Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

“I told him others after. We were going to move in together. We were looking for a bigger place so we could move in together. But after that night I couldn’t stand for him to touch me. I didn’t want to hear his voice, or smell his smell. I couldn’t stand being touched so I pushed him away. We lost it, what we had.”

She wept as she spoke now, silent tears streaming as she choked out the words. “I got the job, and I told him I had to focus on my career. He said I broke his heart. What do I do now?”

“Start healing.” Eve glanced over as Peabody came back.

“Mira,” Peabody said simply, and Eve nodded.

“We have someone who’ll help you.”

“I can take you.” Peabody offered Jessica her hand. “You can come with me.”

“I need to say it out loud.” After dragging in a few breaths, Jessica swiped the tears from her face. “I was raped. Nigel McEnroy raped me. Now I feel sick.”

“We’ll stop by the ladies’ room on the way. Here, let me take your water.”

With a compassion and efficiency Eve admired, Peabody slipped an arm around Jessica’s waist, led her from the room.

r /> Because she felt a little sick herself, Eve rose. She wanted her office, door closed, ten minutes with her head on her desk to just breathe through it.

As she passed through the bullpen, Santiago popped up from his desk. “Hey, boss, Carmichael and I’ve got one we need to walk through with you.” He hesitated as he studied her face. “You okay?”

“Fine. Come on back.”

“We can do it later.”

“It’s fine now. Let’s go, I’ve got my own to walk through.”

She went to her office, got more coffee, and did her job.

6

This Place didn’t officially open its doors until eight—and anyone who arrived before nine earned a wheeze status—but Eve arranged an interview with key staff on-site.

“Even if I could get past the door,” Peabody commented, “I couldn’t afford the cover price in a club like this, much less a drink.”

“Lucky you don’t have to shell out either then.” Eve held her badge to the security scanner.

Locks disengaged; the door swept open.

The man who did the sweeping hit six-four with a scarecrow build inside New York black. His hair—shaved on the left side to show off a scalp tattoo of a bleeding heart—fell ruler straight to his right shoulder in pure white.

He had eyes like green lasers, a silver incisor, and nails painted as black as his skin suit.

“Ladies.” His voice was like the pipe of a flute. “Welcome to This Place.”

“Lieutenant,” Eve said. “Detective.”

“And still welcome.”

He stepped back, gestured them in. “I’m Maxim Snow, your host and the manager. I’ve assembled those I believe may be of most help to you.”

A whole bunch of cooperation, Eve thought, for a place Roarke didn’t own.

She’d checked.

“We appreciate it.”

“Not at all. Mr. McEnroy was a sporadic regular, and a valued guest, so whatever we can do to assist you in apprehending whoever committed this heinous crime, we’re here to do.”