Indulgence in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “So someone had the code. You’d have that?”

  “Yes. As Mr. Sweet’s personal assistant I have Level Eight clearance. Only executives at Mr. Sweet’s level have higher.”

  “Why don’t you tell me where you were last night, between nine and midnight?”

  His lip curled. “As I said, I left the office—verified by our logs—at seven-thirty-eight. I walked home. That’s one block north, two and three-quarters blocks east. I arrived at approximately seven-fifty. My cohabitation partner is out of town on business. I spoke with her via ’link from eight-oh-five until eight-seventeen. I had dinner in, and remained in my apartment for the evening.”

  “Alone.”

  “Yes, alone. As I didn’t expect to be interrogated by the police this morning, I saw no reason to secure a proper alibi.” This time he managed to curl his lip and look down his nose simultaneously. “You’ll simply have to take my word for it.”

  Eve smiled. “Will I? How long have you worked here?”

  “I’ve been employed by Dudley and Son for eight years, the last three as Mr. Sweet’s PA.”

  “Ever use Gold Star?”

  “I have not. Nor am I acquainted in any way with the unfortunate Mr. Houston. My only concern in this incident is the fraudulent use of Mr. Sweet’s name, information, and credit data. This department provides the company with the very finest security in the corporate aegis.”

  “Think so? Funny, then, how a little thing like—alleged—identity theft slipped through.”

  It was small of her, no doubt, but she got some satisfaction at the sour look that put on his face.

  With the interviews done, she hooked up with Peabody to ride back down to street level.

  “The two I interviewed, Sweet’s head of security and the accountant, cooperated. The accountant’s alibi—birthday party for his mother, twelve people attending, hosted at his home with his wife from eight to eleven or so. Security guy’s a little spongier. He’s married, but his wife went out with friends for the evening, and he stayed in and watched the ball game. She didn’t get home until around midnight. He’s got home security that would log the comings and goings, but being as he’s in the business, he could probably tweak that. Thing is, he’s former military, decorated, solid record, married fourteen years, one kid— who’s in summer camp at this time. He’s worked for Dudley a dozen years. He really strikes me as straight up.”

  “What’s his military?”

  “Army, communications and security.”

  She squeezed into traffic. “The PA doesn’t have an alibi, and he’s a snot. Nearly went cross-eyed looking down his nose at me. It’s an arrogant crime, to my way of thinking. He’s an arrogant little bastard. So’s Sweet.”

  “Would either of them be stupid enough to use Sweet’s name and data?”

  “Or would either of them be smart enough to do just that because it comes off stupid?” Eve countered. “Something to think about. Let’s go see Jamal.”

  She didn’t expect any surprises in the morgue, but it was a task that required checking off. In any case, sessions with Morris, the ME, often served to confirm her basic theories or open up new ones.

  She found him at work, a protective cloak over his sharp suit. The midnight blue color rather than the severe black he’d worn since his lover’s murder told her he’d gone to the next phase of grief. For the first time since spring, he’d added a bright touch with a tie of strong, vibrant red. He’d braided his hair with a cord of the same color, drawing it back from his striking face.

  He worked to music, she noted, another good sign. A low and smoky female voice wafted through the cool, sterile air like a warm, perfumed breeze.

  Morris’s long, dark eyes met Eve’s, smiled.

  “How was your holiday?”

  “Pretty damn good. Found a body.”

  “They turn up everywhere. Anyone we know?”

  “Nope. A dumped-boyfriend bash. Locals handled it.”

  “And you’ve hit the ground running at home,” he observed. “How are you, Peabody?”

  “Excellent. Had some beach time. Didn’t find a body.”

  “Ah well, better luck next time.” He shifted his attention to the body on the steel table, opened by Morris’s careful and precise V-cut.

  “And here we have Jamal Houston, a man who kept in shape, tended his appearance. His hands are really quite beautiful. His scans show several old injuries. Breaks.”

  Morris brought the scans on-screen. “The right forearm, and the shoulder there—what I see is consistent with twisting. Ribs—two broken. Left wrist as well. All injuries would have been suffered during childhood and adolescence, while the bones were still forming.”

  “Abuse.”

  “I can only speculate, but that would be first on my list. Accident or injury wouldn’t cause this damage to the shoulder.”

  “Grab the arm, twist, pull,” Eve concluded.

  “Yes. Violently. As it didn’t heal properly, I doubt it was properly treated. And I expect it troubled him still from time to time, particularly in damp weather. None of these, of course, relate to cause of death. I believe the bolt through his neck gave you a clue on that.”

  “Yeah, it got me thinking.”

  “Otherwise, he was a healthy, and very fit, man in his early forties. No trace of drugs or alcohol in his tox. Stomach contents show his last meal was about seven last evening. Whole grain pasta with mixed vegetables, a light white sauce, water, and a coffee substitute. He also ingested breath mints. The body’s clean but for the killing wound.”

  “Guy eats a nice healthy dinner, knocks back some fake coffee because it’s going to be a long night and he wants to pump in a little caffeine. He grabs a shower, puts on a fresh suit, the chauffeur’s cap. Takes his ’link, his memo book—he’s got books on the ’link, according to the wife, to read while he waits for his clients. Pops the breath mints, kisses wife good-bye. About ninety minutes later, he’s dead.”

  “But with clean, fresh breath,” Morris added. “The barb of the bolt entered here.” Gently, he turned the body to reveal the insult. “Slightly right of center, angling left and down as it pierced through.”

  “Killer’s sitting in the back, right side, shoots at that slight angle. The bolt went right through, stuck in the control pad of the wheel.”

  “He’d need a good angle,” Peabody commented, “to keep from hitting the seatback.”

  “One shot, and a pretty good one if he hit what he was aiming for.” Eve brought the vehicle into her head, the interior with its long, plush passenger area, the open privacy screen to the driver’s cab.

  “And it’s dark,” she concluded, “lights on in the limo, but it’s not optimum light. Still, it has to be dark or somebody might notice, even through the tinted windows, some guy sitting at the wheel of a limo with a bolt through his neck. Maybe he had a scope,” she speculated, “or a target gauge. Put the little red dot where you want it, fire. Score.”

  She blew out a breath. “Well, I guess that’s all he’s got to tell me. His widow wants to see him, probably the kids, too.”

  “Yes, I’ll arrange it once I’ve closed him.”

  Since they hadn’t managed Peabody’s hopes of a sit-down lunch, Eve sprang for soy dogs and fries from the corner glide cart, and put the vehicle on auto to eat on the way to the lab.

  “How many people,” she speculated, “own crossbows much less actually know how to use one with any accuracy? You’d need a collector’s license to own a weapon like that, possibly a recreational use permit—if you acquired it legit. And I just don’t see somebody going black or gray market to get one specifically for this. A lot of easier ways to kill. This feels like showing off, or at least showy.”

  “It wasn’t target specific,” Peabody added, “since the killer couldn’t have known for sure who’d be driving. If he’d wanted Houston specifically, he could’ve requested him. Easy enough to blow smoke there. I’ve heard he’s an excellent driver, blah blah.” />
  “The target could be the business itself. Could be an inside deal, but it doesn’t have that feel. It feels random, at least at this stage. At the same time, the Sweet connection isn’t random.”

  “Maybe somebody decides to kill Houston, or whoever takes the job, to put pressure on Sweet. Top security man for an important corporation gets pulled into a homicide investigation, has to explain how his data could be compromised. It doesn’t look good, even if you’re innocent, and could have repercussions on the job.”

  “Yeah, some people are sick or ambitious enough to try something that convoluted. We’ll check and see who might be up for his position if he gets the ax. Or who he’s axed in the last few months. I don’t like the PA,” Eve added with her own curl of the lip. “Not sure he’d have the stomach to kill somebody, but I don’t like him. Want a closer look there.”

  The lab meant dealing with Dick Berenski, not so affectionately known as Dickhead. Eve understood he was brilliant at his work, but it didn’t make him less of a dick.

  He considered bribes his due for expediting work on a hot investigation, juggled the women who actually agreed to go out with him—she expected he paid for most of them—like bowling pins and often held small orgies in his office after hours.

  She walked to his station, the long white counter where he slid from comp to scope to gauge on his stool, squatting on it like a bug, she thought, with his weird head like a shiny egg plastered with thin, boot-black hair.

  He glanced up, shot her a smile that put a hitch in her stride. It resembled an actual human expression.

  “Yo, Dallas, looking good. How’s it hanging, Peabody?” The weirdly human smile remained in place, and made the back of Eve’s neck itch. “First day back, and you got a DB. Fancy one, too. We don’t get many crossbow bolts through here.”

  “Okay. Tell me about the bolt.”

  “Top of the line. Carbon with a titanium core and barb. Front two-thirds of it’s weighted heavier for increased penetration, with the back third lighter. It’s got a specialized coating that helps you pull the bastard out of whatever you shot. It’s twenty inches long. Brand name’s Firestrike, manufacturer’s Stelle Weaponry. You gotta have a license and permit to purchase, and there’s an auto-check on that. Bastard costs a hundred through legit outlets.”

  For a moment Eve said nothing, wasn’t certain she could. She hadn’t threatened, insulted, bribed, or even snarled, and he’d given her more data in one shot than she usually beat out of him in a full meet.

  “Okay . . . That’s good to know.”

  “No prints, no trace but the vic’s. But I got the code, manufacturer codes them in case of defect and whatnot. It was made in April of last year, shipped to New York from Germany. Only two outlets in the city. I got those.” He offered her a disc. “All the data’s in there.”

  “Did you get bashed on the head recently?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Anything out of the vehicle?”

  “We got the ’link transes and the trip log. We’re still processing the rest. It’s a damn big bastard. Prelim doesn’t turn up prints or trace, not even a loose hair, except for the driver’s. Cleanest damn car I’ve ever seen, if you don’t count the blood in the front.”

  “Okay,” she said for a third time, at a loss. “Good work.”

  “That’s what we do around here,” he said so cheerfully her stomach threatened to curdle. “You go catch the bad guy.”

  “Right.” Eve slid a glance at Peabody as they left. “What the fuck was that? Is it like that vid, with the people and the pods and the dupes?”

  “Oh, that’s a scary one. It’s sort of like that. He’s in love.”

  “What with?”

  “Who,” Peabody said with a laugh. “Apparently he met somebody a few weeks ago, and he’s in love. He’s happy.”

  “He’s fucking creepy, that’s what he is. I think I like him better when he’s a dick. He kept smiling.”

  “Happy makes you smile.”

  “It’s unnatural.”

  Still, she had a constructive chunk of data to work with. Back at Central she closed herself in her office to open her murder book, set up her murder board, and write up her initial report while Peabody contacted the two outlets to try to track down the bolt.

  She tagged Cher Reo in the PA’s office.

  “How was your vacation?”

  Eve resigned herself to answering the question all day. “Good. Listen, I caught a case this morning.”

  “Already?”

  “Crime marches on. The vic’s got a sealed juvie. I need to unseal it.”

  Reo sat back, pushed a hand through her fluffy blond hair. “You believe the juvie’s pertinent to the case?”

  “I don’t know, that’s why I need to see it. Guy’s a successful business owner, husband, father, big fancy house in the burbs. No trouble on the surface, so far. The scan in autopsy shows multiple old wounds, mostly breaks. Might be abuse, might be from fighting. The past can come back to haunt you, right?”

  “So they say. It shouldn’t be a problem for the primary on a homicide to view the records of the victim. I’ll make the request.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “Crossbow.”

  Reo widened bright blue eyes. “Never a dull moment. I’ll get back to you.”

  Eve programmed coffee, put her boots on her desk, and studied the board.

  Moments later, Peabody gave a cursory knock and stepped in. “I’ve got a customer list for that particular batch of bolts. It’s a couple of dozen worldwide, with a handful off planet. There’s only one with a New York residence. I ran her, and she’s clean, but you have to be to get the license and permit.”

  “We’ll look at her. Why Gold Star?” she wondered. “Small, exclusive company, small fleet, small staff, and if their hype’s to be believed, premium class, personal service. Top of the line,” she murmured, “like the weapon. Expensive. Connect to Sweet, high-level exec for a high-level company. If there’s no connection between Houston or his company and Sweet and his, then the only common denominator is they’re both successful men with specialized skills.”

  “Maybe it’s totally random.”

  “If it is, Houston may or may not be the first, but he won’t be the last. Listen to Houston’s transmissions.” She ordered the computer to play it.

  “Hey, Michael. I’m pulling up to the pickup now. Traffic’s not too bad, considering. I’ll check back when I’ve got the Person on Board.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “How’s Kimmy doing?”

  “She’s beat. She’s gone on to bed. I’m going to carry the portable with me when I check on her and our boy.”

  “Couple more weeks, you’ll be a daddy again. You get some rest, too. I think I see the client. I’ll come back.”

  “Time lapse to next trans,” Eve said, “three minutes, ten.”

  “POB,” Jamal said, his voice quieter now, brisker. “En route to LaGuardia, commercial transpo area for pickup, Supreme Airlines, Flight six-two-four out of Atlanta. ETA, ten-twenty.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Go to bed, Michael.” Jamal’s voice was barely a whisper now. “Take the portable with you if you’re going to be a stickler. I’ll come back to you if I need to. It’s a long run, no point in both of us getting a short night. I’ve got a book. I’ll entertain myself when the clients have their late supper.”

  “Come back when you get to the airport, then I’ll go to bed.”

  “Deal. The client’s excited about this surprise for his wife,” Jamal added. “He’s sitting back there grinning. Just keeps grinning. I have a feeling I’ll be using the privacy window before the night’s over.”

  Michael chuckled. “Client’s king.”

  “Last transmission,” Eve said.

  Jamal relayed his arrival, said good night to Michael.

  “Within five minutes, he’s dead. There’s no worry, no tension
in his voice. Just the opposite. No sense of threat from the passenger, no worries. The killer’s not nervous, not if Houston’s read him right, and somebody who does what he did for a living should have a good sense. His passenger’s excited, happy, he’s anticipating the kill.”

  “He—which lets out Iris Quill—the bolt buyer.”

  “She could’ve provided the weapon, been the ‘wife.’ We’ll look at her. The transmissions tell me Houston didn’t recognize the client. Could be wearing a disguise, could be somebody he hasn’t seen in a long time. But a stranger says something else.”

  “Random again,” noted Peabody.

  “Even random has a pattern. We find the pattern. Get me this Quill woman’s address. I’ll take her on the way home. I’m going to work there. Do a secondary on everyone who bought that make of bolt, and on the owners and employees of the outlets.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Send me the list, and I’ll take half.”

  “Yay.”

  “Do a standard on Mitchell’s financials, copy me. Add Sweet’s to that. We’ll see if money takes us anywhere.”

  Iris Quill lived in a sturdy townhome in Tribeca. The exterior spoke of no nonsense, no fuss. She hadn’t troubled to deck it out with flowers or plants in a neighborhood that seemed to love them. She hadn’t stinted on security, however, and Eve went through the routine with the palm plate, the scanner, the computer’s demand for her name, her badge, her business.

  The woman who opened the door hit about five foot two, weighed in at maybe a hundred pounds with a short straight skullcap of shining silver hair and sharp blue eyes. She wore brown shorts that showed off short but exceptionally toned legs and a skin tank that showcased strong, defined arms.

  Eve judged her to clock in at about seventy-five.

  “Ms. Quill.”

  “That’s right, and what can I do for you, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve? Last thing I killed was a black bear, and that was up in Canada.”

  “Did you use a crossbow?”

  “A Trident 450 long-barrel.” She cocked her head. “Crossbow?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Why not? I recognized your name with the badge scan. I keep up with city crime, mostly watch Furst on Seventy-five.”