"I don't care what you think. It isn't a crime to prefer rich men," Rachel sat back comfortably in her chair. She isn't your average femme fatale Inspector Francis thought.
"It is a crime to kill them," Detective Lopinski said. The inspector was content to let John carry the ball for a while. She was pretty sure the interrogation wasn't going anywhere.
"You can't really think I killed Martin," Rachel said. "I'm sure the doctor told you that he died of natural causes."
"How natural it was is exactly what we want you to tell us," Francis added and then got up and poured herself a cup of coffee. She was sure she'd regret that decision. Stuff always tasted like sawdust and castor oil. The inspector nearly spat it out when she discovered it actually tasted like coffee.
"Isn't that great," Lopinski said. "It's that new desk seargeant, the gorgeous one. Insists on making it himself. Obviously a man of many talents."
"We were fucking, he died. What more can I tell you?" Rachel said. It seemed there wasn't going to be much chance of using any of her Basic Instinct tricks. Just her luck, a gay detective and a straight female inspector. Maybe this wasn't going to be such a cake walk.
"Lets start with why you were screwing a man in his eighties with a bad heart," Lopinski asked. He hated Rachel. She had what he wanted most money and men. So far he and Francis had interviewed six well hung young men who thought they were Rachel's piece on the side.
"Wow. A question with metaphysical implications. Simple answer, because he wanted to and for the record, his cardiologist had cleared him," Rachel responded.
"Not for the venus fly trap," Lopinski threw back at her.
"Actually John, that's the venus butterfly," Inspector Francis corrected gently.
"There is no such thing," Rachel said. "It's an urban myth." Maybe that's what I should call it, Rachel thought to herself. Venus Butterfly. Rolling it around on her tongue she decided she still liked vaginal suffocation better.
"But you would describe yourself as an expert on sex wouldn't you?" John asked.
Expert, professional, talented amateur, what's the difference Rachel thought.
"I meet men and I fuck them until they die," Rachel said.
"You murder them," John said.
"Not murder detective, I give them what they most want, a glorious send off."
"Sexual euthanasia," Inspector Francis said.
"Exactly," Rachel said. She realized then her opponent wasn't to be under estimated. Nobody had ever got there so quickly on so little evidence.
"Donald Martin was what, husband number nine?" Detective Lopinski asked.
"Yes, but only seven ended up dead," Rachel pointed out in her own defence.
"The once you left alive would be Jack Tonquin, he was husband number one. Twenty eight when you married, poorer than dirt. You divorced him. Then there was husband five, can't figure him out, Monty Backman, doctor, worked at a walk-in clinic, forty years old. He divorced you. Sited mental and emotional cruelty. Which means only the seven who were rich and old died while you were having sex with them," John said.
"So lets go back to the beginning, to husband number one," Inspector Francis said, finishing her coffee and sitting up alertly. "Tells us all about him."
