The In Death Collection, Books 26-29

by J. D. Robb

  “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 amphetamine, 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?”

  “Because it left her with nothing?” Peabody voiced the question. “It strips her. They leave her dressed, maybe because it’s not about that kind of power or violence, even that kind of humiliation. But they take what’s important to her, and leave her on the floor. With nothing.”

  “Maybe.” Eve nodded. “Maybe so. I don’t think Morris will come in today,” Eve said to Clipper. “But if he does, do whatever you have to do, whatever it takes, to keep him away from her until she’s . . .”

  “I will.”

  3

  EVE MOVED QUICKLY THROUGH CENTRAL. SHE took the glides rather than the elevator to avoid getting into a box with other cops. She passed enough of them—uniforms, softclothes, detectives, brass—to know word had spread.

  When she turned into her own bullpen, all movement, all chatter ceased. And, she knew, it had to be addressed.

  “At twenty-three forty last night, Detective Amaryllis Coltraine was murdered by person or persons unknown. Every member of this division is hereby notified, or will be notified, that any scheduled leave may, and likely will, be cancelled until this case is closed. I will clear overtime for any and all who are tapped to join the investigative team. Any of you who require personal or hardship leave in the interim will have to clear it with me, and will have to make it damn good.

  “There will be no statements to the media, offically or unoffically, on this matter unless cleared through me. You can all consider this part of your current caseload. She’s ours now.”

  She walked to her office, straight to the AutoChef for coffee. She’d no more than t
aken the steaming mug out when Detective Baxter came in behind her. “Lieutenant.”

  “Make it quick, Baxter.”

  “I wanted to say Trueheart and I are cleaning up a few loose ends on a case. We should have it tied up pretty soon. You need grunt work, legwork, shit work, whatever on this, my boy and I,” he continued speaking of his stalwart aide, “we’re up for it. Screw the overtime, Dallas. We’re not putting in for any of that, not for this.”

  “Okay.” She’d expected no less, but it was satisfying to have her expectations met. “I’m going to be talking to her boss, her partner, whoever she worked with back in Atlanta. I’m going to require copies of her case files, opened and closed, her notes. And I’m going to want fresh eyes going over them. I’m going to need runs on everyone in her apartment building. Everyone she came into contact with routinely. Her neighbors, the guy she bought her food from, who delivered her pizza. Any previous relationships, any current. Her friends, the bartender where she drank. I want to know her inside and out.”

  “Morris—”

  “I’ll be going back there, but he needs some time. By the time you tie up those ends, I’ll have plenty for you and Trueheart.”

  “Okay. I, ah, made half a play for her a few months back.”

  “Baxter, you make half a play for anything female.”

  He smiled a little, appreciating her attempt to keep it light. “What can I say? Women are the best thing going. She gave me half a flirt back, you know? But she was all about Morris. There’s nobody out there who wouldn’t jump to work this case, because she was a cop. But every one of them will jump higher, jump faster because of Morris. Just wanted to say.”

  “Let me know when you close your case.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She took her coffee to her desk, noted she had multiple incoming transmissions. Some would be from the media, she thought, and those she’d dump on the liaison, until ordered otherwise.

  Eve picked through, passed, discarded, held. And played the one from her commander. Whitney’s administrative assistant relayed his orders. She was to report the minute she was in her office.

  She set her coffee aside, rose, and walked back to the bullpen. “Peabody, contact Coltraine’s lieutenant and request a meet with him at his earliest convenience. Also request he arrange same with her partner or partners. I’m with Whitney.”

  She could wish for more time, Eve thought as she traveled the labyrinth of Cop Central to Commander Whitney’s domain. Time to put her thoughts together, to start her murder book, to refine her notes, to begin her cold and intrusive search through the life of a dead cop. But when Whitney pushed the bell, you answered the door.

  He didn’t keep her waiting, either. The minute she walked into the outer office, the admin directed her into the inner sanctum.

  He rose from behind his desk and filled the room with his presence. He wore command the way a man wore a suit perfectly tailored for his height, his girth. It belonged to him, Eve had always thought, because he’d earned it—with every step.

  Though he rode a desk rather than the streets, that suit of command had been tailored for a cop.

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Sir.”

  He didn’t gesture for her to sit. They would do this standing. He studied her for a moment, his wide, dark face solemn, his eyes cold.

  “Report.”

  She gave it quickly, straight out, every detail even as she laid disc copies of her on-scene on his desk. “I’m arranging to meet with her lieutenant, her partner, anyone from her house who may be able to provide insight or details.”

  “Morris is covered.”

  “Yes, sir. He was working, and there are witnesses, as well as security discs and his log to support. There’s no need to spend time ascertaining his whereabouts. He’s clear.”

  “Good. That’s good. Play it out for me, Dallas. Your view.”

  “She was home. She either received a call on her pocket ’link or had a previous meet—personal or official is not possible to confirm at this time—previously arranged. Her weapon box was unlocked and empty. There are compartments for her standard issue, and a smaller clutch piece, as well as holsters for both. She used a hip holster for her standard.”

  For herself, Eve preferred the harness—the feel and the weight of it.

  “She went out armed.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m more inclined to think she went out on the job than socially. Because of the clutch piece. But I don’t know her yet. I don’t know what kind of a cop she was yet.”

  He nodded. “Continue.”

  “She left the apartment sometime after twenty-three eighteen. She had a droid pet and switched it to sleep mode at that time. She set her security, and took the stairs. Wits state this was her habit. The ambush came in the stairway, frontal assault. She took the hit, which knocked her back against the wall. The assailant transported her to the basement of the building, administered an as-yet-unknown stimulant to bring her to. At twenty-three forty, a weapon, possibly her own, was held to her throat and fired. I have EDD checking the security. We know that the rear door cam was jammed. He came in that way, and from my examination, the lock looked clean. So he had a key card and code, or he’s very skilled. He knew her habits, and knew she’d be coming down the stairs. He contacted her, and she went out to meet him. That’s how I see it. She knew her killer.”

  “For the time being, any media will be funneled through the department liaison. The death of one cop won’t stir up the juices in any case. If that changes, I’ll let you know. You’re free to assign as many men to your investigative team as you feel necessary. Again, if that changes, you’ll be informed. This is now flagged priority, for every department involved. I want copies of all reports as they come in, or as they’re completed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Whatever you need on this one, Lieutenant.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’ll be speaking with her family shortly, as will her lieutenant. I assume they’ll want a funeral or memorial in Atlanta, but we will be holding a memorial here. I’ll let you know when it’s arranged.”

  “I’ll see my division is informed of the details.”

  “I’ve kept you from it long enough. But before you go, I want to ask you something from a personal level. Does Morris have all he needs?”

  “I wish I knew. I don’t know what else can be done for him, at this time. They were, I think, becoming very serious.”

  Whitney nodded. “Then we’ll do what we do, and find the answers for him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She went back to it, closed herself in her office to review her notes, to open her murder book, to start her board.

  “Dallas?”

  “Lab reports are already coming in,” Eve said as Peabody stepped inside. “I didn’t have to threaten or bribe anybody to get them this fast. It’s not just because a cop went down. It’s because the cop was Morris’s lady. They shot her up with a stimulant—enough so she was conscious and aware, but unable to move, to fight. No trace on her. No prints on the outside, rear door. Sealed up, and had to wipe it down for good measure. No prints, at all. Her internal organs showed extreme trauma, from a stun. If she’d lived, she’d have been in bad shape. He didn’t take any chances, but was careful, and knowledgeable enough to know what setting to use so she’d go down hard, stay down, but live. Until he was finished.”

  “I spoke with the locals in Atlanta. I arranged for a grief counselor for her parents and her brother.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “Her lieutenant can and will speak with us anytime. They worked squad-style, so she partnered or teamed with everyone in her unit.”

  “Then we’ll talk to everyone in her unit. Let’s go get started.”

  Peabody glanced at the board, and Coltraine’s ID shot. “She was really beautiful.” She turned away, followed Eve. “I started runs on the other tenants, and Jenkinson said he had some time, so he’s helping on that. I c
hecked in with EDD. McNab said they’re on top of it. And they’ve already sent somebody down to pick up her unit at her house. Her cop house.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “He told me she’d saved, on her home unit, she kept e-mails from Morris. Funny ones, romantic ones, sexy ones.” She let out a sigh as they went down the glides. “And some from her parents, her brother, some from friends back in Atlanta. She had them all in different files. There was job stuff on there, too. He’s sorting it out. Her last transmission on her home ’link was about eight last night. From Morris. He talked to her while he took a dinner break. Nothing else on her home unit yesterday. She worked an eight-to-four shift.”

  “We need to know when she got the Chinese, if it was pickup or delivery.”

  “Chinese?”

  “Leftovers in her kitchen. She had a take-out bag with her when she came in, security discs. When did she order it, did she stop on the way home, bring it from work? Start checking take-out and delivery places near her building.”

  “Okay.”

  “ME’s report said she ate about seven-thirty, drank a glass of wine. She ran the recycler, so there’s not much left for the crime lab. Let’s find out if she ate alone. We’re going to put together every step she took, from the time she got up yesterday morning.”

  “Did you ask Morris if they were together the night before she died?”

  “No. Shit. No. I should have. Damn it.” She stopped in the garage, took out her pocket ’link. “Give me some room, Peabody.” She keyed in Morris’s number. She didn’t expect him to answer, and was dumped straight to voice mail. “Morris, it’s Dallas. I’m very sorry to disturb you. I need to put a time line together for yesterday. When you can, if you can let me know if you and Detective Coltraine were together yesterday morning, it would—”

  “Yes.” His face came on-screen. His eyes were dull, dark, and empty. “She stayed here the night before. We had dinner around the corner, a bistro. Jaq’s. About eight, I think. And we came back here. She left yesterday morning, about seven. A little after seven. She had an eight-to-four shift.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”