"Money doesn't always buy taste, does it, darling?" He shook his head at the black and red decor. "A bit obvious for a passion den."

He wandered to the closet, opened it. "Well, here at least he showed some level of class. Very nice fabrics."

"Yeah, and he died in his underwear. Just goes to show."

"Just what does the city do with this sort of thing?"

"The clothes? If he doesn't have family, heirs, that kind of thing, they're donated to shelters."

He pressed the button that had the first tier of suits revolving to reveal the second. "The sidewalk sleepers are going to be better dressed this year."

He moved the second tier aside, studied the wall of shoes to his right. Smiled. "Here you have it."

"Have what?"

"Give us a minute," he said, running his fingertips along shelves, under them. "Ah, here we are. Let's see."

He depressed a small lever. The lower third of the shelves swung slowly open. He crouched. "Here's your hidey-hole, Lieutenant. And your second safe."

She was already breathing down his neck. "Can you open it?"

"Would that be a rhetorical question?" he chuckled.

"Just open the damn thing."

He drew the jammer he'd taken from Jamie out of his pocket. "Well, this is why you're the cop and I'm not."

"Because you can pop a safe?"

"No. I could teach you to do it quick enough, even without this handy little toy. Because I thought you were wasting time coming back here tonight."

"You still think I'm wasting time."

"I suppose I do, but you've found your safe." The display on the jammer began to flash, numbers zipping by in a blur. Then a series of them locked on. The safe hummed once, then clicked.

"Abracadabra," Roarke stated, and opened it.

"Now that's more like it." Hunkered down beside him, Eve studied the neat stacks of cash. "This is how he stayed out of a cage so long. No credit, no e-transfers. Cash on the line. And a file box, loaded with discs and vids."

"Best of all." Roarke reached in, took out a PPC. "His personal palm, very likely uninfected and chock-full of interesting data."

"Let's load it up, get it in." She pulled out her memo book.

"What're you doing?"

"Logging the entry. I better not see any of that green stuff or those baubles go into your pockets, Ace."

"Now I'm offended." He straightened, brushed at his shirt. "If I nipped anything, you can bet your ass you wouldn't see me do it."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Eve started running the discs as soon as she got back into her office. She set the ones labeled financials and bookkeeping aside. They could wait.

She passed the PPC onto Roarke to take to the lab for testing. In short order she found herself listening to what had been Greene's daily journal.

He mentioned clients, but always by initials or an obvious nickname. Lardbutt had made his monthly payment. G.G. had begged for another extension. He made entries on shopping, on the club scene, on sexual exploits. They were all recorded in a tone of disdainful humor and derision.

Greene had despised the people he'd served.

So he'd blackmailed them, Eve mused. Squeezing them until he'd eventually become them. Wealthy, bored, and perverted.

Brought home a nice piece of ass today,he noted on the day he'd hooked up with Hannah Wade.I've been watching her for a few days. She hangs around the clubs,targets her mark, and talks him into getting her in. Straight up to a privacy room most times. When she's done, she cruises the club looking for action. I decided to give her some. I've got clients who'll pay top for a session with this little number. She knows the score. Figure I'll keep her up here a couple weeks, enjoy the fringe benefits, class her up some. Outfit her right, she could pass for about fourteen. H.C.'s been asking for some new young meat. I just brought home the cow.

"Creep," Eve said aloud, and ran through the week's journal. She hit the next level two days after he'd brought Wade home.

Fucking headache. Fucking headache all day. Zoner barely touches it. Got meetings today. Can't miss. Told G.G. to come up with payment plus penalty by tomorrow or her loving husband's going to get a delivery. Wonder how he'll feel about seeing his wife do the nasty with a St. Bernard?

Assholes. She tries to screw me over, she'll be sorry.

There was more of the same over the next three days. Increasingly angry entries, full of vague threats, complaints, frustration. He talked aboutthe headaches, and for the first time mentioned a nosebleed.

On the day before his death, the disc was full of weeping, of pounding as if he were beating a fist against the wall.

Trying to screw me over. Everybody's trying to screw me over. I'll kill them first. Kill them. Locked her out, locked the little bitch out. She thinks I don't know. Oh God, oh God, oh God, my head. She put something in my head! Can't let her see. Can't let anybody see. Stay inside. Safe inside. I gotta sleep. I gotta sleep. Make it go away! Lock it up. I have to lock everything up tight. She won't get what's mine. Little whore-bitch.

Eve filed the disc, walked into the kitchen for coffee. Then she just pulled open the terrace doors and breathed.

It was easy to see how Greene's infection had progressed. Paranoia, anger, fear. The symptoms had started shortly after he'd installed Wade in the condo, so he'd believed she was responsible for them.

In his sick way, he'd killed her in self-defense.

She got her coffee, went back to her desk to make notes. Then, though her head was buzzing with a combination of caffeine, fatigue, and stress, she started on the videos.

It was clear how Greene bumped his income up several brackets. The videos were not only technically well-done, but showed a strangely creative sense of theater.

If you liked your entertainment raw and perverse.

"Still at it?" Roarke walked in, headed straight into the kitchen without glancing at the screen. "Will you have some wine now?"

"Oh yeah. I could use a drink."

"I've sent the others on their way. You'll have your little nightcap here, Lieutenant, then I'm going to…"

He trailed off as he came back with two glasses of wine. What was playing on-screen had even his jaded eyes widening. "What is that? A small bear?"

"No, I think it's a really big dog. A St. Bernard."

He took a sip of wine, walked closer. "I believe you're right. Someone should report this activity to the Animal Rights League or whatever it is. Although… hmmm. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself if the size of his… Mother of God."

"Gimme that wine." She grabbed it, drank deep. "There's sick and there's sick. This one goes off the scale. I've got no term for it. You recognize the woman romping with Fido?"

"It's a bit hard to tell, under the circumstances."

"Greene lists her as G.G. I ran an image search on her while she was rubbing butter all over herself to help get Fido in the game. Gretta Gowan, wife of Jonah Gowan. That's Professor Jonah Gowan, of NYU. He's head of the Sociology Department. A staunch Conservative Party member and a Methodist deacon. Want to bet Clarissa Price took some of his classes?"

"Never bet against the house," Roarke declared, fascinated despite himself with the on-screen action.

"She recruited him into Purity, or he did her. I'd bet on that one. Anyway, Gretta there is the mother of two and-whoa, that is just nasty! Gretta chairs several committees, including the garden club, which would no doubt frown on her deep affection for canines."

"There's a log entry on the PPC-it's clean by the way-for G.G. Six thousand paid in six days before the murders."