In Death 07 - Holiday in Death

one of a kind -- commissioned. They're checking records now, but the clerk said she thought she remembered the customer coming in personally to pick it up. They've got security cameras."
    "Meet me there. I'm on my way."
    "Lieutenant?"
    She glanced over and into the hollow eyes of Jerry Vandoren. "Jerry, what are you doing here?"
    "I heard about the press conference. I wanted..." He lifted his hands, then helplessly let them fall. "I wanted to hear what you had to say. I listened. I want to thank you..."
    He trailed off again, looking around as if he'd turned a corner and found himself on another planet.
    "Jerry." She took his arm, guiding him away before the reporters scented fresh meat and pounced on him. "You should go home."
    "I can't sleep. I can't eat. I dream about her every night. Marianna's not dead when I dream about her." He drew in a shuddering breath. "Then I wake up, and she is. Everyone says I need grief counseling. I don't want to be counseled out of my grief. Lieutenant Dallas. I don't want to stop feeling what I feel for her."
    It was out of her element, she thought, this raw desperation that looked to her for an answer. But she couldn't turn away from it. "She wouldn't want you to go on hurting. She loved you too much for that."
    "But when I stop hurting, she'll really be gone." He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. "I wanted -- just to say I appreciated what you said out there. That you weren't going to let them turn this into a joke. I know you'll stop him." The plea swam in his eyes. "You will stop him, won't you?"
    "Yeah. I'm going to stop him. Come on." Gently, she led him toward a side exit. "Let's get you a cab. Where did you say your mother lived?"
    "My mother?"
    "Yeah. Go see your mother, Jerry. Go stay with her for a while."
    He blinked at the sunlight when they stepped outside. "It's almost Christmas."
    "Yeah." She signaled to a uniform leaning against his cruiser. A better bet, she decided, than a cab. "You go spend Christmas with your family, Jerry. Marianna would want you to."
    Eve had to put Jerry Vandoren and his grief out of her mind and focus on the next step. After fighting through traffic, she parked illegally in front of the jewelry store, switched her On Duty sign to active, then bulled her way through the crowd jamming the sidewalk.
    Eve imagined it was the kind of place where Roarke might breeze in, have a glitter catch his eye, and drop a few hundred thousand.
    The shop was all pink and gold, like the inside of a seashell. Music, the quiet, deep sort that made her think of churches, hummed in the rarified air.
    The flowers were fresh, the carpet thick, the guard at the door discreetly armed.
    Because he gave her jacket and boots a sneer of disdain, she badged him. It gave her a petty pull of satisfaction to see the sneer vanish.
    She breezed by him, her battered boots silent on the shell-pink carpet. A quick scan showed her a woman wrapped in miles of mink seated on a thickly padded chaise, debating over diamonds or rubies; a tall man with silvered hair with a topcoat folded neatly over his arm, perusing gold wrist units; two more guards; and a giggling blonde being treated to a shopping spree by a pouchy man old enough to be her grandfather. He obviously had more money than sense.
    She tagged the security cameras, little pinhole lenses tucked in the carved molding that framed a coffered ceiling. A fluid spiral of stairs arched to the right. Or if madam was too weary from carting around pounds of gold and stones, she was welcome to use the shining brass elevator.
    Only the weight of the diamond between her breasts prevented Eve from a sneer of her own. It was faintly embarrassing to know that Roarke could buy everything in the place, and the building it was housed in.
    She approached a beveled glass counter where bracelets studded with colored gems were artfully draped, and sized up the clerk behind the counter. He didn't appear particularly thrilled to see her. He was as polished as his wares, but his mouth was pinched, his eyes bored, and his voice, when he spoke, dripped with sarcasm.
    "May I help you, madam?"
    "Yeah, I need the manager."
    He sniffed, inclining his head so that the lights gleamed on his gilt hair. "Is there a problem?"
    "That depends on how quickly you get me the manager."
    Now his mouth drew in as if something not quite fresh had landed on his tongue. "One moment. And please, don't touch the display case. It's just been cleaned."
    Little bastard,