Sarabeth Greenbalm looked, in her opinion, damn good.
The problem was she was down to her last five hundred, the rent was due, and some over-eager bozo in the lunch crowd had ripped her best G-string before she could slither out of it.
She had a headache, her feet hurt, and she was still single.
She should never have plunked down the three thousand for Personally Yours. In retrospect what had seemed like a clever investment now appeared to be good money down the sewer. Losers used dating services, she thought as she tugged on a short purple robe. And losers attracted losers.
After meeting the first two men on her match list, she'd gone straight down to Fifth Avenue and asked for her money back. The blond ice queen hadn't been so friendly then, Sarabeth thought now. No refunds, no way, no how.
With a philosophical shrug, Sarabeth walked from the bedroom into the kitchen -- a short walk in an apartment barely bigger than the communal dressing room at the Sweet Spot.
The money was gone, a write-off. And a lesson had been learned: She had to depend on herself, and herself only.
The knock on her door interrupted her hopeful scan of the limited offerings of her AutoChef. Absently she tugged her robe closed, then beat a fist on the wall. The couple next door fought like cats and fucked like minks most every night. Her pounding wouldn't change the noise level by a decibel, but it made her feel better.
She turned one suspicious brown eye to the security peep, then grinned like a girl. Hurriedly she disengaged the locks and swung the door wide.
"Hey there, Santa."
His eyes twinkled merrily. "Merry Christmas, Sarabeth." He shook the big silver box he carried, then winked at her. "Have you been good?"
* * *
Captain Ryan Feeney sat on the end of Eve's desk and munched on candied almonds. He had the lived-in, vaguely morose face of a basset hound and a wiry thatch of russet hair sprinkled with thin, steely threads of silver. There was a rust-colored splotch on his rumpled shirt -- a memory of the bean soup he'd had for lunch -- and a small nick on his chin where he'd cut himself shaving that morning.
He looked harmless.
Eve would have gone through any door with him. And had.
He'd trained her, and taught her. Now as captain of the Electronic Detective Division, he was an invaluable resource to her.
"Wish I could tell you the bauble was a one of a kind." He popped another nut into his mouth. "Still there's only a dozen stores in the city that sell it."
"And how many do we have to trace?"
"Forty-nine of them were sold in the last seven weeks." He scratched his chin, worrying at the tiny scab. "The pin runs about five hundred. Forty-eight were credit deals, only one cash transaction."
"That would be him."
"More than likely." Feeney pulled out his memo book. "The cash deal was at Sal's Gold and Silver on Forty-ninth."
"I'll check it out, thanks."
"Nothing to it. Got anything else? McNab's willing and able."
"McNab?"
"He liked working with you. The boy's good and sharp and you could toss him any grunt work."
Eve considered the young detective with his colorful wardrobe, sharp mind, and smart mouth. "He gives Peabody the fish eye."
"You don't think Peabody can handle him?"
Eve frowned, tapped her fingers, shrugged. "Yeah, she's a big girl, and I could use him. I contacted the victim's ex-husband. He's relocated in Atlanta. His alibi for the period in question looks fairly solid, but it wouldn't hurt to look closer. See if he booked any travel to New York, made any calls to the victim."
"McNab can do that in his sleep."
"Tell him to stay awake and do it." She reached for a disc file, handed it over. "All the data I have on the ex is here. I'll be running the names of the matches from Personally Yours. I'll pass those to him after I've taken a look."