by J. D. Robb
The kitchen consisted of a cup-sized sink, a mini AutoChef, and a counter about as big as a desk blotter. But it was clean.
Misty herself sat on the floral throw, legs curled up, holding a chipped mug in two hands. She wore her sky-blue hair in a sharp wedge, shivered under an oversized sweater draped over narrow shoulders.
Though her face enhancements were badly smeared, pretty peeked out under them. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but from the look of her Eve deduced tears rather than the funk.
“Ms. Polinsky, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. This is Detective Peabody, and our consultant. How are you holding up?”
“I feel a little sick. Officer Morales said to drink some tea, but I still feel a little sick. I never saw anything like that. I never saw anything like Ledo in there.”
Tears swam—shock not grief in Eve’s estimation, so she sat on the arm of the sofa. “It’s hard seeing something like that. How well did you know Ledo?”
“Not really. I mean to see—and I talked to him a few times. You know how you do.”
“Have you ever been in his place?”
“No. He . . . he asked me over, but, well, you know.” She drew in her shoulders. “I didn’t want to.”
“Did you ever buy anything from him?”
“I don’t do that.” Big eyes as blue as her hair went huge. “I swear to God. You can test me and everything. I don’t do illegals.”
“Okay.” Eve scrolled through her PPC as she spoke, doing a quick run on her witness. “How old are you, Misty?”
“Twenty-two.”
“How old are you on Planet Earth?”
The hands holding the mug trembled. “I’m not going back. You can’t make me go back. I got ID that says I’m twenty-one.”
“Go back where?”
“Look, I was just going to work. I work the early shift at the coffee shop around the corner three days a week. Del’s, it’s called, but I never met anybody named Del in there. I had to call in, tell them I’d be late, and now Pete’s mad.”
“And you work at Swing It four nights a week.”
Misty’s face went pink under the blue hair. “I just dance, okay? I don’t do the other stuff. I just dance.”
“How long have you been in New York?”
“Six months. Almost. I was just going to work, Officer.”
“Lieutenant.”
“Okay. I was just going to work, and the door over there was open. I shouldn’t’ve looked in, but it was open, and it’s not a good neighborhood, so I looked in just to make sure Ledo didn’t get robbed or something. And I saw him, on his bed. The blood.”
“Did you go in?”
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head vigorously. “I ran back in here, locked the door. I didn’t know what to do, thought I was going to boot. I was going to run out again, go to work, pretend I hadn’t seen anything. But . . . It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right, so I called the police.”
Though it remained pink, her face went rigid with anger. “I shouldn’t be in trouble for calling the police. For doing the right thing.”
“And you’re not. Did you see anybody, hear anything, before you looked in Ledo’s?”
“No. I told Officer Morales how I got up at five-forty, like I do when I’m working at the coffee shop. I took a shower. The water doesn’t get really hot, and it’s really, really noisy. I got ready for work. I have to work a shift at the club tonight, so I packed a change for that, and I got a GoBar and tube of cola, ’cause I don’t like coffee. Then I got my coat and stuff, and went out—it was about quarter after six. And I looked in because the door was wide open.”
“Have you seen anyone come around here you didn’t recognize?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes people sleep on the floor downstairs. I don’t know them, but they don’t bother anybody. And it’s been really cold. And the bug person came once.”
“Bug person?”
“To kill bugs. I guess the super ordered it, but when I asked if I could get somebody in here to do it on my place, the super just laughed at me. Guy’s a dick anyway.”
“Can you describe this person? The exterminator. Male, female, build, race, age?”
“God, I don’t know.” She drank a little more tea, blew upward and stirred her fringe of blue bangs. “I guess I thought it was a guy, but I don’t really know. He had on this hood and mask, and had this tank and sprayer. I just peeked out a minute.”
“Did you talk to the bug person?”
“I just asked through the crack of the door if he was doing the whole building. And he sort of nodded. I thought, good, ’cause the cockroaches creep me. I straightened up some, you know how you do when maybe somebody’s coming in your place, but when I looked out again, he was gone.”
She smiled wanly. “Cockroaches are still here.”
“Did you notice any sort of logo, or name?”
“I really didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“I’d like you to work with a police artist.”
The pink flush had faded away, and now she gnawed off what was left of her lip dye. “I didn’t really see anything.”
“You never know. We can have you taken down to Central, and the artist might help you remember some details you don’t realize you noticed.”
“You’re going to arrest me?”
“No.” Eve slid off the arm of the sofa so she sat beside Misty. “Nobody’s going to arrest you. Nobody’s going to send you back. You’re not in trouble. You’re helping us out, and I can clear two hundred for the help if you work with the artist.”
“You— Two hundred?”
“That’s right. We can use the help, Misty. Ledo was a screwup, and he hit on you.”
“Yeah, but, well, he didn’t get pushy or anything like some guys do.”
“That’s right. And somebody killed him. You may be able to help us find out who.”
“Look. I gotta work, pay the rent. The two hundred, that’d be sweet, but I need regular pay. Pete’ll fire me if I don’t come in for my shift.”
“Do you like working for Pete?”
“It’s a job. I gotta pay the rent or I’ll get booted out.”
“Right. You like living here?”
For the first time a glimmer of a real smile eked through. “I’d have to be blind, deaf, and crazy to like living here, but it’s what I got, and it’s better than what I had.”
Eve glanced at Roarke. “I might be able to help you find a decent place where you could stay until you find better work, and better than this.”
“I’m not going in a group home. I’m not—”
“Just hang on a minute. Nobody’s going to make you do anything. Just hang a minute.”
She rose, gestured for Peabody to sit with Misty, and to Roarke to step out in the hall with her.
“She’s seventeen. I figure a runaway—out of Dayton, Ohio—but nobody’s looking for her. I got enough of her medical to see a pattern of physical abuse. The father’s doing some time right now—went in last month for assault. Mother’s been in and out—illegals abuse. I know the youth shelter isn’t near finished yet, but maybe—she doesn’t altogether fit—but maybe there’s a place for her at Dochas until. She’ll be eighteen in May.”
“I can arrange that, if she’s willing. Some of the women there aren’t much older.”
Eve nodded, said nothing. And Roarke lifted his brows.
“You want me to talk to her.”
“You’ll slide her right in. She respects the badge, but she’s afraid of it. Odds are nobody wearing one gave her much help. You’ll keep it smooth, and she won’t be afraid of you.”
“All right.” He gave her a little poke in the belly. “Softie.”
“I can’t have my only wit going into the wind, can I? Or risk having the bug person coming back for her, just in case. She’ll work bette
r with Yancy on a sketch if I don’t have to take her into protective custody.”
“You can play that line.” He leaned down to kiss her before she could evade. “Give me a minute to make the arrangements, on the assumption I can slide her right in.”
• • •
With the arrangements made, Eve called in another black-and-white to transport Misty to Central, and to Detective Yancy, her choice of artist.
“She’s a little bit of an artist herself.” With Eve, Peabody loaded their field kits back in the trunk. “She painted the flowers on the boxes in there, and did the little pencil sketch of the cats hanging on the wall. It’s good you’re getting her out of here.”
“Her decision, Roarke’s place.”
“Still. Here come the sweepers—and the wagon.”
Eve waited, then walked over to Dawson. “Same team?”
“As requested.”
“Good, the fewer hands on this, the better. You’re going to need detox after processing that pit.” When he started to laugh, Eve shook her head. “True.”
“Crap.” He sighed, deep. “Fizz, Lottie, Charis! Hellhole time, with detox for dessert.”
There were groans as the team unloaded equipment and the full-coverage white suit of the sweeper.
“I’m calling in a handwriting analyst.”
His mouth thinned. “Another message for you?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll tag Jen—Jen Kobechek. She’s the best we’ve got.”
“That’ll save me time. Appreciate it.”
“Gotta take care of each other.” He signaled to his crew. “Let’s sweep it out.”
Eve walked back, got into the car.
“You’re going to tell me we’re going underground,” Peabody began.
“Maybe not. Carmine Atelli owns Gametown. We dealt with him briefly when we went down for Ledo a couple years ago. He has a place in the Hudson Towers.”
“Swank.”
“A nest of rabid rats is swank compared to the underground.” Eve slid into traffic. “He’s more likely home this time of day than below, so we’ll check it. But we’re going to make another stop first.”
As it was still shy of nine, Eve tried Hilly Decker’s apartment first. The slapdash, post-Urbans triple-decker needed a face-lift, but it held its own in a neighborhood of struggling-to-claw-up-to-middle-income housing and shops.
Inside it smelled faintly of someone’s breakfast burrito. The inhuman wail of a baby rattled the walls of the first floor.
“Why do kids always make that sound? Like somebody’s stabbing them in the ear?”
“It’s about all they got,” Peabody told her. “Something hurts, they’re hungry or just pissed off, all they got is crying.”
“Strikes me they’re just pissed off most of the time.”
The sound eased slightly on the second level, or was drowned out more by someone playing a morning talk show at ear-thumping volume.
Eve banged a fist on 2-A.
No cam, she noted, no palm plate, but an electronic peep and good sturdy locks.
“Hold on, Mrs. Missenelli!”
The door wrenched open. Hilly Decker stood, one stubby-heeled half boot in her hand, the other on her left foot. She wore a black skirt and vest with a pale blue shirt under it. Several big silver clips stuck haphazardly through her brown hair.
Her eyes, the color of kiwis, popped wide.
“You’re not Mrs. Missenelli! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!”
She ran the words together into one hysterical squeal, dropped the boot, bounced up and down. “Oh my GOD! You’re Eve Dallas. You’re her. Here. You’re here.”
“We need to speak with you, Ms. Decker.”
“Oh my God, I just have to hug you.” As Hilly lurched forward, arms out, Eve put both her hands up.
“No,” she said, definitely.
“Right, right, sorry. God. You’re not a hugger. I know, I’m just so excited. Oh my God. My heart’s racing. You should feel my heart. Do you want to? No. Sorry. Oh my God.”
Peabody elbowed in. “Can we come in, Ms. Decker?”
“Oh God, yes. Please. I know you, too. Peabody! Is it just amazing working with Eve Dallas? Is it just like ultra-abso-mag?”
“I’m living the dream.” Somewhat concerned Eve might punch if Hilly lost her mind and tried for another hug, Peabody insinuated herself between them. “Maybe we could sit down.”
“Oh yeah, sure! Is the place a mess? It’s not too bad,” she decided, rushing around on one shoe, fluffing pillows. “It could be worse. It has been worse, especially when Luca was around. My ex?” She beamed at Eve. “Remember, I told you about him.”
“Sit,” Eve ordered.
“Okay.” Hilly sat, obedient as a puppy and twice as frisky. “I feel like I’m jumping out of my own skin, and . . .” She waved her hands in front of her face, blinking rapidly. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry when I finally met you, and here I go anyway. This is just the best day of my life!”
“Where were you at six this morning?”
“What? Sleeping. Oh, I should get you coffee! I don’t have the kind you drink. I can’t afford it, but I tried it once just to see. It’s seriously ulta. I’ve got Pepsi, though. I can get you a tube of Pepsi.”
“Sit,” Eve ordered again when Hilly jumped up. “Were you alone—at six this morning?”
“Oh yeah. I haven’t been interested in anybody since Luca. After we broke up, I asked myself: What would Eve do? It really helps me to think things through that way. WWED! And I thought, Well, Eve would sit back, take some stock, just live life, you know?”
Radiating joy, she hugged herself.
“I was getting upset you never wrote me back, but here you are. Right here. I don’t know how many times I walked by Central and tried to drum up the courage to go in, see you. I just knew if we ever got the chance to just talk, we’d totally click. Like, you know, sisters.”
“December twenty-seventh, between five and seven in the evening. Where were you?”
“When was that?”
“Two days ago,” Peabody said helpfully. “Two days after Christmas.”
“Oh, right! My mind’s just blown! I was right here. Recovery time from Christmas, you know? I had to go see the fam—three days of fam—and that takes it out of me. Our offices are closed this week, so I had the day off work. I’m only going in today because I have a court thing. So I just hung here, watched screen. We could go out tonight, totally have drinks.
“The Blue Squirrel!” she announced, inspired. “Do you still hang there? I’ve been a few times, but never saw you.”
“Did you see or speak to anyone?”
“When?”
“December twenty-seventh, between five and seven.”
“No. Did I? I don’t know. Who remembers?”
Eve leaned forward. “Think about it.”
“Oh well, okay, if that’s what you want. Um . . . Oh, that must be Mrs. Missenelli. She’ll die to meet you. I’ve told her all about you.”
When Hilly sprang up to rush to the door, Eve squeezed her eyes tight.
“Mother of God,” she muttered.
“She’s still wearing one shoe,” Peabody pointed out. “No way, Dallas, no way this is the crafty, controlled, organized killer.”
“Mrs. Missenelli, and Toby.” All smiles and shiny eyes, Hilly came back holding an enormous and fluffy white cat and towing a tiny woman with a helmet of shoe-black hair. “This is Eve Dallas.”
“Metcha,” the woman said, and looked mildly annoyed.
“Can you believe it? Can you believe she’s here?”
“I’m dumbfounded. You’re gonna drop Toby by the groomer’s, right, Hilly?”
“Sure, sure, on my way to court. I’ve got to be in court by ten, but I’ve
got plenty of time to visit first,” she told Eve, “and get Toby to the groomer’s. It’s right on the way. Do you want to hold him? You have a cat.”
“No. Thanks.”
“Toby should meet Galahad. I bet they’d be best friends, too.” Hilly snuggled the giant cat. “We were just talking about how we spent the day after the day after Christmas, Mrs. Missenelli.”
“Between five and seven in the evening,” Eve repeated. “December twenty-seventh. Did you see or speak to anyone during that window of time?”
“I don’t know.”
“You saw me, you spoke to me. Jumping Jesus, Hilly, your brain’s always scattered. Don’t know how you get yourself up every day.”
Missenelli fisted her hands on bony hips. “I came over here, asked you about Toby and the groomer’s. Right about six o’clock, because Mr. Missenelli was watching his show, and it comes on at six. And you still in your pajamas—nice ones though, like I said.”
“From my aunt, for Christmas.”
“You had a glass of wine, and you said I should have one, and since I hate Mr. Missenelli’s six o’clock show, I did. Now, you make sure Toby gets to the groomer’s. I appreciate it. You’re a good girl, Hilly.” Missenelli arrowed back at Eve. “Now what’s all this about?”
“Routine,” Eve said.
“Don’t hand me that. This is about that dead lawyer lady, isn’t it? I heard about that.”
“Bastwick?” Hilly’s eyes popped again. “Leanore Bastwick? You’re here about . . . murder. But, but, but, I didn’t even know her. I thought—I thought you came just to meet me, and talk. And we’d—we’d—we’d hang out. Am I a suspect? Oh my God.”
“Not anymore,” Eve said.
When Hilly burst into tears, hovered over by Mrs. Missenelli, who sent Eve the serious stink eye, Eve got out.
“I think you broke Hilly’s heart.”
“Oh, you’re funny, Peabody. I’m cracking up inside.”
She strode out, got back in the car with a headache throbbing like a tooth. “‘Living the dream’?”
“Day in, day out,” Peabody said cheerfully.
“Dreams can become nightmares really fast,” Eve warned, and bulleted away from the curb.