The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [208]
The man, she often thought, collects computers the way some men collect sport holos.
Working her way through the porn sites for names had begun to give her a headache, but she continued doggedly, concentrating on the titles and come-on, and the screen names of potential customers who took advantage of the thirty-second preview.
McNab’s theory was that Yost might cruise the labyrinth of sex sites available online, make his selections through previews. It was possible he ordered them on-screen and that would be the luckiest of breaks as he’d have to use an ID and credit number to do so. But even if he simply scanned the previews, he’d have logged on under a screen name.
Most were laughable and obvious. Bigkok, Cumlvr, Hornydog. She didn’t think Sylvester Yost would go for the crude or the foolish.
She sat back, rubbed her gritty eyes then began to root through her bag for a pain blocker.
Absently McNab reached over and rubbed her neck. “Want to take a break?”
“I just need to ditch the headache. Maybe stretch my legs.”
She rose, rolling her shoulders as she went to the kitchen for water.
He knew she’d broken a date with Charles Monroe to work with him that night. McNab was darkly pleased that the suave LC had gotten the boot, even if it was for work. What he really wanted was to plant his own boot right in Monroe’s pretty face, and one of these days . . .
The action on the screen scrambled his thoughts. He goggled as two men and two women began to roll and writhe on the floor in a mass of naked bodies and impossibly flexible limbs.
“Holy Jesus.”
“What? What? Did you hit on something?” Peabody rushed back, leaned down to the screen, then with an oath rapped McNab over the head with the flat of her hand. “Damn it, stop jerking off. I thought you’d found . . .” She trailed off, stupefied. “Wow” was the best she could do.
Following the action both of them tilted their heads to the side.
“She must be double-jointed.”
“Triple,” McNab decided. “And it’s obvious nobody in this group has a spine, otherwise they couldn’t get in that position.”
They turned their heads again, this time toward each other, and their eyes met with identical gleams of lust and challenge.
“We can’t let a bunch of porn actors outdo us.” McNab was already pulling at the hook of her trousers.
“Damn right we can’t. But it’s probably going to hurt.”
“Cops feel no pain.”
“Oh yeah? Try this.” She was laughing as she pulled him to the floor.
In another part of town, Sylvester Yost finished his after-dinner brandy and cigar. He’d activated his single server droid for precisely twelve minutes, to deal with the disarray of his kitchen and dining room.
Of course, he would check on the job himself. Even well-programmed droids usually failed to see that all was in the perfect order Yost demanded.
He’d prepared himself a delightful veal picatta for dinner. Often after a job he liked to putter around his kitchen, enjoying the scents and textures of cooking, sipping an appropriate wine as his sauces thickened.
But an indulgence like that dirtied pots and pans and so on. The droid came in handy there, as Yost preferred to relax with his brandy and cigar rather than loading the dishwasher.
With his eyes half-closed and his big, muscular body draped in a long robe of black silk, he listened to the swelling strains of Beethoven.
Such moments, he believed, were a man’s right after a successful day’s work.
And soon, very soon, such moments would stretch to days, and days to weeks as he moved into quiet retirement. Oh, he would miss the work, he supposed. Now and then. Of course, if he missed it enough he could certainly take the occasional contract.
Interesting ones, just to slay any dragons of tedium.
But for the most part he was certain he would be quite content with his music and his art, his leisure and his solitude.
When this contract had been offered, Yost had taken