“No, I think it’s a really big dog. A St. Bernard.”
He took a sip of wine, walked closer. “I believe you’re right. Someone should report this activity to the Animal Rights League or whatever it is. Although . . . hmmm. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself if the size of his . . . Mother of God.”
“Gimme that wine.” She grabbed it, drank deep. “There’s sick and there’s sick. This one goes off the scale. I’ve got no term for it. You recognize the woman romping with Fido?”
“It’s a bit hard to tell, under the circumstances.”
“Greene lists her as G.G. I ran an image search on her while she was rubbing butter all over herself to help get Fido in the game. Gretta Gowan, wife of Jonah Gowan. That’s Professor Jonah Gowan, of NYU. He’s head of the Sociology Department. A staunch Conservative Party member and a Methodist deacon. Want to bet Clarissa Price took some of his classes?”
“Never bet against the house,” Roarke declared, fascinated despite himself with the on-screen action.
“She recruited him into Purity, or he did her. I’d bet on that one. Anyway, Gretta there is the mother of two and—whoa, that is just nasty! Gretta chairs several committees, including the garden club, which would no doubt frown on her deep affection for canines.”
“There’s a log entry on the PPC—it’s clean by the way—for G.G. Six thousand paid in six days before the murders.”
“Fits with his journal. This vid wasn’t done at his place,” Eve said. “Some of the others I’ve viewed were. He used the second bedroom. They’re tamer than this. Group sex with costumes, bondage, and role-playing. One used a teenaged girl. I ran her image, too. She popped as another runaway. Greene knew how to sniff them out. Copy disc, log to file.”
Roarke let out a long breath. “How about we run a nice classic comedy to cleanse the palate?”
“I want to finish this tonight. At least get the IDs.”
“For what purpose, Eve?”
“To know for one thing.” She filed the disc, selected another. “And second, to see if I find a link.”
“Do you really think terrorists are killing all these people so they can get rid of a blackmailer?”
“No, but I think each one of the victims was carefully selected, and with Greene the blackmail was part of it. Maybe just a bonus, but part of it. Run disc. You don’t have to stay for this.”
“If you can stomach it, I can.”
“Home again,” Eve said, recognizing the bedroom in Greene’s condo. “My guess is he rigged the cameras before the client came in, ran them by remote until the session was over. Did the editing, made a copy. Gives that to the client with a demand for payments. Probably lost clients that way, but he kept the income. No overhead at all. Just pure profit. Here we go, curtain up.”
A woman stepped in from the adjoining bath. A rather elegant woman in a killer black dress with long, lush waves of icy blonde hair spilling over the shoulders. Her legs were sheathed in black hose, her feet tucked into mile-high heels.
She wore a diamond choker, and her lips were bloody-murder red.
“Looks familiar,” Eve began. “Which is she? Client or hooker?”
“Want an image search?”
“Let it run awhile first.”
A man stepped in from the outer door. He was stripped to the waist, bulging in tight black leather. His chest gleamed with oil. His hair was slicked back from a striking face sharp of bone. There was a tattoo under his left nipple. When Eve froze and enhanced the image, she saw it was a tiny skull.
He ran a slim riding crop through his fingers.
“Roseanna.” He spoke the name, and the woman lifted a hand to the diamond choker at her throat.
“How did you get in?”
“Role-playing,” Eve said. “We run a search on both of them.” She froze the disc again, blocked faces, started the task.
“Eve?”
“Hmm?”
“Take a good look at her.”