In Death 01 - Naked in Death

what we can find. Have you gone into her computer yet?"
    "No. It's your case, Dallas. I'm only authorized to assist."
    "See if you can access her client files." Eve went to the dresser and began to carefully search drawers.
    Expensive taste, Eve reflected. There were several items of real silk, the kind no simulation could match. The bottle of scent on the dresser was exclusive, and smelled, after a quick sniff, like expensive sex.
    The contents of the drawers were meticulously ordered, lingerie folded precisely, sweaters arranged according to color and material. The closet was the same.
    Obviously the victim had a love affair with clothes and a taste for the best and took scrupulous care of what she owned.
    And she'd died naked.
    "Kept good records," Feeney called out. "It's all here. Her client list, appointments -- including her required monthly health exam and her weekly trip to the beauty salon. She used the Trident Clinic for the first and Paradise for the second."
    "Both top of the line. I've got a friend who saved for a year so she could have one day for the works at Paradise. Takes all kinds."
    "My wife's sister went for it for her twenty-fifth anniversary. Cost damn near as much as my kid's wedding. Hello, we've got her personal address book."
    "Good. Copy all of it, will you, Feeney?" At his low whistle, she looked over her shoulder, glimpsed the small gold-edged palm computer in his hand. "What?"
    "We've got a lot of high-powered names in here. Politics, entertainment, money, money, money. Interesting, our girl has Roarke's private number."
    "Roarke who?"
    "Just Roarke, as far as I know. Big money there. Kind of guy that touches shit and turns it into gold bricks. You've got to start reading more than the sports page, Dallas."
    "Hey, I read the headlines. Did you hear about the cocker spaniel recall?"
    "Roarke's always big news," Feeney said patiently. "He's got one of the finest art collections in the world. Arts and antiques," he continued, noting when Eve clicked in and turned to him. "He's a licensed gun collector. Rumor is he knows how to use them."
    "I'll pay him a visit."
    "You'll be lucky to get within a mile of him."
    "I'm feeling lucky." Eve crossed over to the body to slip her hands under the sheets.
    "The man's got powerful friends, Dallas. You can't afford to so much as whisper he's linked to this until you've got something solid."
    "Feeney, you know it's a mistake to tell me that." But even as she started to smile, her fingers brushed something between cold flesh and bloody sheets. "There's something under her." Carefully, Eve lifted the shoulder, eased her fingers over.
    "Paper," she murmured. "Sealed." With her protected thumb, she wiped at a smear of blood until she could read the protected sheet.
    ONE OF SIX
    "It looks hand printed," she said to Feeney and held it out. "Our boy's more than clever, more than arrogant. And he isn't finished."
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    Eve spent the rest of the day doing what would normally have been assigned to drones. She interviewed the victim's neighbors personally, recording statements, impressions.
    She managed to grab a quick sandwich from the same Glida-Grill she'd nearly smashed before, driving across town. After the night and the morning she'd put in, she could hardly blame the receptionist at Paradise for looking at her as though she'd recently scraped herself off the sidewalk.
    Waterfalls played musically among the flora in the reception area of the city's most exclusive salon. Tiny cups of real coffee and slim glasses of fizzling water or champagne were served to those lounging on the cushy chairs and settees. Headphones and discs of fashion magazines were complementary.
    The receptionist was magnificently breasted, a testament to the salon's figure sculpting techniques. She wore a snug, short outfit in the salon's trademark red, and an incredible coif of ebony hair coiled like snakes.
    Eve couldn't have been more delighted.
    "I'm sorry," the woman said in a carefully modulated voice as empty of expression as a computer. "We serve by appointment only."
    "That's okay." Eve smiled and was almost sorry to puncture the disdain. Almost. "This ought to get me one." She offered her badge. "Who works on Sharon DeBlass?"
    The receptionist's horrified eyes darted toward the waiting area. "Our clients' needs are strictly confidential."
    "I bet." Enjoying herself, Eve leaned companionably on the