In Death 15 - Purity in Death

the blonde's waist. Beneath was a black lace waist cincher. Though the breasts that spilled over it were full and lush, Eve had no doubt they were just another part of the costume.
    The man dealt a couple of sharp slaps to the buttocks when his partner struggled.
    There was moaning now, breathy protests. The dress spilled to the floor.
    "Looks pretty good for a guy," Eve observed. The legs were slim, set off with thigh-high black hose, old-fashioned garters. Too much shoulder though, she mused, and the hands were too big. She could see the hint of an Adam's apple beneath the glittering choker.
    In her mind she erased the wig, the red lips, the heavily accented eyes, and tried to see beneath the female artifice. She knew that face.
    And when it filled the screen, flushed with excitement as the camera zoomed it, she heard the click.
    "Oh good God."
    "Did you make him? I'm not quite there yet. Give me another minute." But when the bare-chested man pushed his captive down to the knees, exposed himself, Roarke winced. "Never mind, as I'd soon skip this part. It doesn't - ah well."
    He blew out a breath as the face filled the screen again, another angle as the eyes, crystal blue, stared up-full of hunger.
    "Yes, indeed, I'd as soon skip watching his honor the mayor give leather boy a blow job."
    He turned away from the screen, caught Eve's chin in his hand. "That's why you're the cop, all right. You weren't wasting anyone's time. That'll teach me to doubt you."
    "I have to watch the rest of it."
    "Must you?"
    "I take this in tomorrow, I have to know what I'm dealing with. This isn't your average transvestite. This tosses Peachtree right into the middle of a sex scandal, and a major homicide investigation."
    "Then I'm getting another drink." He took her glass. "For both of us."
    ***
    "Smart," she said later. "Greene caters to a small clientele - rich with whacked whims. Out of that exclusive club, he handpicks a smaller group. A handful of people who've used his services, built a certain level of trust in him, who can't afford even a whiff of scandal. The payments are high, but none of them too high for these select few to afford. You got an even dozen paying out an average fee of twenty-five thousand a month, you rake in . . ."
    "An extra three million six annually. Nobody's squeezed so hard they'll pop, and you live in luxury."
    "And from what I can tell from his records, most he was blackmailing continued as clients."
    "The devil you know," Roarke decided. "Are you putting the mayor in Purity?"
    "I don't know. But I've sure got enough to ask him about it, don't I?"
    "You'll be putting your hand in the fire, Lieutenant."
    "Yeah, I got that, too." She pinched the bridge of her nose to relieve the pressure of a building headache. "Has to be on a need-to-know. Media gets a whiff of the scent, it's a disaster. Shit, I voted for the guy."
    "He might've gotten more votes yet if he'd campaigned in that little black dress. Very attractive." Roarke only grinned when she stared at him. "I'd say it's time for bed. We're tired."
    "You start talking about guys in black dresses looking pretty, you're more than tired, pal."
    "I said attractive," he corrected. "And I meant the dress. I wouldn't mind seeing you in one of those corsets, with spiked heels and little garters."
    "Yeah." She yawned as they rode to the bedroom. "You hold your breath on that one."
    She was in bed in five minutes, asleep in ten.
    When the dream started, she didn't know.
    A white room, washed with blood. She could see herself walking through it, her boots splashed with red as she stepped in grisly puddles.
    Even in sleep she could smell it.
    The girl was facedown on white carpet thick with red blood. Her arm was stretched out, fingers spread as if she reached for something.
    But nothing was there.
    The knife was there.
    In the dream she crouched down, picked up the knife by the hilt.
    She felt the slick warm wetness that ran from it onto her hand.
    When she looked, it wasn't the girl now, but a baby. Hardly more than a baby. Cut to pieces, curled up tight. Her eyes were like a doll's, staring.
    She remembered. She remembered. Such a little thing. So much blood for such a little body. And the man who'd done it, the father, mad on Zeus. The baby screaming, screaming, as Eve had charged up the stairs.
    Too late. She'd been too late to save the baby. Killed the father, but lost the child.
    She hadn't saved them, the baby, the girl. And their blood was on her