by J. D. Robb
“I don’t want a grief counselor.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I have a key for her apartment. You’ll want that.”
“Yeah.”
She waited while he went up the silver stairs, and paced around his living space until he came back with a key card. “Did she have one to this place?”
“Yes.”
“Change your codes.”
He drew a breath. “Yes, all right. I need you to keep me informed. I need to be involved in this.”
“I’ll keep you informed.”
“I need to be part of it. I need that.”
“Let me work on that. I’ll contact you. If you need to talk to me, I’m available for you twenty-four/seven. But I’ve got to get back to this, back to her.”
“Tell Ty . . . Tell him to play Eric Clapton for her. Any of the discs in my collection. She particularly liked his music.” He moved to the elevator, opened the grille.
“I wish sorry meant something. Peabody . . . she told me to tell you the same.” She stepped in, kept her eyes on his as the grille closed and until the doors shut.
On the drive back, she tagged Peabody. “Did the sweepers find the weapon?”
“That’s a negative.”
“Damn it. I’m heading back to the scene. Contact the morgue. Chief Medical Examiner Morris assigns ME Ty Clipper to this matter. He requests the ME play Eric Clapton during autopsy.”
“Oh, man. How is he? How—”
“He’s holding up. Make sure they understand these are Morris’s directives. I’m on my way back. You and I are going to go through her apartment, inch by inch.”
“I was about to start on that. I talked to Burnbaum and his kid. Nothing more there. The knock-on-doors hasn’t turned up anything. Security—”
“Fill me in when I get there. Ten minutes.”
She clicked off. She wanted silence. Just silence until the emotional knots loosened. She’d be no good to Amaryllis Coltraine if she let herself stay twisted up over the grief in a friend’s eyes.
At the apartment, she waited until the morgue team carried the body out. “She goes straight to ME Clipper,” Eve snapped. “She’s a cop. She gets priority.”
“We know who she is.” One of the team turned after the body was loaded in the wagon. “She’s not only a cop, she was Morris’s lady. We’ll take good care of her, Lieutenant.”
Satisfied, she went inside, took the stairs to Coltraine’s apartment. Using the key card Morris had given her, she found Peabody inside.
“It was hard,” Peabody said after one look. “It shows.”
“Then I’d better get over it. Security?”
“I took a quick scan. Nothing on the rear door. He had to come in that way, jam the camera. EDD’s on it. Front door cam ran the whole time. I’ve got her coming in about sixteen hundred, carrying a file bag—which is still here—and a take-out bag. She didn’t go out again, not by the front. Stairway has cams, and they were compromised. Both the rear and stairway cams shut down from about twenty-two thirty to about twenty-four hundred. Elevator has cams, and they ran through. She didn’t take the elevator. Neighbor confirms she used the stairs, habitually.”
“The killer had to know her, know her routine. Had to take her in the stairway.”
“I’ve got a team of sweepers in there now, going top to bottom.”
“Taking her that quick, that clean, the killer had to know she was going out. So either that was another habit, or he lured her out. We’ll check her transmissions, but if that’s how it went down, he used her pocket ’link, then took it with him. Someone she knew. A friend, an ex, one of her weasels, someone in the building or close by. Someone she’d let get the drop on her.”
Eve glanced around the apartment. “Impressions?”
“I don’t think she left under any kind of duress. Everything’s just too tidy for that, and that droid kitten?” When Peabody gestured, Eve frowned at the snoozing ball of fur. “I checked its readout. She set it to sleep mode at twenty-three eighteen. It doesn’t seem like something you’d do if you were in trouble.”
Eve studied the room as she wandered it. It had a female feel, a fussy woman’s order to it. “The killer contacts her, via her pocket ’link. Come out, meet me for a drink, or I had a terrible fight with my boyfriend, come over so I can boo-hoo all over you. No, no.” Eve shook her head, wandered into the small bedroom with its mountain of pillows on its neatly made bed. “She had her clutch piece. Most cops are going to carry a weapon, but I don’t see her strapping on a clutch to go have a drink.”
“One of her weasels. Meet me here, at such and such time. I got some good shit.”
“Yeah, yeah, that could work. We’ll talk to her boss, her partner, her unit, see what she was into. She could’ve been meeting another kind of source, or just meeting someone she didn’t completely trust. A little extra insurance with the clutch piece. And still he got the drop on her, took her down without a struggle.”
“She wouldn’t have been expecting to see him in her stairway. Her guard’s down, and that’s that.”
Eve said nothing. She needed to turn it over awhile, walk it through. “Let’s see what we can find here.”
They got to work, searching through drawers, in closets, through clothes, in pockets. The dead had no privacy, and Eve thought as a cop; Coltraine would have known and accepted that.
She found the goodie drawer in the bedside table—body oils, a few toys—and had to block the image that kept trying to lodge in her head of Morris and Coltraine rolling around naked on the bed.
“She liked pretty underwear,” Peabody commented as she went through other drawers. “All her stuff’s in the lingerie level. Sexy, girlie. She liked pretty things. The little bottles, the lamps, the pillows. Her drawers are neat and organized, nothing like mine. She doesn’t have a lot of stuff, you know. No clutter. And what’s here doesn’t match-match, but it all works together. It’s just a really pretty place, to keep dogging the same word.”
Eve stepped to a clever little corner table that held a compact data-and-communication system. In the single slim drawer she found a memo book. But when she tried to bring up data, it denied her access.
“She’s a cop. She’d’ve passcoded it,” Eve said. “We’ll want this tagged for EDD. I want in.”
She learned more about the victim on the search. Peabody was right, she’d liked pretty things. Not overly fussy and frilly, just female. But no clutter, not crowded, and everything in its place. The roses in the living area were real, and fresh.
She found a trinket box that held florist cards, all from Morris. He’d said they’d been exclusive for months. At least as far as flowers went, Eve thought, he was right.
That didn’t mean she hadn’t had something on the side. When a woman went out that time of night, it could be a booty call.
Yet, it just didn’t strike right. She’d seen Coltraine with Morris. She’d felt the zing between them.
“Secure building,” Eve said out loud. “A nice, compact apartment, droid pet. Nice furniture, nice clothes. Not a lot of either. She’s selective. Not much jewelry, but again, what she has is good quality.”
“Same with the hair products, the enhancers,” Peabody put in. “She knew what she liked, what worked for her, and stuck with it. Me, I’ve got a drawer full of cast-off lip dyes, eye gunk, hair crap. Perfume. One scent. There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge, vac-sealed, some health food, bottled water and juices. Two bottles of wine.”
“She’s got a lover, but lives alone. The men’s toiletry kit is probably Morris’s. We’ll check with him rather than sending it straight to the lab. The man’s shirt, boxers, socks, pants, they look like him. Not a lot of him in here, though. They probably spent more time at his place. It’s about four times as big as this, and the location’s prime for cafés, clubs, restaurants, galleries. How’d the killer know she was in last night? Stalking her? I should’ve asked Morris how often they were together, if they had a routine.”
/> “Dallas, you gave him a break. Gave him a little time. We’ll follow up.”
“The killer didn’t come in here. Too risky. Why chance being seen? No, no, he tagged her on her pocket ’link.”
“They could’ve set up a meet prior.”
“Why risk that? She might tell somebody—Morris, her partner, her boss. I’m meeting X tonight, and then we’d be talking to X instead of wondering who the hell he is. Morris was working, she’d have known that. So she’s not going to tag him at that hour and tell him she’s headed out for something. She just gets her stuff, turns off her cat, and goes. She knew her killer, or whoever set it up.
“Let’s get the sweepers in here, and have EDD pick up her electronics.” She checked her wrist unit. “We’ll go by the morgue before notifying next of kin.”
“I’ll do that. You told Morris,” Peabody added. “I’ll tell her family.”
“Okay. Then we’ll both talk to her partner, her squad, her boss.”
In the car, Peabody sat slumped in the seat, staring out the side window. “Dallas? I got this thing eating at me, and I just want to get it out.”
“You felt bitchy and resentful because she hooked up with Morris.”
“Yeah.” Peabody let out the word, like relief. “I didn’t even know her, hardly at all, and I let myself think, like, who the hell is she, sashaying—I even thought the word sashay, because she was from the South—in here and getting all smoochy with our Morris? Stupid, because I’m with McNab and never had a thing with Morris anyway, except the occasional perfectly permissible and healthy fantasy. But I decided I didn’t like her, just for that. And now she’s dead and I feel like crap about it.”
“I know. I’ve got the same thing going. Except for the fantasy part.”
“I guess that makes me feel a little better.” She scooted up again, studied Eve’s profile. “You really never had the teeniest fantasy about Morris?”
“No. Jeez.”
“Just a little one. Like you’d go to the morgue one night, and it’s strangely empty, so you go into the main cutting room and Morris is there. Naked.”
“No! Stop filling my head with that crap.” But oddly, some of the sick weight in Eve’s belly eased. “Don’t you and McNab bang often enough to keep you from having prurient fantasies about a colleague? In the freaking dead house?”
“I don’t know why. The morgue’s creepy, but Morris is severely sexy. McNab and I bang plenty. Just last night we—”
“I don’t want to hear about you and McNab banging.”
“You brought it up.”
“Which illustrates how your sick Morris fantasies screwed up my mental health.”
Peabody shrugged that off. “Did Morris put anybody on Coltraine, specifically?”
“Clipper.”
“Die-For-Ty? Talk about the sex. How come so many death doctors are wholly iced?”
“A mystery I’ve pondered throughout my career.”
“No, seriously. Clipper’s like ummm. He’s gay and has a partner, but a yummy treat for the eyes. His partner’s an artist. He paints people, literally I mean. Body painting. They’ve been together about six years.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“Unlike you, I enjoy hearing about people’s personal lives, especially when it involves sex.”
“At least since Clipper’s not into women, you won’t be troubled by sexual fantasies.”
Peabody pursed her lips in thought. “I can work with it. Two naked guys, body paints, me. Oh yeah, endless possibilities.”
Eve let Peabody have her moment. Easier, she knew, to think about crazy sex than the murder of another cop, than the grief of a colleague and friend.
The moment passed soon enough. Once they arrived at the morgue, started down the long white-tiled tunnel, the mood shifted. It wasn’t just death, it wasn’t just murder. Nipping and gnawing at objectivity were the keen teeth of personal loss.
They crossed paths with a tech who stopped, slid her hands into the pockets of her long, white coat. “Ah, Clipper’s using Morris’s suite. I don’t know if he—if Morris is going to check in or anything, so maybe when you talk to him you could tell him . . . We’re all here.”
“Okay.”
“Whatever we can do.” The tech shrugged helplessly, said, “Hell,” and strode away.
Eve moved on to the autopsy room where Morris habitually did his work. In his place stood ME Ty Clipper, a solid six feet with a muscular body clad in a pale blue shirt and khaki pants. He’d rolled up his sleeves neatly to the elbow, donned a clear cape.
He wore his hair in a close-cropped skullcap. A short, neat goatee added a hint of edge to his conservative attire, and interest to his angular face. But with Clipper it was all about the eyes. Huge, heavy-lidded, they were the color of crystallized amber and a jolt of contrast to his dark skin.
“I haven’t finished. I’m sorry.” His voice held a hint of his native Cuba.
“What can you tell me?”
“She wasn’t raped. There’s no evidence of sexual assault, or sexual activity. That would matter to Morris.”
“Yes, it will.” Like a murmur in the background a man sang a plea to someone named Layla. “Is that Eric Clapton?”
“Yes.”
“That’ll matter to him, too.” Eve set it aside, stepped forward.
Coltraine lay on the slab. “No defensive wounds.” Eve studied the body now as she would any piece of evidence. “No signs of violence other than the throat burns.”
“There are minor bruises on her shoulder blades, and the back of her head.” Clipper gestured to the comp screen, called up the scan. “Of the sort you’d incur by knocking back against a wall.”
“She was shoved, pushed.”
“Possibly. Death ensued soon after. The burns on the throat are consistent with a stunner pressed to the area. Contact burns. Have you found her weapon?”
“No.”
“Until you do, I can’t confirm it was the murder weapon, or if another was used. Only that the wounds are consistent with contact burns from a police-issue.”
“If her own weapon was used, how the hell did he disarm her? Shoves her back, she hits the wall. It’s not enough, not for a cop. There aren’t any cuts, no evidence of restraints.” Because he didn’t offer, as Morris would have, Eve picked up a pair of microgoggles herself, leaned over Coltraine to examine. “No abrasions on her wrists, her ankles. Here. Right here. On her biceps. Pressure syringe?”
“I believe so.”
“How did he get close enough to her, without her putting up a fight, to drug her?”
“I have the tox screen flagged priority. You’re right that there are no signs of violence outside the body. But there are, in.”
Eve glanced up at Clipper, then shifted to study what the precise Y-cut revealed. “What am I looking for?”
“Her internal organs show signs of distress.”
“Dying will do that.” But she followed him, looked closer. “She took a hit?”
“I need to complete more tests before I can be sure. I understand you want quick answers,” he added at Eve’s hiss of impatience. “But—”
She shook her head, willed herself to throttle back. “Morris wanted you because, I’d say, you’re thorough and you’re precise. Give me best guess. I won’t hold you to it.”
“A high-range stun, frontal assault. No more than three- to five-feet distance. A body shot.”
“Which would have taken her down, down and out. She takes a hit, it knocks her back against the wall—in the stairwell, and she goes down. He has to get her down to the basement. No signs she was dragged. So he has to carry her. Or there could have been more than one assailant. Carry her down. Why not just finish her off in the stairwell and be done with it?
“Because there was something they wanted, something to say, something they needed her to say, to tell them,” Eve continued. “So he/they cart her down, and they bring her back with a jolt—a hit of amphetam
ine, adrenaline.” Pain, Eve thought, they’d brought her back to pain. Helpless. Body paralyzed from the stun, mind aware. “To tell her something, to ask her something. And when they finished, they shut her down. She’d have known it was coming. When they pressed the stunner to her throat, she’d have known.”
She pulled off the goggles, tossed them aside. “They used her weapon. They used it to kill her because it’s more insulting, more demeaning. Ambushed her in the stairway, dropped her. Carried her down, jolted her back, took her out. In somewhere around twenty minutes. That’s quick. Took her weapon, ID, badge, ’link, jewelry. Why the jewelry? The rest makes sense. It’s professional, but the jewelry’s amatuer hour. So why? Just because you can? Just because you want? Souveniers, mementos?”