Seduction In Death

"And so I explained. Relax, Lieutenant, or you'll give yourself indigestion." He watched her scarf up onion rings. "Though that's pretty much a given in any case."

"You're just sulking because I didn't pick out rack of lamb or something. The murders are co

She lifted her wineglass, studied the pale gold liquid. "Just like this stuff. You can't walk into the corner liquor store, a twenty-four-seven and cop a bottle of this. You can get cheap substitutes, inferior, what do you call them, labels, but for the snooty stuff you need a high-end supplier and the wherewithal."

"Or your own vineyard."

"Or your own vineyard," she agreed. "You got that, you can drink it like water. He doesn't settle for substitutes. He's better than that, deserves the very best. The best illegals, the best wines, the best clothes. And the women of his choice. Just another commodity."

"He has the means to indulge himself, in every vice. Isn't it probable he's worked his way up to this ultimate indulgence?"

"Yeah, if you go by percentages, probabilities of profiling. But there's more to it, because there are two of them. Teamwork, competition, mutual dependence. The first one fucked up. He hadn't worked his way up to killing yet, so he panicked. But that upped the stakes. Second guy can't let his pal get ahead of him. He's got more violence in him, and isn't afraid of seeing that part of himself. He enjoys it. Then you bounce back to the first player, and he messes up again. He leaves her alive. He's losing the game."

"You're dismissing multiple personalities?"

"Even if its MPS, we're dealing with two. But I'm more inclined toward the simple route. Two styles, two killers. I wonder if anybody on the project list had two sons. Brothers maybe. It would make sense if… or childhood friends." She shifted her attention back to Roarke. "Guys who grew up together. That's like brotherhood, isn't it?"

He thought of Mick. "It is. More so in a way as you don't have the family dynamics, the antagonisms, getting in the way. With Mick and Brian and the rest of us, we were a family we created rather than one we'd been born into. It's a powerful bond."

"Okay, tell me this – from a species that does the majority of its thinking with its penis – "

"I resent that. I don't think with my penis more than twenty-five percent of the time."

"Tell that to somebody you didn't just nail in the sleep chair."

"And I can tell you it took very little thought. But your question is?"

"Guys'll bang anything if they get the chance."

"Yes, and we're proud of it."

"No offense. That's just the way the machine works. But when they have a choice, a selection, even a fantasy, they tend toward a certain type. Most commonly that fantasy or type is based on a female figure that was or is important to the man. Either the type resembles that figure in some way or opposes it."

"Since I assume in this case you're eliminating basic chemistry, emotion, and relationship, I won't disagree. The female machine runs much the same way."

"Yeah, that's how he gets them. Molding himself into their fantasy. But I'm betting the women he selects are looking for the type he is, or appears to be on the surface. He doesn't have to change much. Why should he? It's his game. I'm going to run some probabilities."

Roarke heard the signal from his office for incoming data. "Stiles came through. I'll transfer that over for you."

"Thanks." She glanced at her wrist unit. "Nine-fifteen," she a

Her name was Melissa Kotter, and she was from Nebraska. A genuine farm girl who'd fled the fields for the bright lights of the big city. She had hopes, as did thousands of other young women who streamed into New York, of being an actress. A serious actress, of course – one who would remain true to her art, infusing new life into the classic roles played by all the greats who'd trod the board before her.

While she was waiting to light up Broadway, she waited tables, went to auditions, and took whatever work came her way. It was, in her opinion, the way all the great artists began their careers.

At twenty-one, she was full of optimism and i

She was blonde, blue-eyed, and delicate of build.

A sociable creature, Melissa had made a number of friends. She was always eager for friendships, conversation, experiences.

She adored New York with the passion of a new lover, and in the six months she'd lived in the city, her affection hadn't dimmed by a watt.

She'd told her across-the-hall neighbor, Wanda, about her date that night. And had laughed off her friend's concerns. The media reports about the murdered women didn't apply to her. Hadn't Sebastian brought them up himself, hadn't he said he'd understand completely if she didn't feel comfortable meeting him tonight?

As she'd told Wanda, he'd hardly have brought the matter up if he was a dangerous individual.

He was a wonderful man, intelligent, erudite, exciting. And so very different from all the boys back home. Most of them hadn't known Chaucer from Chesterfield. But Sebastian knew all about poetry and plays. He'd traveled all over the world, had attended performances in all the great theaters.

She'd read his e-mails over and over until she could recite them by heart. No one who could write such lovely things could be anything but wonderful.

And he was meeting her at Jean-Luc's, one of the most exclusive clubs in the city.

She made the dress herself, patterning it after a gown worn by the actress Helena Grey when she'd accepted her Tony the previous year. The deep midnight blue material was synthetic rather than silk, but it had a lovely drape. With it she wore the pearl earrings her grandmother had given her on her twenty-first birthday in November. They looked almost real dripping from her lobes.

The shoes and the bag had been snagged on sale at Macy's.

She did a quick, laughing twirl. "How do I look?"

"You look mag, Mel, but I wish you wouldn't go."

"Stop being such a worrywart, Wanda. Nothing's going to happen to me."

Wanda bit her lip. She looked at Melissa and saw a little woolly lamb who'd bah cheerfully as she was led to the slaughter. "Maybe I'll call in sick, hang out here in your place until you get home."

"Don't be silly. You need the money. Go on, go get ready for work." Melissa draped an arm around Wanda's shoulders and walked her to the door. "If it makes you feel better I'll call you when I get back."

"Promise."

"Scout's honor. I think I'm going to order a martini. I've always wanted to try one. Which do you think is more sophisticated? Gin or vodka? Vodka," she decided before Wanda could weigh in. "A vodka martini, very dry, with a twist."

"You call me, the minute you get back. And don't you bring him up here, no matter what."

"I won't." Melissa twirled herself to the stairs. "Wish me luck."

"I do. Be careful."

Melissa dashed down all three flights, feeling very glamorous. She called out greetings to neighbors, struck a pose at the wolf whistle delivered by Mr. Tidings in 102. When she rushed out on the sidewalk, her cheeks were flushed and rosy.

She thought about taking a cab, but since she had more time than money thought it best to take the subway uptown.

She joined the hordes on the underground platform, humming to herself as she anticipated the evening. She squeezed on the train and stood, propped up by bodies.