Page 3 of Passions in Death
Astonished in the best possible way, Erin watched her shimmy and shake. A couple others, inspired, climbed up to join in.
Erin checked the time and, pleased she’d estimated when the party would hit peak, sent a text, smiled at the response.
Then slipped away from the dance floor.
She’d planned this surprise, a winner, every detail, including that timing. Her accomplice would be waiting in the privacy room she’d rented.
She intended to make her bride’s every dream come true, starting now.
The love of her life’s dream? Hawaii.
She’d worked her ass off to sell enough paintings to afford the trip—something they’d started saving for, for later.
This time? Forget later. Now would shine.
She’d kept this secret for nearly three weeks—and that hadn’t been easy for her. But she’d let Shauna think they’d hold off on that dream honeymoon for a year, maybe two, as they’d agreed.
Even her trusted accomplice—actually, her backup accomplice—didn’t know. She’d just needed someone to smuggle in her overnight case holding the grass skirt, coconut bra, leis, and the crazy pink shoes that had started it all.
And those tickets to Maui.
Once she’d changed, she’d take the stage!
She headed toward the back. The privacy rooms weren’t a hot ticket on a Monday night—she knew from previous experience. Dimmer lights, soundproofed doors offered an option for those who wanted a quick round between drinks.
She didn’t regret that her days of those quick rounds had passed.
She’d already slipped her accomplice the swipe, so pressed the buzzer that would flicker the lights inside.
The door opened, and she entered the darkened room.
“Really appreciate this,” she said as she walked in, then turned to close the door so the privacy locks clicked behind her. “She doesn’t have a clue! Oh, she’s going to go crazy! I’m going to need more light to—”
Something thin and sharp circled her neck, cutting off her air. Blood dribbled down her throat as it broke through the skin.
She flailed, tried to scream, struggled to drag the wire away. When her head slammed against the door, she saw stars.
As the wire cut deeper, the stars went out.
The communicator woke her out of a dead sleep. Lieutenant Eve Dallas cursed it, then pushed up in bed as her husband ordered lights at ten percent.
She shoved a hand through her short, choppy brown hair, nudged at the fat cat on her other side. Galahad just rolled.
“Dallas.”
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Probable homicide. Nine-one-one caller requested you. Report to…
When she heard the address, Eve rolled over the cat and out of bed. “The Down and Dirty?”
Affirmative.
“Name of nine-one-one caller?”
Wilson Buckley, identified as the owner.
“I’m on my way, and will contact Detective Peabody. Dallas out.”
“I’m with you,” Roarke said, and had already pulled on jeans. “It’s Crack’s place. I’m with you.” After a look at her face as she sprinted to her closet, he added, “If it had been Rochelle, he’d have contacted you directly.”
