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“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 hur
t 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.”
• • •
