“I figure, if you’ve got a horn, why wouldn’t you toot it, so that one never makes sense to me.”

“His horn-tooting helped bring in more donations, which translated to a very, very nice lifestyle for Jenkins and family. Multiple homes,” he continued, “luxury vehicles, considerable staff, art, jewelry. In addition, they’re all-including the minor children-on the church payroll. Perfectly legal as they perform or have specific duties and job descriptions. And the church pays very well.”

“So no recent downswings.”

“On the contrary, this tour has sold out in every venue, and has generated a solid increase in donations.”

“Money’s not the motive. Doesn’t play out. Sure, they might get a big spike due to the publicity around his death, the nature thereof. The fact that-sweet, leap-frogging Christ-that death was on air live on a gazillion screens on and off planet. But he’s the image.”

She gestured toward the life-sized billboard as they walked to the car. “He’s the draw. He’s the guy. Why kill the guy who’s providing that really nice lifestyle? Could be the sex, could be professional or personal jealousy. Could be I’ve got a killer who has a boner against religion and wants to kill preachers.”

“I like the sex,” Roarke said, silkily. “For so many reasons.”

“I’m betting Jimmy Jay shared your view.” She gave him the address of the home where the Jenkins family was staying. “Drive by, will you? Then head to the Mark.”

“Where do you suspect he was having that sex?”

“If a guy’s going to diddle on the side, with the least risk factor, he hires an LC. But if the guy preaches against legalized prostitution, he’s not going to take a chance of getting caught paying for a bj or a bang. So, for the extra serving, you’d go to someone you can keep close and trust-and that nobody would blink about you spending time with.”

“Still risky. But the risk might have been part of the appeal.”

Eve shook her head. “Doesn’t strike me as being a risk-taker. More, I think, that he considered himself shielded. Like with the financials. He took steps, he took care. His daughter, most usually, spiked his stage water. Keep it in the family-or close enough with his decades-long manager, his trusted bodyguard. That was his habit-that vodka-but his wife didn’t know. She wasn’t pretending not to know, she didn’t. He gets away with that, why not a little magic on the side?”

“I’m sure Mira would have more lofty terms,” Roarke said after a moment. “But the pathology you outline is clear enough, and logical. There’s your address.”

She studied the town house on Park. “Nice. Roomy. Posh. Private digs for the family, top-drawer security. He took a walk today. A habitual thing, according to the youngest daughter. Ditch the bodyguard, go out for a walk. To meditate, get the energy up. I’m betting he walked as far as the corner here, hailed a cab.”

“And rode to the Mark.” Roarke made the turn to take them to Madison. “Not much traffic this time of night. There’d have been more during the day.”

“Maybe take him twice as long as it’ll take us now. He could’ve walked it in nearly the same amount of time as driving through afternoon traffic. But the six or seven blocks? Too much exposure. Too many people might recognize him. New Yorkers are used to seeing famous faces, and most would rather eat cat shit than react. But see, we’re passing a lot of shops now, restaurants.”

“Where the tourists would flock.”

“And they’re not generally so blasé. So, grab a cab and you’re there in…” Eve glanced at her wrist unit when Roarke slid to the curb in front of the Mark. “Double the time, make it ten minutes. Probably more like eight.” She held her badge up as the doorman whisked over to the car. “I need to leave the vehicle here.”

The doorman hissed through his teeth. “Well, ya mind pulling down some? We get a lot of pickups, drop-offs for another couple hours.”

“Sure.” When Roarke pulled down a length or two, she got out on the sidewalk and studied the hotel as she waited for him. “You don’t own this, do you?”

“I don’t, no, but I can arrange that. If it would help.”

“I think I can muddle through without that. Why don’t you own it?”

“Despite your routine claims, I don’t actually own everything. And this?”

He tucked his hands in his pockets, studied the building as she did. “The location’s good, but the architecture doesn’t appeal to me. That Post-Urban War utility feel combined with the dignified to the point of boring. It’s not nearly old enough to warrant the sort of face-lift I’d want to give it. And there’s the interior, which I’d need to rehab and reconfigure to suit my own vision. Generally, it runs at only fifty-percent capacity. It’s overpriced for its ambiance and its service, and lacks a restaurant of any note.”

She rocked back on her heels. “And here I just thought the building was kind of ugly.”

“Well, that’s the short answer.”

“You thought about buying it.”

“No. I looked into it. I look into things, darling, which is one of the many things we have in common. I assume you’re here to look into something and we’re not just standing on the sidewalk at half-two in the morning to take in the air and study unattractive architecture.”

“They’ll be coming along pretty soon. They’ll come straight back after the night they’ve had, go to their rooms. Or to each other’s rooms for comfort, for a rehash. But she won’t. She’ll want to be alone.”

“The side dish.”

“Yeah. My money’s on the blond singer.”

“They were all blondes.”

“Yeah, they were. The blond singer with the biggest rack.”

“As not all men go for large breasts-as I can attest-I’ll also assume you’re basing your money on the replay, and the large-breasted blonde who fell to her knees to weep.”

She poked a finger at his shoulder. “You watched the replay.”

“Looking into things.”

“And your take?”

He lifted her hand to his lips. “I wouldn’t bet against you.”

Eve turned as a limo glided to the curb behind her police issue. She watched people come out. A man, a woman, another couple, another man, then the singing quartet. They clumped together like a puffy blue ball, and rolled into the hotel.

“We’ll give them a couple minutes, let them get to their rooms. Could wait to do this in the morning,” she said, half to herself, “but she might be easier to open now, and in her room. Away from the venue, from everyone else.”

“And if she admits to being his lover, what does it tell you?”

“I don’t know. It depends. One angle leads to another. It could be motive. She wanted more; he wouldn’t give it. Or there’s a jealous boyfriend, or former lover. Or… I’ve got some others cooking. Okay. Let’s go intimidate the night clerk. No bribing,” she added. “It takes the fun out of it.”

She went in, strode across the lobby with its boring gray floors and unfortunate floral upholstery. She had her swagger on, Roarke noted. It never failed to entertain him.

She slapped her badge on the counter where a droid in a severe black suit manned the front desk.

“Good evening,” he said, and Roarke wondered whose idea it had been to program the droid with such a pussified Brit accent. “Welcome to the Mark.”

“Ulla Pintz. I need her room number.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to divulge the room numbers of our guests. Ordinarily, I’d be happy to ring the guest room for you, and obtain that permission, but Ms. Pintz just came in, and requested a Do Not Disturb. There’s been a terrible tragedy.”

“Yeah. Dead guy. I’m a cop.” She lifted her badge, wagged it in front of his face. “Guess why I’m here.”

He only stared blankly, which Eve admitted was the trouble with service droids. They didn’t usually get sarcasm or subtlety.

“Let’s put this in short sentences,” Eve decided. “Ms. Pintz is a witness to said terrible tragedy. I’m the primary investigator of same. Give me her room number, or I haul all your circuits down to Central, where we’ll get a warrant to shut you down due to obstruction of justice.”