Indulgence in Death (In Death 31)

More than sex, she mused. It took more than acrobatics and a good body to earn what it took to maintain this lifestyle.

The triple opened up into a sweeping foyer with an intricate chandelier of tangled and glinting silver draped with diamond-clear glass. Dark wood floors provided a canvas for rugs in bold colors and complicated patterns. Art maintained the theme, slashing hot, mixed colors and strange shapes against warm cream walls.

Furnishings, she noted as she wandered through the main level, managed to marry that complex style with sumptuous comfort. Deep, deep cushions and plenty of them, sparkling lights, mirrored tables, countless pillows.

A silver dining table held a huge clear vase of flowers someone with an artist’s eye had arranged—and recently. Over an ebony fireplace in that room reigned a pretty spectacular portrait of its former occupant, boldly nude as she reclined on a bed draped in red.

So, she hadn’t been the shy, modest type.

Eve swung through kitchen, powder rooms, a separate living area, admired the views more out of curiosity than necessity. It helped give her a sense of the woman. Lived full, she thought, lived well and enjoyed the fruits of her labors.

She took the clear curl of stairs rather than the elevator to the second floor.

The master—or mistress—bedroom was massive, and needed to be to accommodate the bed. Eve estimated it could sleep six, and wondered passingly if it had. She’d gone for gold tones in here, warm rather than glossy. And had spread the bed with what looked to be an acre of textured gold silk. Curvy sofas, more pillows, carved tables, lamps dripping with beads, and another, less massive arrangement of flowers continued the indulgent, sink-into-it style.

In the many drawers of the bedside tables, Eve found an expansive and efficiently organized arrangement of sex toys and enhancements.

She estimated the dressing room/closet combo to be about the size of her bullpen at Central, and also strictly organized. Full of rich fabrics, she noted, pricey labels, and enough shoes to outfit the population of a small country.

A tall, drawered case was locked and bolted to the floor. Jewelry, she decided. She’d get to that.

For now, she took a look at the bathroom, decided Crampton might just out-Roarke Roarke in some areas, then wandered the second floor.

Two guest suites, both generous and well outfitted, a second lounging area with a small, efficient kitchen . . . and an equally well-outfitted S&M room. Plenty of black leather, velvet ropes, a selection of whips and crops, restraints. Another bed, this one draped in black satin, a jeweled case of small knives with ornate handles.

She went to the third level. Here, she mused, was the business center. A CEO’s office, luxurious certainly, but designed for serious business. A full wall of screens, organized file discs, a muscular data-and-communications center. It boasted another small kitchen with a stocked AutoChef and full-sized fridge, a bar holding several bottles of good wine, liquor, mixers.

She expected the computer to be secured and passcoded, and it was. Leaving that for the moment, she rifled through drawers until she found the appointment book. She found the entries both businesslike and discreet.

On the day she died, Ava Crampton spent the afternoon in her salon for what Eve assumed was the works. At five she’d scheduled a Catrina Bigelo for two hours at the Palace. Roarke’s hotel, Eve thought. Why not fuck in the best?

She had Foster Urich listed, with a ten-thirty P.M. pickup by Elegant Transportation, for the meet at Coney Island. A four-hour date, with the option for overnight held open.

Costly, she mused.

Ava had a notation after his name. New Client, vetted and cleared.

Eve used her com to schedule an EDD team to pick up the electronics, but there was little else. The answers, she thought, weren’t here in the victim’s space. Still, they’d have to look through that space, at her, at all of her secrets.

She pressed her fingers to her eyes, rubbed hard, tried to will her second wind to kick in. She glanced with longing at the AutoChef thinking of coffee. She’d bet the vic sprang for real.

But copping a cup was disrespectful.

She pushed herself to her feet. She’d just have to choke down whatever she could find on the street, get the boost if not the flavor.

By the time she came out of the building, New York was changing shifts. Those who played or worked by night started home, or to wherever they hoped to flop for the night. Those who lived by day switched on lights in their apartments, hurried to catch the early train or tram. Sanitation crawled down the streets, clanging dully about its work.

But along with the scent of garbage she caught the perfume of bakeries, pushing the sugary, yeasty smells outside through their venting to lure in that change of shift.

She remembered the chips she’d tossed on the passenger seat, and had them for breakfast as she drove to the morgue. There, she settled on a tube of cold caffeine, much safer than what passed as coffee.

She didn’t expect anyone to have started the PM on Crampton. She simply wanted another look at her victim before she went back to Central.

She walked into Morris’s suite, and there he was, putting on his protective gear with the body already prepped and on his table.

“Did you catch the night shift?” she asked. Then she saw it, the sadness, the signs of a sleepless night.

He wore black again, stark and unrelieved.