The In Death Collection, Books 30-32

by J. D. Robb

  Morris lifted his eyebrows. “It could, done properly. You prefer murder to overdose.”

  She wished she could lay it out for him. “I’ve got questions, yeah. Why the tub? You said he had enough in him to kill him a couple of times. Look at his tracks. He’s a junkie, but he’s a junkie with experience. Why take so much of something so risky—and even if you’re an idiot, wouldn’t you want to spread out the high? He’s not in his flop, but locked in this hole instead, and it looks like he made himself a little camp there. And that says he’s hiding. So maybe somebody found him.”

  “Perhaps. He’d eaten a decent enough meal, around midnight. Pizza with sardines.”

  “You call that decent?”

  Morris smiled. “He ate hearty, we’ll say, and washed it down with a couple beers.”

  “There weren’t any takeout pizza boxes or brew bottles on scene. Maybe he ate out. We can work that. I wonder why he’d eat hearty, then a couple hours later hole up, crawl in a filthy tub, and jab himself with what he should have known, given his history, was a lethal dose.”

  “So noted. I haven’t as yet made my determination, so it stands that COD is the overdose—all other injuries were nonlethal. But I cannot, at this time, with this data, determine accident, suicide, or homicide.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear.”

  “I believe I’ll need to do a further analysis of the wound below his left ear.”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “You’ve something up your sleeve. Quite a nice sleeve today, I might add.”

  “Just doing the job. We’ll let you get back to your brain.”

  8

  “HERE’S WHAT WE’RE GOING TO DO.” EVE PULLED out in front of a Rapid Cab, zoomed through a yellow light—and had Peabody gripping the chicken stick. “Are we doing in a hurry?”

  “What? I had plenty of room. We’re going to update the book with Morris’s preliminary findings, copy the commander as usual. You’re going to contact Renee and inform her of those findings and tell her I need the data and files we discussed, asap.”

  Hand still gripping the chicken stick, Peabody blanched. “I’m going to talk to her?”

  “I’m much too busy and important to trouble myself with this kind of follow-up. That’s how she thinks. I’m going to see if Morris has a spare spine lying around you can borrow if you’re scared to speak to that high-heel-wearing, smug-ass bitch, Peabody.”

  “Not scared. Uneasy. I admit to uneasy.” To prove to herself she had that spine already, she loosened her grip on the stick. “So I tell her the chief medical examiner has determined COD, but cannot, at this time, determine self-termination, accidental overdose, or homicide. Therefore, Lieutenant Dallas requests—”

  “Requires,” Eve corrected.

  “Lieutenant Dallas requires the data and files on the victim, as discussed. What if she balks?”

  “You courteously inform her that Commander Whitney has, per procedure, been copied on all notes and files, including your lieutenant’s notification to her, the vic’s handler, and the requirement for data.”

  Peabody mulled it. “Courteously adds a dig.”

  “You bet it does. If she carps after that, I’ll deal with her. But she won’t,” Eve added. “She wants this to go away, and the potential of me going over her head and bringing this more fully to Whitney’s attention spotlights her.”

  “Better to cooperate and keep it low-level.” Peabody’s fingers crawled back to the stick when Eve swerved around a slow-poking maxibus.

  “That’s how I’d play it in her place. Next, we get everything we need for the briefing, and spend a little time at it. If she’s got feelers out, and she damn sure does, I want to be seen working this. We’ll do a run by the vic’s flop on the way to HQ.”

  “Why aren’t we doing that now?”

  “Want to be seen—and I want to make sure her dogs have had time to go by, go through, look for anything that might tie them in.” She glanced over. “If Garnet and Bix weren’t heading to Keener’s flop when they left the squad room, you can bet your ass she tagged them and sent them there after my conversation with her.”

  “But . . . If there was anything, they’d get rid of it.”

  “Maybe there was—unlikely, as Bix should have hit the flop already and ditched anything that tied in. But maybe.” Eve shrugged it off. “I’m more interested in following their tracks.” She pulled into the garage at Central. “You should yammer like always in the bullpen about the case.”

  Peabody tried on a mildly offended look. “I don’t yammer. I respectfully object to the term yammer.”

  “All of you yammer, that’s how it’s done.” Eve turned into her slot. “Yammer and bitch, and with the yammering and bitching you play angles off each other. You handle this with the rest of the men just like usual. If you clam up, evade, they’ll smell something off. Bunch of cops get a scent, they can’t help but start digging for the source. And there’s no harm in mentioning our vic was Renee Oberman’s weasel. Someone might have some dish on her, an opinion, an interesting anecdote.”

  “So I’d actually be doing the digging. It’s like spy stuff.”

  “It’s like cop work,” Eve corrected, and got out of the car.

  “It’s interesting about that welt behind the vic’s ear.” Peabody scanned the garage as they crossed to the elevator, lowered her voice. “Is it okay to talk about that?”

  Eve just nodded. “It strikes me, given the location and angle of the wound, it could have come from a blow. Somebody, who knows what they’re doing or gets lucky, clips him at that spot, side of the hand.”

  “Like a karate chop,” Peabody said as they loaded on, other cops loaded off.

  “And it seems a little too good to be luck. If you didn’t know what you were doing, you’d use a sap, or a bat. Either would do more damage.”

  “There wasn’t any indication the vic had been in a fight.”

  “Exactly.” When the elevator stopped, more cops lumbered on, Eve got off. “Blow from behind—a strong and heavy one, and pretty precise. The other scrapes and bruises are minor,” she added as she jumped on a glide. “Might have happened when the vic was dumped in the tub, might have happened when the vic seized during the OD. If he suffered this blow, if it knocked him out or even dazed him, it would give the killer—should there be one—time to inject the lethal dose. Vic’s flying now, helpless. Dump him in the tub, set up the rest of the works. Now it looks like the vic was hallucinating, as you would in the early stages of Fuck Me Up, and decided to take a nice bath.”

  “Why not leave him on the mattress?”

  “The tub’s more humiliating, and that says the vic and killer were previously acquainted. It’s a kind of flourish,” Eve decided, “and flourishes are always a mistake in murder.”

  She got off the glide, made the turn to take the next. And spotted Webster strolling toward her. “Goddamn it,” she said under her breath.

  “Lieutenant, Detective. How’s it going?”

  “Well enough, up until now.”

  “Always pleasant. We’re heading in the same direction.” He stepped on the glide with her.

  She channeled her irritation. “If the rat squad’s going to chew at Homicide, I expect to be informed.”

  “Not Homicide, so relax.” But he stepped off the glide with her.

  “For Christ’s sake, Webster,” she said under her breath.

  “Relax,” he said again, in the same undertone. “I’ve got some business on this level, then a meet with the commander. I heard you took some time off recently.”

  She stopped at Vending. “It’s nice IAB’s got time to chat.”

  “As much as murder cops do. Keep it clean, Dallas.” He started to back up, then his face changed as he stared down the corridor. For a moment he looked . . . reverent, Eve thought.

  And he said—reverently, “Oh, yeah.”

  She followed his direction and spotted Darcia Angelo. She wore a summer dress, a breezy on
e covered with hot pink flowers that showed strong golden shoulders and a lot of smooth skin. Her mass of black hair tumbled to those golden shoulders, curling wildly around her face. Dark, sultry eyes warmed when she saw Eve, and the wide, bottom-heavy mouth curved in a smile.

  Eve supposed it was the high, needle-thin heels adding to the already statuesque figure that caused the hips to sway as if to an internal rhythm.

  Or maybe not.

  “Dallas! It’s so good to see you again. And Peabody—Detective Peabody since I saw you last. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t know you were on planet, much less in the city, Chief Angelo.”

  “A little holiday, a little business.” She turned that smile, those eyes onto Webster, who simply stood staring as if he’d just witnessed a miracle. “Hello.”

  “Yeah, Chief Angelo, Olympus PD; Lieutenant Webster, IAB,” Eve supplied.

  “Internal Affairs?” Darcia offered a hand. “Are there many?”

  “Enough to keep us busy. Is this your first time in New York?”

  “The first with any vacation time. I had lunch with your husband,” she told Eve. “And since I was downtown, I couldn’t resist coming in and seeing how things are done here. It’s an impressive facility, from what I’ve seen.”

  A couple of cops perp-walked a skinny, struggling man down the corridor.

  “I was just trying to get his attention!” the man protested at the top of his lungs. “If he’da listened, I wouldn’ta had to bash him.”

  “And full of such interesting people,” Darcia added.

  “Yeah, we’re loaded. My office is down this way,” Eve began.

  “Yo, LT!” Jacobson hailed her from the bullpen doorway. “Got a minute?”

  She signaled an affirmative. “I’ll show you around,” she told Darcia.

  “I’d love it. Go ahead and speak to your man. I’m just going to get something cold to drink. It’s awfully hot out there. I’ll be right along.”

  “Good enough. Peabody, make that tag. I want that data asap.”

  “Yes, sir. Nice seeing you, Chief. Enjoy New York.”

  “I intend to.” Darcia gave her hair a little toss when Eve and Peabody walked away, then turned to study the offerings. “Hmmm.”

  “Buy you a drink?” Webster offered, and she smiled.

  “Yes, please.”

  “So, Chief Angelo ...”

  “Darcia. I’m off duty.”

  “Darcia. I should’ve known the name would suit. What’ll you have?”

  “Surprise me.”

  In the bullpen Eve listened as Jacobson ran through the angles he’d come up with through juggling. She did some juggling of her own, keeping the balls of murder, Renee, Darcia Angelo, and now Jacobson’s brainstorm in the air.

  When she’d finished with Jacobson, she was half inclined to go out and see if Darcia had gotten lost on the short walk to Homicide.

  Then Olympus’s chief of police glided in.

  Eve distinctly heard Baxter’s—the words were reverent again—“Oh, Mama,” as she passed his desk.

  “Don’t drool on those fives,” Eve muttered, and walked over to Darcia. “Our bullpen. The way the unit’s set now, the detectives work with a regular partner or a permanent aide—whom they’re responsible for training—or they can snag one of the uniforms assigned to the unit. Case board, closed in red, open in green. There’s an excuse for a break room in the back. I don’t go there unless I have to. Occasionally somebody may take a wit back there if they want serious privacy, but it’s more usual to interview right at the desk if the wit comes in, or in the lounge—a communal break room for the level. Lockers and showers through that way.”

  “An efficient space,” Darcia commented. “And a busy one.”

  Eve noted Baxter easing up from his chair. She sent him a warning look that had him sighing and sitting again. “Meaning crowded and overworked, and yeah, we are. It’s a good unit. My office is down here.”

  She made the turn, let Darcia in.

  “It’s separate?”

  “That’s the setup, and I prefer it. When the LT’s space is attached, window, door through to the bullpen, it’s like the boss is watching their every move. A guy can’t even scratch his balls in comfort. Door’s open unless I need it shut. They know where to find me.”

  “You prefer a small space, too, or you’d have bigger. And it suits you,” Darcia decided, doing a tight circle. “Spare, lean, unsentimental.” She lifted a chin to the murder board. “And you’re working on something now.”

  “Caught it this morning. Vic’s a longtime chemi-head—and the weasel of an Illegals lieutenant. Found in a broken bathtub in an abandoned building—not his personal flop. Looks like he OD’d on a massive dose of what the street calls Fuck You Up.”

  “I’ve heard of it.” She might have been dressed like a fashion plate, but Olympus’s chief gave the death photos a thorough, cool-eyed study. “And since you say ‘looks like,’ you don’t think he OD’d of his own volition.”

  “There are extenuatings.”

  She watched Darcia sip from what looked like a lemon fizzie and scan the board. “Ugly. Hard and ugly. There was so much of that when I was on the job in Colombia.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m enjoying the shiny and new of Olympus.” Darcia moved to Eve’s window. “But this, this city. It’s so layered and varied, so exciting, so full of energies, passions. I’m going to treat myself and wander, and buy myself several frivolous things.”

  “How far can you wander in those shoes before you cry like a baby?”

  Darcia laughed, turned back. “I’m tougher than that, and I liked putting on a pretty dress to have lunch with your very handsome, very charming husband. Maybe before I go back home, you and I could have a drink, talk shop.”

  “I’d like that,” Eve said, realizing she actually would.

  “Then we’ll make it happen. I’m going to let you get back to work, and I’m going to go find something frivolous to waste my money on.”

  “There’s this place.” Eve wound the location through her head, relayed the simple directions. “Stupidly expensive handbags and shoes. Like that.”

  “Sounds perfect—and not at all your style.”

  “I broke up a catfight there when two women tumbled out onto the street at my feet. They were ready to kill each other over some purse.”

  “That sounds like your style—and it’s going to be my first stop. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Have a good time—and watch out for the hair-pullers.”

  With a laugh, Darcia strolled out.

  Eve checked the time, then began to gather the files, the photos, the reports she’d copied to take home. By the time she’d finished, her incoming signaled. She nodded in satisfaction at the name of the file and the brisk accompanying message.

  To Lieutenant Dallas, Homicide

  From Lieutenant Oberman, Illegals

  Confidential data re Keener, Rickie

  As requested.

  I bet that hurt,” Eve murmured, then copied and saved the file.

  Peabody was already getting up from her desk when Eve came out. “I was just coming in to check if—”

  “Got it. Let’s move.”

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Baxter leaped up. “You’ve got to tell me about the amazing skirt.”

  “She’s out of orbit, Baxter. Literally.”

  “I’ll say—in the best of all ways. Who—”

  She kept walking. “And she outranks you.”

  “Do you think women like that are born like that?” Peabody began. “Chief Angelo. I mean, so they pump out hot and sexy with every breath, but in a really classy way?”

  “There are probably training courses.”

  “Sign me up.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind putting your hot and sexy aspirations on hold, we could actually focus on our current investigation. Just for the hell of it.”

  “I think everybody has hot and se
xy aspirations,” Peabody considered, “except those that already are. But I am totally focused on our current investigation. I assume Lieutenant Oberman sent you the required data.”

  “She did.”

  “I don’t think she was too happy about it.” Peabody shrugged. “I guess some handlers are pretty territorial about their weasels, even when the weasel’s dead.”

  “Maybe even more so. Did the lab ID that lock?”

  “I’ve got the make and model. The report says it hadn’t been installed more than a couple of days. It’s actually an interior lockset—cheap and available in pretty much any place that deals in locks. It hadn’t been picked or tampered with,” Peabody continued. “I’ve got the full report.”

  “Sweepers, interior?”

  “Not in yet. You asked for a second level.”

  “Right. How pissed was Renee?” Eve asked when they got in the vehicle.

  “I’m going to say controlled fury. She didn’t like getting the nudge, and my take is liked it less getting it from your subordinate. What she really didn’t like was my very courteous—as directed—statement that you had copied and informed the commander.”

  “Good.” Perfect, in fact. “She’ll be stewing over that for a while.”

  Pleased with the idea, Eve drove through thickening traffic to the ugly slab of a building squatting between a low-rent sex club and a windowless bar.

  “Not much better than the hole he died in,” she decided. “And less than three blocks away. Not a bright bulb, our Juicy, even when he was breathing.”

  The lock on the entrance of the building was still intact. No point busting it, she thought. Who’d want to break into a place where nobody had anything anyway?

  She mastered it open, started up the stairs directly across from the door.

  The tags on the walls were all sex or drug related, and the scent hanging in the overheated air reeked of both, with a sticky thread of old garbage weaving through. Someone’s choice of music banged on the walls like hammers against someone else’s choice of a screaming game show. On the second level a rail-thin cat hardly bigger than a rat sprawled.

  “Oh, poor little kitty.” Even as Peabody reached out a hand, the cat leaped to its feet, arched its back, bared its teeth with a throaty hiss.