“But I thought you’re stealing this.” She put her hand up and touched him as he touched her. “I thought you were—”
“Let’s just focus on you for a little while.”
Leaning down, he pressed his lips to the hollow between her collarbones. Then he moved to her sternum, nestling in between her breasts. As she let out a sigh, he felt her fingers dive into his hair, and that was when he moved to where he had wanted to be from the moment he’d seen her.
Balz extended his tongue and licked at one of her nipples, moistening the silk. Inching back, he took a moment to admire his handiwork, the fine barrier disappeared, the nightgown clinging to her delicious flesh. When he blew across her breast, she shivered and her scent got louder in his nose.
“Oh, God, do that again,” she breathed.
“My pleasure, Mrs.”
With that, he scooped her up into his arms . . . and carried her to her stupid-ass husband’s bed.
• • •
Seven floors below, homicide detective Erika Saunders stepped off the elevator and looked left and right. She knew where she was going, but it was an old habit. You always checked both ways before you crossed the street. Or entered a hallway.
Or headed down the aisle.
She really should have minded that last one.
The Commodore was urban luxury living at its finest—or at least that tagline was part of its newly registered trademark. And from what she’d seen, from the concierge service at the front desk to the views of the bridges over the Hudson to what she’d heard the condos were like, everything had been freshly renovated to the standards of the very best co-ops on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The place even had a fitness facility and a swimming pool now, and the hotel corporation that had bought it a year ago was talking about add-ons like a gourmet restaurant, a spa, and a yoga studio.
Plans, plans, plans.
Ah, but there was a monkey with a wrench, she thought as she started walking. At least with attracting new owners.
Wait, was that the saying? Or was it . . . a wrench in the works? No, that wasn’t right, either.
Goddamn, she needed some sleep.
About six doors down, she came up to a uniformed CPD officer standing at attention, and he immediately opened the door for her.
“It’s in the bedroom, Detective.” Like he was a museum docent.
“Thanks, Pellie,” she said as she slipped a pair of flimsy blue booties over her black Merrells.
Inside the condo, her first impression was all iGen new money. There were digital picture frames all over the place, the images showing the same couple in the same cheek-to-loving-cheek, super-happy pose with different Instagram-worthy backdrops: tropical, mountainous, desert, stream. The sofa-and-chair setup was natural fiber, the knobby rug was clearly hand-loomed, and speak of the downward dog, a pair of lavender yoga mats were laid out side by side in the open area by the galley kitchen.
Kitchen was nothing special, except for the drug paraphernalia left out on the granite countertop next to a juicer the size of a bathtub and a bowl full of no-doubt-organic fruit.
Looked like the pair were not as faithful to the body-is-my-temple stuff as their social media might suggest.
MDMA was definitely not sold at Whole Foods.
Following quiet voices down a thin hall, she started to smell the rot, and the death bouquet really bloomed as she came up to the open door of the bedroom.
Three or four days, she thought as she snapped on nitrile gloves. Maybe close to a week.
Over on a queen-sized bed, the man and woman from the photographs were laid out naked on their backs, their heads on the pillows, their gray faces angled toward each other. There was extensive blood loss from both, due to centralized wounds in their chests, and the bedding underneath had soaked up the moisture.
They were holding hands, their loose, unresponsive fingers locked in place by what looked like dental floss around their wrists.
Detective Andy Steuben, who was taking notes by the headboard, looked at Erika. “I don’t have the heart to mention how sad this is.”
Erika rolled her eyes. “We’re good without the commentary. Thanks.”
Striding across to the bodies, she got a good look at the mutilations. Both the man and the woman had had their hearts removed, and not in a neat-and-tidy surgical fashion. The cavernous wounds were ragged on the edges, and fragments of bone dotted their abdominals and the bed-covers. It seemed like whoever had done the extractions had reached in with their hand and ripped the cardiac muscle out.
Except that was impossible.
“CSI is on the way,” Andy announced.
Erika already knew this, but just as Steuben had a reputation for being a smartass, she was the division’s resident cold bitch, and she didn’t feel the need to stoke that gossip by one-upping the guy on a not necessary.