Page 32 of Festive in Death

“This is way, way out of hand.” She poured more wine. “It’s completely out of hand.” In her shock, she ate the leafy green stuff. “You’ve got her coming over here, don’t you, to jump all over my hair, face and body before the party?”

“It’s the price you pay, darling Eve, for hosting what many consider an important holiday event.”

“I’m finding those chemi-heads,” she muttered. “I’m going out and hunting out a couple of Zeused-up chemi-heads.”

“Won’t that be fun? Would you like me to check your asshole vic’s financials? See if he had any more tucked away.”

“I don’t think he did, but it wouldn’t hurt if you’ve got time for it.”

She looked back toward the board. “If he wanted to trade sex for money, why not get a license? Potentially, he could’ve made more, and made it legit.”

“Some, including you, still see licensed companions as prostitutes.”

“Well, sex for money.”

Roarke shook his head, offered her a roll. “Licensed, regulated, taxed, safe. People pay for therapy, for physical training,” he added, nodding at the board. “For spiritual guidance, and so on and so on. People pay for all manner of basic needs, and others train to provide those needs. Sex is a basic need.”

“It’s legal so I’ve got no beef with it. But you’ve got a point.” She considered her board while she ate. “He didn’t see it as a business transaction—or didn’t want to. Didn’t want to see himself as selling a service. He was doing them a favor, allowing them to bask in the wonder of his looks, his body, his skill. The money, the money he justified as it allowed him to keep up his looks.”

She sipped at her wine. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It starts off for fun, for the conquest—and you get to have sex in a nice hotel suite maybe, have some champagne, a good meal—maybe she buys you a token or two. She had a good time, didn’t she? Then maybe you decide to work it so she understands a little token or some under-the-table cash would really be appreciated. You gave her a good time, she gives you a little bonus. What’s the harm? You’re not selling yourself; she’s just showing her gratitude. Just a friend, just a client, giving you something extra because you gave her something extra.”

“It sounds like you’re getting to know him.”

“Maybe. The one I talked to today, the one I think he roofied? He charged her two grand for an in-home massage—that was always going to be sex for him. So he could call it a massage, a service, something special for a client, and he could set a rate. I bet he’s done a lot of in-homes recently. Massages, personal training. A couple, three thousand a shot. It adds up. Add in the pillow talk, and yeah, you could work some blackmail into it. Fucker.”

“But he’s your dead fucker.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

•••

So she gave Ziegler her time, her attention, the best she had.

She wrote up her notes, put together a progress report, including all the interviews conducted.

She created a chart listing the clients who had so far admitted to having any kind of sexual relationship with Ziegler, and how much each had admitted to paying in cash, gifts, hotel expenses.

Beside each name she added marital status, or cohab status, added how many of those husbands, cohabs, were also on Ziegler’s client list.

She ran each one, digging in for any instance of violent behavior or criminal offenses.

She cross-checked with the names Trina had provided, did a pass on coworkers.

And considered.

When Roarke walked in, she had her feet up on the desk. “Another angle,” she began.

“It’s not the financial one. Unless he’s a great deal more clever than I give him credit for, he doesn’t have any accounts other than what you have on record.”

“Didn’t figure on it, but it’s good to have an expert opinion on it. A competitor. I’ve been narrowly focused on clients and sex. But he was bashed with a trophy. He gets and keeps a lot of wealthy female clients not only because—by all accounts—he’s good at his work, but because he offers them some hard-bodied sex. He makes solid commissions, the extra from sex, and he gets recognition. The trophy—I checked—also comes with a cash prize of a grand. He’s won the last three years running, and was favored to win this year. But instead of going to AC for the conference, and campaigning for the competition, he’s in the morgue.”

“You think another trainer killed him for a thousand dollars and a trophy?”

“Prestige, potentially more clients, bragging rights. He didn’t have friends at Buff Bodies. I bet he didn’t have any at other centers, either. Somebody he knew—it was a face-to-face, close-in attack. So, yeah, maybe a competitor, an associate, a peer who’d had enough of him.”

“An associate,” Roarke repeated, “a competitor or a peer. You could add the sex in—because you can never have too much of it—and speculate that this competitor was also used for sex, or cheated on.”

“That’s a good one. That’s a thought. I’d say Peabody and I are going back to the gym tomorrow.”

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