Shadows in Death (In Death #51) - J.D. Robb Page 0,63

to shop here. Maybe. We nail that, we have a better idea of the area where he may be staying now.”

“And still.”

She walked back, sat facing him. “We find the tailor. Has he used that tailor before? You’re more likely to stick with one, or go to one on a recommendation. We interview the tailor, pull out more. Does the tailor work for any of Cobbe’s known associates? If so, we use that. It’s a process.”

“It is. I know it.”

“Then there’s the LC. She’s going to have observations. Fast bang or BJ, she’d wash up. What did she see? What was on the bathroom counter?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. What was in the bedroom, or whatever room they used? What did he say? What didn’t he say? Did any communications come through while she was there? Did he drink anything—and what? Men like Cobbe? Licensed companions equal a means to an end—there to serve. They might as well be droids. Plus he was revved up, angry. If there’s any time he’d be careless, that would be it.”

“You’ve a point with that,” he agreed.

“Same with the limo driver. But he was on his way to a job, he’d have been polite, most likely. A little dumb-ass small talk on the way to the ride. Privacy screen engaged there, I expect, but up until. What did he say? Did he have an accent? Did he ask her for a good place for dinner near his hotel? Her impression of him.”

Eve shrugged. “Things can add up.” She grabbed her signaling ’link. “It’s Baxter,” she said. “Dallas. What’ve you got? I’m putting you on speaker.”

“My boy and I just had a nice chat with a very interesting woman. Yvette Conroy, who serves a superior cup of coffee, works through Discretion. You interviewed the owner on the Pettigrew case.”

“Yeah. She was cooperative.”

“Still is. Yvette contacted her, just to clear things, and was—in turn—cooperative. She took the last-minute job as the hotel’s close to her also superior digs, and she didn’t have a booking. The company’s standard security run on Cobbe—or Reginald J. Patrick—produced a single male, age forty-two, no criminal, with an income that could afford the fee—which includes an additional ten percent charge for a booking in under two hours. Dublin-based businessman who owns several art galleries.”

“Fancy,” Eve said. “Important.”

“Yeah, so our girl’s expecting the fancy, likely with a side of charm. He doesn’t live up to the hype. He points to the bedroom the minute he closes the door. She adjusts expectations, but tries some get-to-know-you. You know, lovely suite, lovely view, are you enjoying New York.

“He tells her to strip and get on the bed, he’s not interested in fucking conversation, just fucking.”

“And she didn’t see the charm?”

Baxter laughed. “Nope. She said she considered canceling because he looked mean, but she could handle mean. So she walked into the bedroom behind him. He watched her strip, but didn’t seem interested in any flourishes. He took off his robe—was already wearing a condom. Basically, she said, it was a two-step. He got on, got off. About ten minutes on the outside. No eye contact, no kissing. Rough with his hands, but straight missionary wham-bam, with no thank you, ma’am.

“She said he didn’t seem to enjoy it, because he snarled and swore the whole time. And I quote, ‘I’ll do the fucker this time. Fucking bastard, lucky prick bastard gobshite. I’ll drink his fucking blood before it’s done.’ ”

“Descriptive.”

“He worked up a sweat with it. She assumed he needed to get some business problem—competitor—worked out, then they’d connect. Instead, when he finished, he told her to get dressed and get out, but he seemed deflated—in more ways than one. Sulky, in her term. She said she needed to clean up, and he waved a hand at the bathroom. So she did, and said she considered she’d made nine K—she gets the full grand for the late booking, and eighty percent of the ten K fee—in under a half hour.

“He was back in the robe when she came out, sitting in a chair and brooding into a glass of whiskey. She said goodnight, he grunted, she left. She called it in on the way down to the lobby, got another late booking offer, decided why the hell not.

“Kind of makes you wonder why everybody’s not an LC.”

“Right. What did she notice?”

“A lot. Well built, gym fit, and muscular. No visible scars, tats, or piercings. Manicured hands, groomed pubes. No devices sitting around, no personal items in the bedroom