Page 40 of Passions in Death
“You won’t meet Erin Albright again. She’s in the morgue.”
The towel paused in its dabbing. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Erin Albright was murdered last night, at the Down and Dirty.”
“But that’s—that’s shocking. That’s horrible.” He tossed the towel in a wicker basket. “No, just no, the energy was joy, not violence. I have some sensitivity, and I’m sure I would’ve felt something so dark.”
“Looks like you missed it. What time did you leave the club?”
“I’m not sure, but before midnight. Maybe eleven-forty-five, around. When did this horrible thing happen?”
“Why don’t you tell me where you went, what you did after leaving the club?”
“Of course, if that’s helpful. As I said, I enjoyed connecting with the women in the group, but— May I be frank?”
“You can be whoever you want if you answer the questions.”
That little sarcasm slid right over his golden head. “A stop at the Down and Dirty usually results in a more intimate connection.”
“You go to pick someone out to have sex.”
“An intimacy of the moment,” he corrected. “I like women. I like sex. I like sex with women, and that intimacy of the moment. Life is for living.”
“Until you’re murdered.”
“Exactly. No, I mean, it’s horrible, but that’s my point. Live full while you can.”
He looked blank a moment. “Where was I going with this? Oh yes, while I felt the possibility of a more intimate connection with some of the women in that group, the night was not the night for it. They were a group, they were celebrating. And while I feel marriage is a societal construct designed to restrict our natural freedom, they had joy. I took some contacts for a later connection, and left them to their joy.”
“And what did you do, Wade, after that?”
“As I was still in the mood for the intimacy of the moment, I walked to Tango. It’s not as raw and real as the Down and Dirty, but a little more polished, you could say. I felt a pull toward a lonely, lovely brunette, and bought her a drink. A Zombie. We talked—she’d had a recent bad breakup. We went back to her place and had that intimacy of the moment. Twice.”
He smiled then. “She no longer felt lonely when I left—about two-thirty this morning.”
“Did you get a name?”
“Of course.” He actually looked insulted. “Daralee—isn’t that charming? She moved to New York six years ago from Decatur, Georgia. Her accent was delightful.”
“Last name?”
“We didn’t find last names necessary, but I can give you her address and her ’link number.”
“That’ll work.”
He held up a finger, crossed over to a small gym bag, and took out his ’link. “Here we are,” he said, and read off the data.
“Okay. When you were at the Down and Dirty, did you notice anything that seemed off? Anyone who wasn’t full of joy?”
“No. As I said, I have some sensitivity. I’m not a full sensitive, but I do have just a touch extra. I’m sure I would have noticed that. As right now, I feel this darkness inside.”
He focused on her, eyes full of warmth, sympathy, understanding.
“You have such a demanding, stress-filled job where the dark lives. I offer private meditation practices. I’d love to work with you, give you some peace.”
“Thanks. I have my own methods of working off stress.”
A touch of humor now, and the sexy oozing through as he laid a hand on her arm. “I could help with that, too.” He gave her biceps a quick squeeze, and his eyebrows lifted. “Slim as a willow, but muscles like stone. That’s surprising.”
