“It could be worse,” she decided. “It could have been cheap wine, then we’d have, oh, a hundred times as many names.”
“More than that, I imagine. We can break these down into individual sales and restaurant orders. Now we’ll see what we can find on the Cabernet.”
“Is that your label, too?”
“No, a competitor’s. But there are ways. This will take a few minutes.”
Because she thought it slightly tacky for a member of the NYPSD to sit and watch a civilian severely bend the law, she rose and wandered closer to the wall screen. “Computer, display single male consumers on screen four.”
That whittled it down some more, she noted. She couldn’t and wouldn’t discount the restaurant, the female, and the joint accounts, but she’d start with the two hundred recorded sales to single men.
“Computer. Display, screen five, multiple purchases of product by single men. Better,” she mumbled as the number went down by another eighty-six.
“You got that data yet?”
“Patience, Lieutenant.” He glanced up, then just looked at her in a way that made her skin tingle and her thigh muscles go loose.
“What?”
“You’re such a study, standing there—all cop. Cooleyed and grim with your weapon strapped on. It makes my mouth water.” With a half laugh he went back to work. “Baffles me. Here you are, split on screen three.”
“Do you say that sort of thing to get me stirred up?”
“No, but it’s a pleasant side benefit. You’re also quite a study when you’re stirred up. My red edged out the competition’s red by a few hundred sales in the area over the past twelve months.”
“Big surprise,” she said sourly, and turned around to repeat the same breakdown. “Computer, cross and match, all consumer purchases of both brands in given time period. Less than thirty.” She pursed her lips. “I figured more.”
“Label loyalty.”
“We’ll start with these. Standard run, eliminate males over fifty for a start. Our guy, or guys, are younger. Then I have to refactor. Could be daddy who buys the wine, or uncle, or big brother. Or,” she added, glancing back at the screen with joint accounts. “Mom and Dad. But I don’t think so.” She began to pace. “I need Mira’s profile, but I just don’t think so. Seems to me it’s not romantic, it’s not sexual if your parent or parents buy the wine. Then you’re a child again and you’re, by Christ, a man and you can prove it.
“You can pluck a woman right out of the pack,” she continued. “Pick of the litter, and your choice. Women are merciless, from the poem. They’ll crush you if you give them the chance. So you won’t. You’re in charge this time.”
She stared at the names, moved away from them, then back again. “Women. Bitches, whores, goddesses. You desire them, sexually, but more than that, you want power. Absolute power over them. So you plan, hunt, select. You’ve seen her, but she hasn’t seen you. You have to see her, have to make absolutely certain she is attractive enough, that she hasn’t created the fantasy of herself the same way you’ve created yourself. She has to be real. She has to be worthy. You wouldn’t waste your time on anyone or anything that’s less than you deserve.”
Fascinated, Roarke sat back. “What does he do?”
“He selects. He arranges. He seduces with words, with images. Then he prepares. The wine. One that suits his taste, his mood. No one else’s. Candles, scented to please his senses. The illegals, so that he has control. He won’t be refused. More, he’ll be desired. Desperately desired.”
“Is it about sex?”
She shook her head, still studying names. “Desire. That’s different. To be desired by his choice. That’s as vital as his control over her. She must want him. He goes to too much trouble to make himself an object of desire for it to be only about control and power. He has a need to be the focus, the center because it’s his moment. His game. His victory.”
“His pleasure,” Roarke added.
“Yes, his pleasure. But he needs her to think it’s hers as well. He stands at the mirror and makes himself into what he’d like to be, and what he believes a woman wants. Dashing, sexy, stunningly handsome, but elegant. The kind of man who quotes poetry and woos with roses. The kind who makes that woman believe she’s the only woman. Maybe he believes it. Or did, with the first one. Maybe he deluded himself into believing it was romance. But under it’s calculation. He’s a predator.”
“Men are.”
She glanced back. “That’s right. Humans are, but sexually men are more basic. Sex is more easily viewed as a function where women, in general, prefer an emotional rush along with it. These women did, and he was aware of it. He took the time to know them first, to discover their weaknesses and their fantasies so he could play on both. Then he controlled them. Like a droid, only they were flesh and blood. They were real, so the thrill was real. When it was over, they were spoiled. He’d made them whores again, so they stopped being worthy. He’ll need to find the next.”
“You were wrong when you said you couldn’t get inside him. I wonder how you can be so much what you are and still look so clearly, so coldly, through the eyes of the mad and the vicious.”
“Because I won’t lose. I can’t lose or they all win. Right back to my father.”
“I know it.” He rose, walked to her. Wrapped his arms tight around her. “I’ve never been sure if you did.”
NOTIFICATION OF ACTIVITY, ACCOUNT LA BELLE DAME . . .