“She didn’t leave a full pint on the sheets,” Eve continued as the light changed. “I don’t care how hungry some pseudovampire is, no way he’s going to guzzle down more than eight pints of blood in a sitting.”

“Right. Right. Well, then what…”

“He took it with him.”

“I have to say eeuuw.”

“Bottled it up, bagged it up. Maybe he sells it, maybe he stores it, maybe he takes a fucking bath in it. But he came prepped for it.” She turned into the garage at Central. “So we work that. What’s a guy do with several pints of human blood? Let’s see if there’s a call for it on the black market. And we have the list and description of the jewelry missing from the scene. We’ve got the club.”

She pulled into her slot, climbed out. “We’ll see what the sweepers got for us, see if the lab can pull DNA. We’ll check like crimes, see if we got anything like this before.”

Once inside the elevator, Eve leaned back. The car smelled like cop-coffee and sweat. “Somebody saw her with this guy. She hooked up with him at the club, and somebody saw them together. She goes for thrills, gets drawn in. Starts letting him into her place, fun and games. The way it looks, he could’ve killed her any time he wanted, robbed her freaking blind. But he waited, and he only took what she either had on or had out.

“He’s picky, and he likes the ritual, likes the seduction.”

Eve stepped off the car to switch to the glides before the elevator got crowded. “Go ahead and write up what we’ve got, keep looking for a name to go with the club. I’m going to try to get a session in with Mira, get a better idea of what we’ll be dealing with when we take ourselves a Bloodbath.”

“I’ll bring the rubber ducky.”

Eve peeled off in the bullpen, headed for her office. As she expected, her ’link was loaded with calls from the media. A paparazzi darling ends up dead, it’s a ratings bonanza, she thought, and ruthlessly forwarded all of the calls to the media liaison.

She tried for Mira first and ran headfirst into Mira’s admin-the guardian at the doctor’s gate. “Okay, okay. Jesus. Just tell her I’d like five whenever she can spare it. Here, there, in adjoining stalls in the john. Just five.”

Eve disconnected, got coffee from her AutoChef. She set up her murder board, wrote up her notes, studied the time line.

Walked right in, that’s what he did. She practically showered his path with rose petals. More money than brains.

Did he mark her first, or was it just chance she walked into the club one night? A recognizable face that liked to dance on the wild side. Known more for her exploits than her smarts.

A pathetically easy mark.

But if it had been just for the score, why kill her at all, much less in the chosen method? Because the score was secondary, she decided. The killing was the prize.

Eve glanced toward her tiny window, into the light of a sunny spring day, and calculated the time until sundown.

Thinking of that, she winced, engaged her ’link again. She wasn’t just a cop, she reminded herself, but a wife. There were rules in both jobs.

She tried Roarke’s private line, intending to leave a voice mail telling him she’d be late, see you when, but he picked up on the first beep. And that face, the heat-in-the-belly sexuality of that face, filled her view screen.

Dark hair framed it. Eyes of wild Irish blue gave her heart just a quick flutter that even after two years of having them look at her, just that way, was a surprise. Those perfectly sculpted lips curved as he said, “Lieutenant,” with the wisp of his homeland in the word.

“How come you’re not busy buying Australia?”

“I’m just between buying continents at the moment. I believe Asia ’s up next. And how are you?”

“Okay. I know we had sort of a thing on for tonight-”

“Dinner, I believe it was, followed by naked poker.”

“That was strip poker, as I recall.”

“You’d be naked soon enough. But I’m thinking that competition’s been postponed. You have Tiara Kent, I take it.”

“Heard about her already?”

“Multimillionaire bad girl murdered in her luxury penthouse?” His eyebrows lifted. “Word travels. How did she die?”

“Vampire bite.”

“That again?” he said and made her laugh.

“She was into some kind of vampire cult crap, and it came back to, well, bite her. I’ve got to check out this club where she likely met her killer. It doesn’t open until sunset, so I’m going to run late.”

“Almost as interesting as naked poker. I’ll meet you at Central by six. Darling Eve,” he continued before she could speak, “you can’t expect me to pass up the opportunity to accompany my wife into the den of the undead.”

She considered a moment. He’d be useful; he always was. And another pair of eyes, another set of reflexes would come in handy underground.

“Don’t be late.”

“I’ll leave in plenty of time. Should I pick up some garlic and crosses on the way?”

“I think Peabody ’s on that. Later,” she said, and clicked off.

While she was at her desk, she contacted the lab to give them a not-so-gentle push, then began to research vampire lore. She broke off when Peabody poked her head in.

“Did you know there are dozens of websites on vampirism, and any number of them have instructions on how to drink from a victim?”

Peabody cocked her head. “This surprises you because?”

“I know I say people suck, but I didn’t mean it literally. And it’s not just kids in their I’m-so-bored twenties into this.”

“I’ve got a couple of names we might want to look at, but meanwhile, Tiara Kent ’s mother just came in. I had one of the uniforms take her to the lounge.”

“Okay, I’ll take her, you keep digging.” Eve pushed back from her desk. “Roarke’s going to tag along tonight.”

“Yeah?” Relief showed on Peabody ’s face before she controlled it. “It doesn’t hurt to have more of us when we head down.”

“He’s an observer,” Eve reminded her. “I’m waiting for a callback from Mira. That comes through, tag me.”

Eve made Iris Francine the minute she stepped into the lounge with its lines of vending machines and little tables, and chairs designed to numb the ass after a five-minute sit-down.

Her daughter had favored her, taking the blonde hair, the green eyes, the delicate bone structure from her mother.

Iris sat with her hand clutched by a man Eve imagined was husband number four, Georgio Francine. Younger than his wife by a few years, Eve judged, and dark and sultry where she was light and elegant.

But they sat like a unit-she recognized that. Like two parts of a whole.

“Ms. Francine, I’m Lieutenant Dallas.”

Iris’s eyes looked exhausted as they lifted to Eve’s, a combination Eve also recognized as grief, guilt, and simple fatigue.

“You’re the one in charge of…in charge of what happened to Tiara.”

“That’s right.” Eve pulled up a chair. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. Will I be able to see her?”

“I’ll arrange that for you.”

“Can you tell me how she…what happened to her?” Iris’s breath hitched, and she took two slow ones to smooth it out. “They won’t tell me anything really. It’s worse not knowing.”

“She was killed last night, in her apartment. We believe she knew her killer, and let him in herself. Some pieces of her jewelry are missing.”

“Was she raped?”

They would always ask, Eve knew. For a daughter, they would always ask, and with their eyes pleading for the answer to be no. “She’d had sexual relations, but we don’t believe there was rape.”

“An accident?” There was another plea in Iris’s voice now, as if death wouldn’t be as horrible somehow if it were accidental. “Something that got out of hand?”

“No, I’m sorry. We don’t believe it was an accident. What do you know about your daughter’s activities recently, her companions? The men in her life?”

“Next to nothing.” Iris closed her eyes. “We didn’t communicate much, or often. I wasn’t a good mother.”