In Death 25 - Creation in Death

someone else.
    It always happened to someone else.
    Until now.
    She dragged in her breath, let it out in a scream. She screamed for help until her lungs burned and her throat felt scorched. Then she screamed some more.
    Someone had to hear, someone had to come.
    But when someone heard, when someone came, fear choked off her screams like a throttling hand.
    “Ah, you’re awake,” he said, and smiled at her.
     
    E ve input the names on the list Roarke had generated of season ticket holders. Her first search requested highlighting males between sixty and eighty years of age.
    She’d expand that, if necessary, she thought. He may have created a bogus company for this particular purpose, or any type of persona.
    No guarantee he sprang for season tickets, she mused. He could cherry pick the performances that appealed to him rather than just blanket the whole season.
    When the amended list came up, she followed through with a standard run on each name.
    She was over three-quarters through when she zeroed in.
    “There you are,” she murmured. “There you are, you bastard. Stewart E. Pierpont this time? ‘E’ for some form of Edward. Who’s Edward to you?”
    His hair was salt-and-pepper in the ID photo, worn in a long, dramatic mane. He claimed to be a British citizen, with residences in London, New York, and Monte Carlo. And a widower this time around, Eve noted. That was new.
    The deceased wife was listed as Carmen DeWinter, also British, who died at the age of thirty-two.
    Eve narrowed her eyes at the date of death. “Urban War era. Maybe you got too damn clever this time, Eddie.”
    She did a run on DeWinter, Carmen, but found none who matched the data given on the Pierpont ID. “Okay, okay. But there was a woman, wasn’t there? She died, was killed, or hey, you took her out yourself. But she existed.”
    She went back to Pierpont, checked the listed addresses. An opera house in Monte Carlo, a concert hall in London, and Carnegie Hall in New York.
    Sticks with his pattern, she thought. But the season tickets were either delivered somewhere, or were picked up.
    She grabbed what she had, hustled to the war room, and Roarke’s station. “Who do you know at the Metropolitan Opera, and how much grease can you use to clear the way for me?”
    “I know a few people. What do you need?”
    “Anything and everything on him.” She tossed down the printout on Pierpont. “That’s him, season-ticket-holder style. Nice call on that, by the way.”
    “We do what we can.”
    “Do more. There isn’t time for bureaucracy and red tape. I want a clear path to whoever can give me the juice on this guy.”
    “Give me five minutes,” he said, and pulled out his personal ’link.
    She stepped away to give him room as her own ’link signaled. “Dallas.”
    “Might have something,” Baxter announced. “On the rings. We’ve been working it, and I think we’ve nailed where he bought them. Tiffany’s—gotta go with the classic.”
    “I thought we checked there before.”
    “Did, nobody remembered, no rings of that specific style carried. We decided to give it another push. Classic style, classic store. And while they’re not flashy, they are sterling. We’re trolling the clerks, batting zero, then this woman overhears. A customer. She remembers being in there right before Christmas and noticing this guy buying four sterling bands. Commented on it, and the guy gives her a line about his four granddaughters. She thought it was charming, so she remembers it. Turns out, when we get the manager to dig a little, they carried a limited supply of that style late last year.”
    “Record of the sale.”
    “Cash, four sterling accent bands, purchased December eighteenth. The wit’s a peach, Dallas. Said she ‘engaged him in conversation.’ I get the feeling she was trying to hit on him, and she said she complimented him on his scent, asked what it was. Alimar Botanicals.”
    “Trina’s got a damn good nose. That’s one of her picks.”
    “Better yet, he mentioned he’d first discovered it in Paris, and had been pleased to find it was carried here in New York, in a spa boutique on Madison, with a downtown branch. Place called Bliss. He scoped Trina in the downtown salon.”
    “Yeah, that’s the spot. See if your wit will work with Yancy.”
    “Already asked and answered. She’d be, quote, ‘tickled pink.’ A peach, Dallas, with eyes like a hawk. She saw a photo in his wallet when he took out the cash. She