Naked in Death (In Death 1) - Page 5
Eve sat beside him, took out her recorder. “Tell me about Sharon.”
“A marvelous creature. Physically stunning, of course, but it went deeper.” His brandy came into the room on a silent automated cart. Sebastian plucked the snifter and took one deep swallow. “She had flawless taste, a generous heart, rapier wit.”
He turned the doe eyes on Eve again. “I saw her only two days ago.”
“Professionally?”
“She had a standing weekly appointment, half day. Every other week was a full day.” He whipped out a butter yellow scarf and dabbed at his eyes. “Sharon took care of herself, believed strongly in the presentation of self.”
“It would be an asset in her line of work.”
“Naturally. She only worked to amuse herself. Money wasn’t a particular need, with her family background. She enjoyed sex.”
“With you?”
His artistic face winced, the rosy lips pursing in what could have been a pout or pain. “I was her consultant, her confidant, and her friend,” Sebastian said stiffly and draped the scarf with casual flare over his left shoulder. “It would have been indiscreet and unprofessional for us to become sexual partners.”
“So you weren’t attracted to her, sexually?”
“It was impossible for anyone not to be attracted to her sexually. She . . .” He gestured grandly. “Exuded sex as others might exude an expensive perfume. My God.” He took another shaky sip of brandy. “It’s all past tense. I can’t believe it. Dead. Murdered.” His gaze shot back to Eve. “You said murdered.”
“That’s right.”
“That neighborhood she lived in,” he said grimly. “No one could talk to her about moving to a more acceptable location. She enjoyed living on the edge and flaunting it all under her family’s aristocratic noses.”
“She and her family were at odds?”
“Oh definitely. She enjoyed shocking them. She was such a free spirit, and they so . . . ordinary.” He said it in a tone that indicated ordinary was more mortal a sin than murder itself. “Her grandfather continues to introduce bills that would make prostitution illeg
al. As if the past century hasn’t proven that such matters need to be regulated for health and crime security. He also stands against procreation regulation, gender adjustment, chemical balancing, and the gun ban.”
Eve’s ears pricked. “The senator opposes the gun ban?”
“It’s one of his pets. Sharon told me he owns a number of nasty antiques and spouts off regularly about that outdated right to bear arms business. If he had his way, we’d all be back in the twentieth century, murdering each other right and left.”
“Murder still happens,” Eve murmured. “Did she ever mention friends or clients who might have been dissatisfied or overly aggressive?”
“Sharon had dozens of friends. She drew people to her, like . . .” He searched for a suitable metaphor, used the corner of the scarf again. “Like an exotic and fragrant flower. And her clients, as far as I know, were all delighted with her. She screened them carefully. All of her sexual partners had to meet certain standards. Appearance, intellect, breeding, and proficiency. As I said, she enjoyed sex, in all of its many forms. She was . . . adventurous.”
That fit with the toys Eve had unearthed in the apartment. The velvet handcuffs and whips, the scented oils and hallucinogens. The offerings on the two sets of colinked virtual reality headphones had been a shock even to Eve’s jaded system.
“Was she involved with anyone on a personal level?”
“There were men occasionally, but she lost interest quickly. Recently she’d spoken about Roarke. She’d met him at a party and was attracted. In fact, she was seeing him for dinner the very night she came in for her consultation. She’d wanted something exotic because they were dining in Mexico.”
“In Mexico. That would have been the night before last.”
“Yes. She was just bubbling over about him. We did her hair in a gypsy look, gave her a bit more gold to the skin—full body work. Rascal Red on the nails, and a charming little temp tattoo of a red-winged butterfly on the left buttock. Twenty-four-hour facial cosmetics so that she wouldn’t smudge. She looked spectacular,” he said, tearing up. “And she kissed me and told me she just might be in love this time. ‘Wish me luck, Sebastian.’ She said that as she left. It was the last thing she ever said to me.”
chapter two
No sperm. Eve swore over the autopsy report. If she’d had sex with her killer, the victim’s choice of birth control had killed the little soldiers on contact, eliminating all trace of them within thirty minutes after ejaculation.
The extent of her injuries made the tests for sexual activity inconclusive. He’d blown her apart either for symbolism or for his own protection.
No sperm, no blood but for the victim’s. No DNA.
The forensic sweep of the murder site turned up no fingerprints—none: not the victim’s, not her weekly cleaning specialist, certainly not the murderer’s.
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