Connections in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel Page 8

  Roarke walked around, slid behind the wheel. “She might have managed to score. She could’ve been paid for betraying Pickering. She got high and flopped elsewhere.”

  “Not impossible,” she conceded. “Maybe Slice has it right, and it was a hit by one of the rival gangs. They recruited her, she helped with the hit, and now she’s flopping with them. But…”

  “Why would a rival gang order a hit on a former Banger?”

  “Why would anybody? It makes him more important than he seems.” And that was the puzzle. “I need to know more about the players.”

  She pulled out her PPC, started runs.

  “She actually did change her name legally. Rita Razowitz to Taffy Pull. Worked the sex clubs—a couple of high-end ones back in the day. A few bumps along the way, but nothing major. About twelve years ago she got into it with one of the other SWs over some dude. The rival set her hair on fire.”

  “That’s love for you,” Roarke said.

  “It explains the wig, the scars. Spiraled down—a taste for opiates of any description, busted for illegals, for unlicensed solicitation. Blah-blah. She’s been running that place for about four years.

  “Can’t think the dude was worth it,” Eve considered. “No marriages, no cohabs, no offspring, and no criminal in the last four that shows.”

  “The sad life and times of Rita Razowitz.”

  People make their choices, Eve thought. Who knows why?

  “She’s not going to lie to cover for a junkie who works on and off. Slice is, legally, Marcus Jones Junior. Looks like Senior, street name Rock, was not only a Banger but a captain. Didn’t cohab with the mother, did some time. Got himself beaten half to death about ten years ago.”

  “A job risk for a gangster.”

  “That took Jones Senior out. I’m reading severe head trauma, brain damage. He’s in a medical facility for same. The mother spent Jones Junior’s childhood in and out of lockup, so he was raised primarily by his maternal grandmother.”

  Roarke glanced over. “So he had something in common with Lyle Pickering.”

  “Yeah. Huh. He owns the building, the flop. Or a percentage of it—and the same with Wet Dreams, and a couple other enterprises. Like the tat parlor in the building, a strip joint. Owns them with a Samuel Cohen and an Eldena Vinn.

  “Any bells from those two?” she asked.

  “Sorry, no. But that’s very interesting.”

  “Yeah, it’s got my attention. I’ll look at his partners. Jones has brains, skill, or luck. Maybe all. He’s been pulled in for questioning plenty, but nothing’s stuck to him since he did six months when he was eighteen.”

  “Brains would sell that underground pit and put enough change into that apartment building to charge actual rent—which tells me if he does have brains, he’s not using them for more than show.”

  “Such as money laundering, the illegals trade, fraud, fencing, and so on.” She continued to work as Roarke wove through traffic. “Okay, his partner, Cohen, was a lawyer.”

  “‘Was’?”

  “Disbarred, eight years back. Currently lists himself as a consultant. He’s forty-three, also listed as owner of his residence: Lower East, a few blocks—important blocks—from Banger HQ. Working-class area. Cohabs with Eldena Vinn, twenty-five, employed at Bump and Bang—the strip club Jones, Cohen, and Vinn also own. She’s listed her profession as dancer, which reads as stripper.”

  Eve sat back as—at long last—Roarke drove through the gates, and the lights of home glinted up ahead.

  “How do a gangbanger, a disbarred lawyer, and a stripper become business partners?”

  “I have no doubt you’ll find out.”

  “Yeah, I will. It may or may not be relevant to Pickering’s murder, but I’ll find out. I smell dirty deeds.”

  “It may just be the fragrant remnants of our interesting night on the town. Christ Jesus, I want that shower.”

  When they got to the bedroom, he noted Galahad sprawled diagonally across the big bed, all four feet stretched out, belly up.

  Enjoy it while you can, Roarke thought as he began to strip.

  He also noted the wheels turning behind his wife’s eyes as she unhooked her weapon harness, pulled off her boots.

  He decided, as a dutiful husband, he should take her mind off work so she could get a good night’s sleep.

  He waited until she’d stripped it all down and reached for a sleep shirt. And scooped her off her feet.

  “Hey!”

  “We need that shower.”

  “I’ll catch one in the morning. I know your pervy games, pal.”

  “Maybe I have some new pervy games.” In the bath he ordered the jets on several degrees hotter than his own preference. And took her mouth with his as he stepped with her into the pulsing spray.

  She decided a shower wasn’t a bad idea after all, so she wrapped around him when he set her on her feet. Steam already pumped, and the pulsing hot beat of the jets felt nearly as good as the glide of his hands on her naked skin.

  To get back some of her own, she backed him against the slick, wet tiles and got busy with her own hands, her own mouth.

  No, not a bad idea at all, she thought as she gripped and dug into tight, rippling muscle, as she felt his heart trip against hers. She used her teeth, quick, hungry bites, as wet flesh slipped and slithered against wet flesh.

  Hitting the dispenser, she filled her palm with liquid soap. Slicked and stroked it over him, around him. Down the solid wall of his chest, down the narrow cut of torso, down the taut belly.

  Down.

  She might have guided him into her, taken the moment, taken him, but he spun her around. With one arm chained around her waist, pinning her back against him, he glided his hand, the silky soap over her breasts, cupping them, thumb stroking the nipple while he feasted on the back and side of her neck.

  Down that long, lean torso while his blood beat hot as the jets. A tease along the blades of hips as those hips began to pump in invitation.

  Not yet, not yet, though he could have devoured her like a man starving. Instead, he trailed his fingers over her belly, felt the quiver of her need. A light stroke, to torment them both, down the inside of those smooth, strong thighs.

  On a moan she reached back to hook her arm around his neck, trembling now, trembling for him.

  Ready and open and his.

  A brush, just a brush over her center, lightly cupping her there while her body arched against his restraining arm. And inside her, light, almost lazy while her quickened breath escaped in gasps.

  Slow, he thought, slow though his own needs pounded. Slow as he felt her fall into the pleasure, melt in it, surrender to it.

  It saturated her, seemed to turn even her bones to butter. She sank into it, all those honeyed sensations, floated through them on the thick, steamy air. And when they lifted her, up, up, she clung to the heights, then embraced the staggering fall.

  “Ride it,” he urged her when she went limp. “Just ride it.”

  He could take her up again, and would. Not so slow now, not so light.

  Nothing, nothing aroused him more than having his tough, hard-eyed cop steeped in what he could give her. Once more, he thought as his own muscles quivered, just once more as he felt it build inside her again.

  When he felt her shuddering on that edge, her body bow-taut, he whipped her around. With her back to the tiles, he plunged into her, hard, fast, deep. Held there, chained himself there while her cry of release echoed.

  “God. God.” Her head dropped to his shoulder as she fought for air.

  No air, she thought, dazed and drugged, just heat.

  Then he began to move again.

  “There’s more,” he said as she lifted her head.

  His eyes, impossibly blue, so intense, so focused on her. Only her. Love speared like an arrow, burst through lust so the mix of both overwhelmed her.

  Her breath in tatters like his, she gripped the wet silk of his hair, dragged his mouth to hers. Fe
d there while all the wild and wonderful needs spread again.

  Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she looked into that miraculous blue once more. “I can take it as long as you can.”

  She boosted up, wrapped her legs around his waist. “Now you ride it.”

  He couldn’t stop. Tossing aside any semblance of control, he drove into her, again, again, with a blind, nearly brutal desperation. He heard her cries as he thrust, as his fingers dug into her hips. Not cries of surrender, not this time. But of triumph.

  Now it was he who was lost, undone, conquered. When his release came, it slashed like blades to open him, to empty him.

  He nearly staggered, had to brace a hand to the wall, pin Eve there with his body to keep them both upright. Then he gave that up, just slid both of them to the floor of the shower and tried to catch his breath.

  Steam puffed and plumed. Jets of water sliced through the thickened air and rained down on them. He should turn that off, he thought idly as Eve sprawled over him.

  “Maybe you do have some new pervy games.”

  “What?”

  “Some shower.”

  He managed a laugh. “We’ll have to get up and out of it at some point.”

  “It feels good.”

  She nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder, as if—he thought—she intended to bed down right there for the night. “Do you know how to cook a frog?”

  “Why would anybody want to cook a frog? And you don’t cook anyway.”

  “You put it in a pot of water, and turn the heat on very low. The water heats, but it’s a gradual thing, so the unfortunate frog doesn’t try to get out of the pot because it doesn’t realize it’s being slowly boiled to death until it’s done.”

  Her brows drew together. “You’ve cooked a frog?”

  “It’s an analogy. Right now we’re the frog and, in this case, I’d say we’re gradually being steamed to death. So.”

  He managed to shift her, to get them both sitting up. Then he smiled. “Wet’s one of my favorite looks on you.” He leaned over to kiss her between the eyes. “Jets off.”

  They pulled each other up. Eve stepped out and into the drying tube. Roarke grabbed a towel.

  She eyed him through the warm whirl of air. “We have good sex, right?”

  He glanced over, watched the air send her short chop of hair flying. “I think we just confirmed that.”

  “Right.” She stepped out, walked back into the bedroom.

  When he came out, she’d pulled on a sleep shirt, had pulled back the duvet in an attempt to dislodge the cat—who ignored her.

  So she crawled in, giving the sprawling lump of cat a solid nudge toward Roarke’s side. Roarke lifted an eyebrow, solved the matter by hauling Galahad up, and dumping him at the foot of the bed.

  Sliding in, he hooked an arm around Eve, drew her back to him.

  “We even have, like, adventurous sex.”

  “Again, just confirmed. What’s in that mind of yours?”

  “I figure people can do whatever they want, sex wise, as long as everybody’s an adult and willing. As long as nobody ends up on a slab. But…”

  She turned over, and since he hadn’t yet called for lights off, looked him in those eyes again. “I’m never going to whack your balls with a shock stick to get you off.”

  “It’s difficult to find the proper words to express my gratitude for that.”

  “Okay. And I don’t want you clamping any weird toys on my nipples.”

  “I can agree to that.”

  “Okay then. We’re good.”

  “We’re very good.” He kissed her again. “Lights out.”

  “I’m not eating frog, either.”

  “Off the menu. Go to sleep.”

  He smiled into the dark, stroking her back until he felt her drift off. And thought again, they were very good.

  6

  When she woke, Roarke, in his usual spot in the sitting area, was watching the financial reports on mute. The cat was sleeping in front of the fire that simmered low.

  She smelled coffee and thought the scent, the view of Roarke in one of his business god suits, and the cat snoring by a low fire equaled a pretty solid way to wake up.

  She rolled out of bed, headed straight to the AutoChef because the smell of coffee wasn’t enough.

  “Good morning.”

  She gulped coffee, glancing toward the window. “Might be. Nothing’s falling out of the sky yet.”

  “And not forecasted to,” Roarke told her. “You should be cheered to know the forecast included a good hint of spring. It’s a chilly start, but due to climb into the sixties this afternoon.”

  “Huh.” That perked her up nearly as much as the coffee.

  “And as they’re calling for a few days, at least, of this warming trend, they’ll start excavation on the pond today.”

  “‘The pond’?” It took her a minute to remember the walk they’d taken on the grounds months before. Somehow they’d decided to put in a little pond, picked the spot. “We’re really doing that?”

  “It’ll be pleasant, won’t it, when spring decides to come and stay awhile to wander out and sit by the water.”

  “Yeah, it will. When does the whole thing about March happen?”

  “Which thing is that?”

  She circled a finger in the air as she gulped more coffee. “The one about the sheep lying down with the lion.”

  “Lamb. The lion lies down with the lamb.”

  “A lamb’s a sheep, and the lion’s lying down to eat the stupid sheep. I don’t get what it has to do with March.”

  “Because it has nothing to do with it. I think you mean March comes in like a lion and goes out like a sheep. A lamb,” he corrected, dragging his fingers through his hair. “It’s a bloody lamb.”

  “Yeah, it would be if it’s hanging around with a lion.”

  He watched her walk into the adjoining bath and thought, Well, she has a point.

  He had breakfast waiting under warming domes when she came out. When he lifted the domes, she cocked her head.

  “No oatmeal?”

  “To celebrate the warming trend.”

  “Let’s hear it for spring.”

  He had gone for a full Irish because who knew when or if she’d take time for a decent meal during the day. In lieu of the black pudding, which she disliked intensely, he’d selected a small yogurt and fruit parfait.

  She sat, dug in. “So after your predawn ’link or holo or whatever meetings, you’re probably headed out for more.”

  “I have a thing or two.”

  “You’ve got that revised whatsit report you ordered up yesterday.”

  “Signed off this morning. And you, I expect, will be on the hunt.”

  “Yeah.” Curious, she studied a bite of sausage. “Why do you call them bangers?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, something about how they sound when they’re being fried up. I think.”

  “Huh. Well, they’re good whatever they’re called.” She ate the sausage, continued, “Anyway, I can hope we get a hit from the BOLO on Duff. Either way, I’m heading to the morgue this morning. I want a conversation with the sleazy ex-lawyer at some point, and a closer look at the Banger Duff was banging.”

  “Bolt,” Roarke recalled. “He has killer in his eyes.”

  “Yeah, he does. I also need a conversation with whoever’s riding cases on the Bangers. I should probably talk to Lyle’s brothers, his grandmother. He might have said something to them he didn’t say to Rochelle.”

  She crunched into bacon. “If he was going to meetings, earned his second-year chip, he probably has a sponsor. Another conversation. I’ve got to set up the board and book, write up a report on the visit to the Banger HQ, the underground.”

  “On the hunt,” he repeated.

  “Yeah, and I won’t be slogging through snow or crap rain doing it.”

  Thinking of it, when she finished breakfast, she took a simple white shirt out of her closet. No need
for a sweater. Then she stopped, abruptly flummoxed by the rails of pants, of jackets, the shelves of boots.

  She’d gotten so used to hauling out cold-weather clothes, she wasn’t quite sure what to grab.

  She wasn’t going to ask Roarke or use the closet comp (He’d hear that, wouldn’t he?). She knew how the hell to dress herself. It was just … long winter.

  She grabbed pants. Brown. Not Feeney’s shit brown, but a chocolate brown that reminded her to check the ceiling tile in her office, make sure the candy bar she’d booby-trapped was still there. Then she snagged a navy jacket because it had that brown leather piped at the cuffs and down the side seams.

  She studied her selection of boots, the number of which continued to be an embarrassment for her. Milder embarrassment than it once had been, but still.

  She started to grab brown ones, but she knew damn well the navy ones with the brown leather down the sides went with the damn jacket, and if she took the plain brown, Roarke would switch them out anyway.

  Why give him the satisfaction?

  She pulled on the pants, a support tank, reached for the shirt.

  And damn if Roarke didn’t stroll in, take it, replace it with another white shirt.

  “You’re just fucking with me now.”

  “Though that’s one of my favorite things, it’s simply a matter of the softer white—dare I say oatmeal color—being a better choice than the other.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” She put it on. It fit as if it had been tailored for her—which she assumed it had.

  She didn’t argue—what was the point?—when he offered her a navy belt.

  “You know, murdering bastards don’t care if I coordinate.”

  She carried the jacket, the boots out into the bedroom.

  “And yet it adds to the intimidation factor when you present a strong, competent appearance.”

  “Maybe.” She hooked on her weapon harness, added her pocket and belt paraphernalia. “A solid left jab adds intimidation.”

  “You’ll look well dressed when you deliver one.” He nodded approval as she put on the jacket, the boots. “Strong and competent,” he repeated as he stepped over, kissed her. “That’s my cop. You take care of her today.”

  “Don’t bitch if I get blood on the boots.”