In Death 17 - Imitation in Death

of more conservative outfits Eve imagined she'd used for off-hours.
     
     
She found a supply of over-the-counter meds, including a half bottle of Sober-Up and a full, unopened bottle as backup. Which made sense with the two bottles of vodka and the bottle of home-brew in the kitchen.
     
     
She turned up no illegals, which caused her to assume Jacie had switched from chemicals to alcohol.
     
     
She opened the desk 'link and replayed the transmissions received and sent over the last three days. One to her counselor to request an upgrade in her license, one received and not answered or yet returned from the landlord regarding overdue rent, another made to an uptown body sculptor requesting rates.
     
     
No chats with pals, Eve mused.
     
     
She scrolled through, located the financials, and found Jacie's bookkeeping spare and efficient. Paid attention to her money,
     
     
Eve mused, did the job, banked the pay, and pumped most of it back into the business. Expenses were high for wardrobe, body treatments, hair and face work.
     
     
Used to looking good, Eve decided. Wanted to keep looking good. Self-esteem wrapped, around appearance, which was wrapped around sexual appeal, which was wrapped around selling yourself for enough money to maintain appearance.
     
     
A strange and sad cycle, in her opinion.
     
     
"She made a nice nest for herself in a very ugly. tree," Eve commented. "I've got no transmissions or any correspondence from anyone named Jack, or any one guy in particular for that matter. No marriage or cohabitation on record?"
     
     
"No, sir."
     
     
"We'll talk to her counselor, see if there's anybody she was close to, or had been close to. But I don't think we'll find him there."
     
     
"Dallas, it seems to me, what he did to her... it seems to me that it. was personal."
     
     
"Does, doesn't it?" She turned around, looked at the room again. Neat, girlie, with a desperate attempt at style. "I think it was very personal, but not specific to the victim. He killed a woman, and a woman who made her living from selling her body. That's the personal part. You not only kill her, but you hack :out the part of her that made that living. It's not hard to find a street LC in this area any tune of the night. You just have to choose your time and place. A sample of his work," she murmured. "That's all she was."
     
     
She walked to the window and, narrowing her eyes, visualized the street, the alley, the building just out of view. "He might have known her, or have seek her. Just as possible it was chance. But he was ready if chance presented itself. He had the weapon, he had the note written and sealed, and something---a case, a bag, a satchel, something to carry fresh clothes, or to store whatever he was wearing: He'd've been covered with her blood.
     
     
"She goes in the alley with him," Eve continued. "It's hot, it's late, business can't be very good. But here's a job, maybe one last job before she heads home. She's experienced, been in the life for two decades, but she doesn't make him as trouble. Maybe she's been drinking, or maybe he looked okay. And there's the fact that she's not used to street work, wouldn't have the instincts for it."
     
     
Too accustomed to the high life, Eve thought, to the sexual kinks of the wealthy and discreet. Coming down to Chinatown must've been like landing on Venus for her.
     
     
"She's up against the wall." Eve could see it, see it perfectly. The dark, spiked hair shimmering with silver, the come-on-big- boy red of the halter. "And she's thinking she needs the fee, to make the rent, or she hopes he hurries because her feet hurt Jesus, they had to be killing her in those shoes. She's tined, but she'll take one more mark before she calls it a night.
     
     
"When he slashes her throat, she's surprised more than anything. It had to be quick and clean. One quick slice, left to right, straight across the jugular. Sprayed blood like a son of a bitch. Her body's dead before her brain computes it. But that's only the beginning for him."
     
     
She turned back, scanned the dresser. Cheap jewelry, expensive lip dye. Perfumes, designer knockoffs, to remind you that you'd been able to bathe in the real thing once, and damn well would again.
     
     
"He arranges her, lays her out, then cuts the woman out of her. Had to have a bag somewhere to put what he's taken from her. He cleans his hands."
     
     
She could see him, too, the, shadow of him crouched in the filthy alley,