Indulgence in Death - J. D. Robb [71]
“I can’t see her as a target, but you’d feel better if you contacted her.”
“Why not a target?”
“Both victims have been service providers. Some would even consider them a kind of servant.”
“Maybe, yeah, maybe, but I’m going to tell her not to do anything stupid. Then, damn it all over again, she’s going to push me for a one-on-one on this, try to wheedle more out of me on the investigation.”
“Friendship’s complex and layered.”
“It’s a pain in the ass.” But she pushed away from the table and walked to her desk to contact her friend.
She was pumped, Roarke thought as he lingered over his wine. Pumped and ready. It was more than the sleep, the meal, though God knew she’d needed both. It was the mission. She saw it now, and maybe that’s what Sinead had meant by Eve’s gift. She could see, and feel, both her victims and their killers.
He rose now, walked to her murder board.
He could hear her arguing with Nadine over making an appearance on Now to discuss the case, over giving a straight interview for Channel 75, but he paid little attention.
That, too, was a kind of game, he supposed. They each played their parts, pushed their agendas, and respected each other’s skill. A fine trick between two hardheaded, strong-willed women who believed absolutely in their duty to their profession.
When Eve broke transmission, muttered: “Coffee,” he said, “I’ll have some as well.”
He waited until she came out, handed him a cup. “They look through you.”
“What?”
“People—some people—with this level of social and monetary privilege. Those who can have whatever they wish whenever they wish it, and have chosen not to care, or simply haven’t the base in them to care about those who can’t. They don’t see you, the ones sweating out a day’s pay to meet the rent, or those begging on a street corner with empty bellies. They don’t see those who provide the services they use as they’re no more than droids in the world of that tunnel-vision privilege. I’ll wager they don’t know the names much less the situations of those who work for them outside their admins or PAs—and then only the names.”
“You see, you know. And you could probably buy and sell both of them.”
He shook his head. “It’s a different matter, not only in that base, but in the background. I’ve been the one looked through. It was one of the things I determined to change. And I’ve killed. There’s a weight in that for most of us. I can see, I think, how they might kill without that weight.”
“Because the victims aren’t people to them. They’re like a chair or a pair of shoes, just something they buy. They pay for the kill, that keeps coming around for me. They bought them, then own them.”
“And it’s a new thrill, the killing.”
He could, now that she’d opened the window to it, see them sitting in their fine homes over fine brandy, discussing that new thrill.
“It’s fresh and fascinating,” he went on. “When you can have anything you like, there can be little that feels fresh and fascinating.”
“Do you feel that way?”
“Not a bit.” He smiled a little as he turned to her. “But in my way, it’s the business itself, the angles, the strategies, the possibilities that are fresh and fascinating. And I have you. Who do they have? As you said, they keep nothing on display that connects them to family, to a loved one.”
“It’s one of the things I’m going to look at. Their exes, their family connections, the people they hang with. What do they do with their leisure time?”
“They don’t play polo or squash, but I had it right on golf. You’d made me curious,” he said when she frowned at him. “So I looked into it a bit. They both belong to the Oceanic Yacht Club, quite exclusive, as you’d expect, and have participated or sponsored quite a number of races and events. They both enjoy baccarat, high stakes. They each own majority shares in racehorses, which often compete.”
“Compete,” she repeated. “Another pattern.”
“When not in New York tending to their companies’ HQs—or in my