“You don’t give me much,” Mira complained, but Eve could see her attention was caught. “Inventive,” she began. “A planner, and a voyeur. Confident, perhaps smug. You said distinctive, so he wishes to leave his mark, and he wants to show off his skill, his brain. Using your observation and deductive talents, lieutenant, did he enjoy the act of murder?”
“Yes. I think he reveled in it.”
Mira nodded. “Then he will certainly enjoy it again.”
“He already has. Two murders, barely a week apart. He won’t wait long before the next, will he?”
“It’s doubtful.” Mira sipped her tea as if they were discussing the latest spring fashions. “Are the two murders connected in any way other than the perpetrator and the method?”
“Sex,” Eve said shortly.
“Ah.” Mira tilted her head. “With all our technology, with the amazing advances that have been made in genetics, we are still unable to control human virtues and flaws. Perhaps we are too human to permit the tampering. Passions are necessary to the human spirit. We learned that early this century when genetic engineering nearly slipped out of control. It’s unfortunate that some passions twist. Sex and violence. For some it’s still a natural marriage.”
She stood then to take the cups and place them
beside the server. “I’d be interested in knowing more about this man, lieutenant. If and when you decide you want a profile, I hope you’ll come to me.”
“It’s Code Five.”
Mira glanced back. “I see.”
“If we don’t tie this up before he hits again, I may be able to swing it.”
“I’ll make myself available.”
“Thanks.”
“Eve, even strong, self-made women have weak spots. Don’t be afraid of them.”
Eve held Mira’s gaze for another moment. “I’ve got work to do.”
Testing left her shaky. Eve compensated by being surly and antagonistic with her snitch and nearly losing a lead on a case involving bootlegged chemicals. Her mood was far from cheerful when she checked back in to Cop Central. There was no message from Feeney.
Others in her department knew just where she’d spent the day and did their best to stay out of her way. As a result, she worked in solitude and annoyance for an hour.
Her last effort was to put through a call to Roarke. She was neither surprised nor particularly disappointed when he wasn’t available. She left a message on his E-mail requesting an appointment, then logged out for the day.
She intended to drown her mood in cheap liquor and mediocre music at Mavis’s latest gig at the Blue Squirrel.
It was a joint, which put it one slippery step up from a dive. The light was dim, the clientele edgy, and the service pitiful. It was exactly what Eve was looking for.
The music struck her in one clashing wave when she walked in. Mavis was managing to lift her appealing screech of a voice over the band, which consisted of one multitattooed kid on a melody master.
Eve snarled off the offer from a guy in a hooded jacket to buy her a drink in one of the private smoking booths. She jockeyed her way to a table, pressed in an order for a screamer, and settled back to watch Mavis perform.
She wasn’t half bad, Eve decided. Not half good either, but the customers weren’t choosy. Mavis was wearing paint tonight, her busty little body a canvas for splatters and streaks of orange and violet, with strategically brushed splotches of emerald. Bracelets and chains jangled as she jittered around the small, raised stage. One step below, a mass of humanity gyrated in sympathy.
Eve watched a small, sealed package pass from hand to hand on the edge of the dance floor. Drugs, of course. They’d tried a war on them, legalizing them, ignoring them, and regulating them. Nothing seemed to work.
She couldn’t raise the interest to make a bust and lifted a hand in a wave to Mavis instead.
The vocal part of the song ended—such as it was. Mavis leaped offstage, wiggled through the crowd, and plopped a painted hip on the edge of Eve’s table.
“Hey, stranger.”
“Looking good, Mavis. Who’s the artist?”
“Oh, this guy I know.” She shifted, tapped an inch-long fingernail on the left cheek of her butt. “Caruso. See, he signed me. Got the job free for passing his name around.” Her eyes rounded when the waitress set the long, slim glass filled with frothy blue liquid in front of Eve. “A screamer? Wouldn’t you rather I find a hammer and just knock you unconscious?”