by J. D. Robb
“Did he tell anyone how he came to have full pockets?”
“Mighta told Hetta, he was blissed out enough. Seems she picked up some more tabs for him. He wanted to stay happy. She said something about how old Boomer was going to be an entrepreneur or some horseshit like. We had ourselves a laugh over it, then he come out and got up onstage naked. We had a bigger laugh. Dude had the most pitiful cock you ever seen.”
“So he was celebrating a deal.”
“That’d be my take. We got busy. I had to crack a few heads, toss out some bodies. I remember how I was out on the street, and he come rushing out. I grabbed hold, just fooling. He didn’t look happy no more, he looked piss-your-pants scared.”
“He say anything?”
“Just shook himself loose and took off running. Last time I saw him, as I recollect.”
“Who spooked him? Who’d he talk to?”
“Can’t tell you that, sweet face.”
“Did you see any of these people here that night?” Eve took photos out of her bag, spread them out. Pandora, Jerry, Justin, Redford, and because it was necessary, Mavis and Leonardo.
“Hey, I know these two. Fancy-face models.” His wide fingers traced lovingly over Pandora and Jerry. “The redhead, she come in now and then, trolling for partners, looking to score. Could be she was here that night, but can’t say for certain sure. These others aren’t on our guest list, so to speak. Least I can’t make ’em.”
“Did you ever see the redhead with Boomer?”
“He wasn’t her pick. She liked them big, stupid, and young. Boomer was just stupid.”
“What do you hear about a new blend on the streets, Crack?”
His big face went blank, closed off. “Don’t hear nothing.”
Friendly only went so far, she knew. Silently, Eve took out credits, laid them on the bar. “Hearing improved?”
He studied the credits, then looked back at her face. Recognizing the tactic negotiations, she added to them. The credits slid across the bar and disappeared.
“Some rumblings recent, maybe, about some new shit. High powered, good long buzz, tough on the credit balance. Heard it called Immortality. None’s come passing this way, not yet. Most people ’round here can’t afford designer. They’ll have to wait for the knockoff, and that takes a few months more.”
“Did Boomer talk about it?”
“Is that what he was into?” Speculation shifted into Crack’s eyes. “He never flapped to me about it. Like I said, I heard some rumblings pass through. It’s getting good advance hype, chemi-heads are jazzed over it, but I ain’t heard anybody had a taste. It’s good business,” he said with a smile. “You got a product, a new one, you get the clientele wired up, hungry. Then when it hits, they’ll pay. They’ll pay big.”
“Yeah, good business.” She leaned forward. “Don’t try a sample, Crack. It’s fatal.” When he started to blow that off, she put a hand on his beefy arm. “I mean literally. It’s poison, slow-acting poison. If there’s anyone you care about who uses, you warn them off this shit, or you won’t have them very long.”
He studied her face. “No jive here, white girl? This ain’t cop talk?”
“No jive, no cop talk. A regular user’s got about five years before it overloads the nervous system and takes him out. That’s straight, Crack. And whoever’s manufacturing it knows it.”
“Hell of a way to make a profit.”
“Isn’t it just. Now, where can I find Hetta?”
Crack blew out a breath, shook his head. “Nobody gonna believe it if I tell ’em, anyhow. Not the ones already hungry.” He looked back at Eve, focused. “Hetta? Shit, I don’t know. Ain’t seen her in weeks. These girls come and go, work one joint, go on to the next.”
“Last name?”
“Moppett. Hetta Moppett, rented a room over on Ninth last I heard, around a hundred and twentieth. Anytime you want to take up where she left off, sugarpuss, just let me know.”
Hetta Moppett hadn’t paid her rent in three weeks, nor had she shown her skinny little ass. This, according to the building super, who also informed Eve that Ms. Moppett had forty-eight hours to come up with back rent or her property was forfeit.
Eve listened to his angry yammering as she hoofed it up the stairs in the miserable three-floor walk-up. She had his master code in hand, and was certain he’d already used it as she unlocked Hetta’s door.
It was a single room, narrow bed, dingy window, with a few attempts at homey with the frilly pink curtain and cheap shiny pink pillows. Eve did a quick toss, turned up an address log, a credit book with over three thousand in deposit, some framed photographs, and an expired driver’s license that listed Hetta’s last address in Jersey.
The closet was half full, and from the scarred suitcase on the top shelf, Eve judged it to be all Hetta had. She ran the ’link, made a dupe of all the calls on disc, then copied the license.
If Hetta had gone on a trip, she’d taken no more with her than walking-around credits, the clothes on her back, and her club companion’s license.
Eve wasn’t betting on it.
She called the morgue from her car ’link. “Run the Jane Does,” she ordered. “White, blond, twenty-eight, about a hundred and thirty pounds, five foot four. Transmitting copy of driver’s license holo.”
She was barely three blocks away, heading to Cop Central, when the answer came in.
“Lieutenant, we got a possible match. Need dental, DNA, or prints to verify. Our possible can’t be identified by hologram.”
“Because?” Eve asked, but she already knew.
“She doesn’t have enough face left.”
The prints matched. The primary assigned to the Jane Doe handed Hetta over to Eve without a backward glance. In her office, Eve stared down at the three files.
“Sloppy work,” she muttered. “Moppett’s prints were on file from her companion’s license. Carmichael could have ID’d her weeks ago.”
“I’d say Carmichael wasn’t much interested in a Jane Doe,” Peabody commented.
Eve reined in the anger, flicked a glance up at Peabody. “Then Carmichael’s in the wrong business, isn’t she? We’ve got links here, Peabody. From Hetta to Boomer, Boomer to Pandora. What probability did you get when you ran them, asked if they were killed by the same hand?”
“Ninety-six point one.”
“Okay.” Eve’s stomach jittered with relief. “I’m taking all of this to the PA, doing a tap dance. I may be able to talk them into dropping charges on Mavis. At least until we gather more evidence. If they don’t . . .” She looked Peabody dead in the eye. “I’m leaking it to Nadine Furst for broadcast. That’s a code violation, and I’m telling you because as long as you’re attached to me and this case, you can be held equally responsible. You’re risking a possible reprimand if you stay. I can have you reassigned before this goes down.”
“I would consider that action a reprimand, Lieutenant. An undeserved one.”
Eve said nothing for a moment. “Thanks. DeeDee.”
Peabody winced. “Don’t call me DeeDee.”
“Fine. Take everything we have over to EDD, hand deliver personally to Captain Feeney. I don’t want this data transmitted through channels, at least not until I talk to the PA, then try a little solo investigation.”
She saw the light go on in Peabody’s eyes and smiled. She could remember what it was like to be new and have your first shot. “Go over to the Down and Dirty Club where Hetta worked, tell Crack, he’s the big one. Believe me, you won’t miss him. Tell him you’re mine, tell him Hetta’s a corpse. See what you can get out of him, out of anybody. Who she hung with, what she might have said about Boomer that last night, who else she spent time with. You know the drill.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Peabody.” Eve slipped the files into her bag and rose. “Don’t go in uniform, you’ll scare the natives.”
The PA smashed Eve’s hopes in ten minutes flat. She continued to argue for another twenty, but it
was all spinning wheels. Jonathan Heartly agreed that there was a likely connection in the three homicides. He was an agreeable man. He admired her investigative work, her deductive powers, and her organized presentation of same. He admired any cop who did the job in an exemplary fashion and kept his office’s conviction rate high.
But he, and the prosecutor’s office, were not prepared to drop the charges against Mavis Freestone. The physical evidence was too strong, and the case, at this point, too solid to warrant a backpeddle.
He would, however, keep his door open. When and if Eve had another suspect, he would be more than willing to listen to her case.
“Puss head,” Eve muttered as she slammed into the Blue Squirrel. She spotted Nadine immediately, already in a booth and grimacing over the menu.
“Why the hell does it always have to be here, Dallas?” Nadine demanded the minute Eve dropped down across from her.
“I’m a creature of habit.” But the club wasn’t the same, she noted, not without Mavis standing onstage screeching out her incomprehensible lyrics in her latest, eye-popping costume. “Coffee, black,” Eve ordered.
“I’ll have the same. How bad can it be?”
“Just wait for it. Are you still smoking?”
Nadine glanced around, uneasy. “This isn’t a smoking booth.”
“Like they’re going to say something in a joint like this. Give me one, will you?”
“You don’t smoke.”
“I’m hoping to develop bad habits. You want the two bucks?”
“No.” Keeping an eye out, just in case anyone she knew was around, Nadine took out two cigarettes. “You look like you could use something a little stronger.”
“This’ll do.” She leaned over so that Nadine could light it, took one puff. Hacked. “Jesus. Let me try that again.” She drew in smoke, felt her head spin, her lungs revolt. Annoyed, she crushed it out. “That’s disgusting. Why do you do that?”
“It’s a developed taste.”
“So’s eating dog shit. And speaking of dog shit.” Eve slid her coffee from the serving slot and took one brave sip. “So, how’ve you been?”
“Good. Better. I’ve been doing things I didn’t used to think I had time for. It’s funny how a near death experience makes you realize not making time is wasting time. I heard Morse has been found competent to stand trial.”
“He’s not crazy. He’s just a killer.”
“Just a killer.” Nadine ran a finger along her throat where a knife had once drawn blood. “You don’t figure being the latter makes him the former.”
“No, some people just like killing. Don’t dwell on it, Nadine. It doesn’t help.”
“I’ve been trying not to. I took a few weeks, spent some time with my family. That helped. It also reminded me that I love my job. And I’m good at it, even though I folded—”
“You didn’t fold,” Eve interrupted impatiently, “you were drugged, you had a knife to your throat, and you were scared. Put it behind you.”
“Yeah. Right. Well.” She blew out smoke. “Anything new on your friend? I wasn’t really able to tell you how sorry I am that she’s in trouble.”
“She’s going to be all right.”
“I’d bank on you seeing to that.”
“That’s right, Nadine, and you’re going to help me. I’ve got some data for you from an unidentified police source. No, no recorders, write it down,” Eve ordered as Nadine reached in her bag.
“Whatever you say.” Nadine dug deeper, found a pad and a pen. “Shoot.”
“We have three separate homicides, and evidence points to one killer. The first, Hetta Moppett, part-time dancer and licensed club companion, was beaten to death on May 28, at approximately two A.M. The majority of blows were delivered to her face and head in such a manner as to obliterate her features.”
“Ah,” Nadine said and left it at that.
“Her body was discovered, without identification, at six the next morning and tagged as a Jane Doe. At the time of her murder, Mavis Freestone was standing on that stage behind you, belting her guts out in front of about a hundred and fifty witnesses.”
Nadine’s brow shot up, and she smiled. “Well, well. Keep going, Lieutenant.”
So she did.
It was the best she could do for the moment. When the broadcast hit, it was doubtful whether anyone in the department would have to guess who the unnamed source was. But they wouldn’t be able to prove it. And Eve would, for Mavis, if not for herself, lie without a qualm if and when she was questioned.
She put in a few more hours at Cop Central, had the miserable job of contacting Hetta’s brother, the only next of kin who could be tracked down, and informing him that his sister was dead.
After that cheerful interlude, she went back over every scrap of forensic evidence the sweepers had sucked up at the Moppett murder scene.
There was no doubt that she had been killed where she’d been found. The murder had been a clean, probably a quick hit. A shattered elbow had been the only defensive wound. No murder weapon had yet been found.
No murder weapon on Boomer either, she mused. A few broken fingers, the added finesse of the broken arm, the shattered kneecaps—all prior to death. That, she had to assume, was torture. Boomer had had more than information, he’d had a sample, and the formula, and the killer had wanted both.
But Boomer had hung tough there. The killer, for whatever reason, hadn’t had the time or wanted to take the risk to go to Boomer’s flop and toss it.
Why had Boomer been dumped in the river? To buy time, she speculated. But the ploy hadn’t worked, and the body had been found and ID’d quickly. She and Peabody had been at the flop within hours of the discovery and had bagged and tagged the evidence.
So, on to Pandora. She knew too much, wanted too much, proved an unstable business partner, threatened to talk to the wrong people. Any of the above, Eve mused and rubbed her hands over her face.
There’d been more rage in her death, more of a fight, more of a mess. Then again, she was hopped on Immortality. She wasn’t some foolish club dancer caught in an alley, or a pitiful weasel who knew more than he should. Pandora was a powerful woman, with a sharp mind and an ambitious bent. And, Eve remembered, well-developed biceps.
Three bodies, one killer, and one link between them. And the link was money.
She ran all suspects through her computer, checking normal credit transactions. The only one who was hurting was Leonardo. He was in debt up to his gold eyeballs, and then some.
Then again, greed had no credit balance. It was the property of the rich as well as the poor. She dug a little deeper, and found that Redford had been busy juggling funds. Withdrawals, deposits, more withdrawals. Electronic transfers had been bouncing from coast to coast and to neighboring satellites.
Interesting, she thought, and more interesting still when she hit on a transfer from his New York account direct into that of Jerry Fitzgerald in the amount of a hundred and twenty-five thousand.
“Three months ago,” Eve murmured, rechecking the date. “That’s a lot of money between friends. Computer scan for any and all transfers from this account to any and all accounts under the name of Jerry Fitzgerald or Justin Young in the past twelve months.”
SCANNING. NO TRANSFERS RECORDED.
“Scan for transfers from any and all accounts under the name of Redford to previously requested accounts.”
SCANNING. NO TRANSFERS RECORDED.
“Okay, okay, let’s try this. Scan for transfers from any and all accounts under the name of Redford to any and all accounts under the name Pandora.”
SCANNING. TRANSFERS AS FOLLOWS:TEN THOUSAND FROM NEW YORK CENTRAL ACCOUNT TO NEW YORK CENTRAL ACCOUNT, PANDORA, 2/6/58. SIX THOUSAND FROM NEW LOS ANGELES ACCOUNT TO NEW LOS ANGELES SECURITY, PANDORA, 3/19/58. TEN THOUSAND FROM NEW YORK CENTRAL ACCOUNT TO NEW LOS ANGELES SECURITY, PANDORA, 5/4/58. TWELVE THOUSAND FROM STARLIGHT STATION BONDED TO STARLIGHT STATION BONDED, PANDORA, 6/12/58.
NO OTHER TRANSFE
RS RECORDED.
“Well, that oughta do it. Was she bleeding you, pal, or was she dealing for you?” Eve wished fleetingly for Feeney, then went after the next layer herself. “Computer, scan previous year, same data.”
While the computer worked, she programmed coffee and speculated on scenarios.
Two hours later, her eyes were sore, her neck screaming, but she had more than enough to warrant another interview with Redford. She had to settle for his E-service, but did have the pleasure of requesting his presence at Cop Central at ten the following morning.
After leaving memos for Peabody and Feeney, she decided to call it a day.
It didn’t do her mood much good to discover a memo from Roarke on her car ’link.
“You’ve been out of touch, Lieutenant. I had something come up that requires my presence. I’ll be in Chicago by the time you get this, I imagine. I may have to stay over tonight, unless I can clear this little mess up quickly. You can reach me at the River Palace if you need to, otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t stay up working half the night. I’ll know.”
With an annoyed flick, she switched off memo mode. “What the hell else am I supposed to do?” she demanded. “I can’t sleep when you’re not there.”
She swung through the gates, and saw with some hope that lights were blazing everywhere. He’d canceled the meeting, fixed the problem, missed his transportation. Whatever, she thought, he was home. She walked in the door with a welcoming smile on her face and followed the sound of Mavis’s laughter.
There were four people having drinks and canapés in the parlor, but none of them was Roarke. Quick observation powers, Lieutenant. Eve thought glumly, then took a moment to scan the room before she was noticed.
Mavis was still laughing, and dressed in what only she would consider at-home wear. Her red skin suit was studded with silver stars and covered with a sheer emerald sweep shirt left loose and open. She teetered on six-inch ice-pick heels as she cuddled Leonardo. He had one arm wrapped around her, and the other hand was fisted around a glass filled with something clear and fizzy.