled it. “It doesn’t hurt to have more of us when we head down.”
“He’s an observer,” Eve reminded her. “I’m waiting for a callback from Mira. That comes through, tag me.”
Eve made Iris Francine the minute she stepped into the lounge with its lines of vending machines and little tables, and chairs designed to numb the ass after a five-minute sit-down.
Her daughter had favored her, taking the blonde hair, the green eyes, the delicate bone structure from her mother.
Iris sat with her hand clutched by a man Eve imagined was husband number four, Georgio Francine. Younger than his wife by a few years, Eve judged, and dark and sultry where she was light and elegant.
But they sat like a unit—she recognized that. Like two parts of a whole.
“Ms. Francine, I’m Lieutenant Dallas.”
Iris’s eyes looked exhausted as they lifted to Eve’s, a combination Eve also recognized as grief, guilt, and simple fatigue.
“You’re the one in charge of…in charge of what happened to Tiara.”
