Secrets in Death

by J. D. Robb

  Eve took it. “Thanks, that’s very helpful.”

  “I’ll get the box.”

  Eve slipped the paper into her pocket. It was past time to give the victim some attention.

  DeWinter slipped off the stool where she’d waited.

  “Is there something I can do?”

  Eve glanced at the white curtain. “I don’t think this is a job for a forensic anthropologist.”

  “I was here. I had her blood on my hands. Can I help?”

  Eve glanced at the people still bunched together on the north side. “Sterling’s still here.”

  “He’s been cleared to go, along with his wife, but he stayed to help someone through a full-blown panic attack—and another fainting spell. I think he must be a very good doctor. And I think if we’d gotten to the victim even five minutes sooner, we might have saved her. That’s pure conjecture, of course.”

  “Conjecture can be useful.” She held out a can of Seal-It. “Seal up.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “If you want to help, seal up. You’ve already got some blood on your boots.”

  DeWinter glanced down. “Damn it.” But she sealed up.

  And then moved behind the shielding with Eve.

  Eve crouched, took her Identi-pad from her kit, pressed it to the victim’s thumb. “Victim is identified as Mars, Larinda, age thirty-seven—”

  “I don’t think so,” DeWinter interjected, earning a cool stare from Eve. “I can certainly verify that, but it’s my opinion the victim is between forty and forty-five.”

  “So noted. The victim’s official identification information lists her age at thirty-seven. She resides at 265 Park Avenue, Penthouse 3. Single—no marriage or cohabs on record, no offspring. Hand me the gauge. I need to verify TOD.”

  As DeWinter looked for it in the kit, Eve checked the victim for other injuries. “The arm appears to be the only injury. ME to verify.” She took the gauge DeWinter held out. “TOD eighteen-forty-three, which jibes with my live record. Victim suffered an injury to the brachial artery in her right arm. The appearance of the wound indicates a sharp instrument slicing through the material of the sleeve and into the flesh.”

  Eve hunkered back. “She made it up here from the bathroom. Whoever cut her hit her in the bathroom. She got out, down to the steps, came up, down another hall, got several steps into the bar before she went down.”

  “Do you want my opinion?”

  “That’s why I let you in here.”

  “She wouldn’t have felt disoriented at first—not the first few seconds, even up to half a minute, depending on what Li—Dr. Morris—finds regarding the damage to the artery. It’s possible she made it out of the restroom, even to the steps before she began to feel seriously confused, woozy.”

  “Blood trail’s heavier on the lower part of the steps, and there are some smears—likely from her hand—on the walls.”

  “Bracing herself. Maybe gathering herself or just standing on the steps unsure—confused. Then continuing up, a kind of instinctive process. Her brain was deprived of blood, like her heart.”

  “Besides you, and medicals, maybe soldiers, maybe cops, how many people are going to think—even plan—to go for that spot? That artery? You’ve got a sharp, you go for the throat, the heart, and drop them where they stand. More time to get gone that way, too.”

  “Are you asking or just thinking out loud?”

  “Both.”

  “The throat’s effective,” De Winter confirmed, “but very messy, especially in a public place. The heart takes more precision. The brachial is a long artery, so increases the target. An inch lower, or higher? You’d get the same result. Not so with the heart.”

  “Got that. Good, and I agree.”

  “As for who might know, there’s this interesting tool. They call it the Internet.”

  “Yeah, yeah, anybody can find out anything. But you have to be looking.”

  “But you do think the killer was looking.” DeWinter looked down at Mars again. “For her.”

  “Most likely. She left her purse—and her wallet in it with cash and credit, her ’link. She’s wearing jewelry that looks like it’s worth the steal. They didn’t bother. So that eliminates that motive.”

  Eve pushed up. “We’ll see what she has to say to Morris. Have Peabody take your statement.”

  “Mine?”

  “You’re a wit, DeWinter, so yeah. Let’s be thorough. Then you should go home. Your kid’s probably wondering where you are.”

  “I texted her I’d be late. And no, I didn’t tell her why.”

  “Good. Go spell it out for Peabody, and go home. You did what you could, for her, and afterward. I followed her blood trail, and I’m with Sterling. She was dead before she dropped. Her brain just hadn’t gotten the memo yet.”

  “I’ve never actually seen someone die,” DeWinter admitted. “It’s different, going into the field, examining remains, or having bones on my table at the lab. Yes, I’ll go home. I want to hug my daughter. Can you keep me updated on the investigation?”

  “I can do that.”

  After DeWinter stepped outside the curtain, Eve took another moment to study the dead.

  She hadn’t thought of Larinda Mars in years, and when she had thought of her at that time, had felt little more than a mild distaste and contempt.

  Obviously someone had felt a great deal more.

  “Who’d you piss off, Mars?”

  Still shielded, she took out her PPC and began a run on Fabio Bellami.

  She stepped out and nearly into Roarke as he reached forward to part the shield.

  “You made good time. I need you to hold a minute.”

  She carried the evidence bags she’d taken inside the curtain to the box Emily set on the bar. After setting the bags in, she pulled securing tape out of her kit, sealed the box, marked it.

  “Larinda Mars,” Roarke said.

  “Yeah.” She looked over, noting that the number of witnesses had diminished by more than half. Peabody sat with DeWinter. “I’ll run it through for you, but I want to clear these people out. We’re going to have to shut your place down for a while.”

  “Understood.”

  “McNab should have the exterior feed, and I’m going to need to go over that. Interior feed would’ve helped a lot.”

  “Patrons don’t like being on camera in a high-end pub. And we find murder a very rare activity here.”

  His voice was clipped, cool. She couldn’t blame him for it.

  “Also understood. I need to finish getting statements. The morgue team’s on its way, and so are the sweepers. You’re going to need to hold on awhile longer.”

  She let in the morgue team herself, and the sweepers. Directed both groups. By the time they were at their work only a handful of people remained in the chairs and booths, all staff.

  She sat down with Cesca.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you before,” Cesca began.

  “Why should you? You didn’t have Ms. Mars’s table, but did you know her?”

  “She comes in a couple times a week. Sometimes more. She likes that booth—she likes Kyle. He’s usually her server.”

  “Did you see her go downstairs?”

  “No. I did notice Kyle turning the booth—clearing the glasses. We were pretty busy. We usually are between five-thirty and seven-thirty—the after-work crowd. You and Dr. DeWinter didn’t want much, but a lot of my tables did, so I was, you know, hopping.”

  “I noticed. Did you see Ms. Mars come in, from downstairs? Before she collapsed?”

  “I heard the crash—you know the glass breaking when she … and I looked over, like you do, and I saw her, and somebody screamed, and you were running over. I didn’t really see … It didn’t register, I guess. The blood, until she fell and you grabbed her. I felt a little bit sick for a minute. I’ve never seen blood like that. Then lots of people were screaming or yelling, and my head was all…” She circled her fingers in the air around her wedge
of purple hair. “So I put my head between my knees until I didn’t feel so dizzy. You said to stand by the door and all that. It helped. Having something to do.”

  “You did fine. Have you seen Ms. Mars in here with the man she was with tonight?”

  “I don’t think so. He didn’t look familiar. And he was really frosty, so it feels like I’d remember. But you get busy, and when it’s not your table…”

  “Okay. Your contact info’s on record here, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. They have to have all that for payroll, and in case they need you to come in off schedule.”

  “Then you can go on home. Somebody’ll be in touch about when you can come back to work.”

  “Can I stay until Sherry can go? She’s one of the cooks. We’re roommates. I don’t want to go home alone. I just really feel, you know, a little whacked.”

  “Sure. Do you want transportation home?”

  “We only live four blocks away. But I’ll just wait for her.”

  “No problem. Do you want some water? A soda?”

  Cesca’s eyes filled. “I’m supposed to wait on you.”

  “You held up, Cesca. You did fine.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a Coke.” She wiped at her eyes.

  “Okay.”

  Eve moved off, signaled to Roarke. “See the girl with purple hair? She’s Cesca, one of your waitstaff. She’s solid. And she could use a Coke.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Eve moved on to Kyle. She recognized him, had watched him stop by Mars’s booth. Now she sat next to him as he gnawed on a thumbnail.

  “I’m Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “Yeah, you said. I know. I’m Kyle. I’m Kyle Spinder.”

  His eyes, full of nerves, angled away, closed, when the morgue team rolled out the gurney with its black body bag.

  “Oh man, oh God, oh man.”

  “Breathe slow, in and out.”

  “I never saw anybody dead before. I never did. Except on screen, in vids and games and shit. Stuff, sorry.”

  “Okay. You waited on Ms. Mars and Mr. Bellami tonight.”

  “Kir Royale—that’s her drink. He stuck with mineral water, twist of lime. She ordered the caviar—toast points. He didn’t have any.”

  “Have they been in together before tonight?”

  “I never waited on him. Never saw him. She comes in a lot, meets people. She’s always nice to me, sometimes slips me some cash. She never pays—the tab, I mean. She meets people who pay the tab, but she’d slip me some cash sometimes.”

  “What were they talking about?”

  Now he looked pained. “I’m not supposed to talk about what customers talk about.”

  “This time it’s different. This time it’s a murder investigation.”

  Those nervous eyes popped wide. “Are you sure? Maybe she had an accident. Maybe.”

  “It’s my job to be sure. Now, what were they talking about?”

  “His play, I think. I sort of tune it out because, honest, you’re not supposed to talk about what you hear. But they were talking some about this play he’s producing—I think. And some girls, maybe something about illegals. His wife? Maybe? They would stop talking about it when I went up to them, so I didn’t hear all that much. They kept it down—she usually keeps it down. So did he—sometimes the other person doesn’t keep it down as much, but he did.”

  “How would you describe them together? Friendly?”

  Now he shook his head. “I guess not so friendly. She smiles a lot, but … He wasn’t real happy, if I had to say. He looked pissed—sorry, annoyed, a little mad. I guess maybe they argued some, but they kept it down.”

  “Who left the booth first?”

  “She did—I kept my eye on the booth in case they wanted another round. We were busy, but I kept an eye, and I saw her get up, head downstairs. Mostly she goes before she leaves—down to the bathroom, I mean. Then I was busy, and when I noticed again, he was gone. I checked my meter, and he’d paid the bill, so I bused the table.”

  “About how long was that? When you noticed he was gone and bused the table?”

  “I’m not real sure. Not that long. Five or ten minutes, I guess. Probably like five minutes, maybe. Another of my tables paid out, so I bused that one, and when I carried the tray over to the station, I sort of turned to say something to Bent—ah, Bentley behind the bar—and she … she bumped into me, threw me off, and I got my balance, but then I saw her, and the blood, and I dropped the tray. I dropped it, and then everything was whack.”

  “Before that, did you notice anybody else go downstairs or come upstairs?”

  “I don’t think I did. I try to keep an eye on my stations and none of my customers did, except Ms. Mars. I got—I got—I got her blood on me. See? When she bumped into me, I got blood on me.”

  “Yeah, I see. What we’re going to do is get you a clean shirt, and we’re going to take that one in with us.”

  “I didn’t kill her.” His face went sheet white, with high red flags on his cheeks. “I swear!”

  “I don’t think that. I think you were doing your job. I’m going to get you a shirt, then you can go.”

  “I liked her. She was always nice to me.”

  “Just wait here.”

  Once again, she went to Roarke. “That kid needs a clean shirt and somewhere to change. I need to take the one he’s wearing into evidence. The vic walked into him, got blood on him. He’s a little shaky.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “And one more? Would you get your manager to pull out anyone who paid their bill between eighteen-thirty and eighteen-forty-one?”

  “All right.”

  They cleared the bar until only cops and sweepers remained.

  Gratefully, Eve took the coffee Roarke brought her in an oversized white cup and saucer. “Thanks.”

  With it, she sat to organize her thoughts.

  Roarke sat across from her, waited.

  “You brought a ride?”

  “I did.”

  “Would you trust Peabody and McNab with it?”

  “I would.”

  “Peabody!”

  “Sir!” Peabody gulped down the last of a fancy latte as she worked on her notes.

  “I need you and McNab to take that box to Central, log it in. I want McNab to go over her ’link and any other electronics in there. I want a full report on same, asap. I want you to start running the names in her address book, or whatever she has. Send me a copy. You can take Roarke’s ride. Where is it?” she asked him.

  “It’s in the alley, in the rear of the building.” He rattled off its codes.

  “Park it in my slot. Roarke can have somebody pick it up. McNab, anything pertinent on the cams?”

  “Nobody went in or out of the rear door.” He rubbed idly at his earlobe and its forest of hoops. “Numerous in and out the front during the pertinent time frame. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the guy—from the description given—she was sitting with. Only from the back, but it looks like he walked out at eighteen-forty. Five others, also only viewed from the back, left at eighteen-thirty-eight. Three males, two females, who appeared to be in a group. And two females left at eighteen-forty-one.”

  “Shoot me a copy of that, and all the wit statements.”

  “Are you coming into Central?” Peabody asked her.

  “No, I’m going to go visit her drinking buddy, then I’ll work from home unless we break this. Morgue first stop in the morning, Peabody. Meet me there unless you hear otherwise.”

  “There goes breakfast. ‘All the dish, served with a silver spoon.’”

  “What?”

  “Oh, her slogan—the vic’s. Larinda Mars’s Who’s Doing What show: ‘All the dish, served with a silver spoon.’ Not that I watch that sort of thing,” she added, a little too piously. “You just hear stuff.”

  “Right. Get gone. Wait, how did you and McNab get here so fast? You were off nearly an hour before I called you in.”

  “I stayed at
Central doing some paperwork until McNab cleared. He had one hanging. We were just walking out when you tagged me.”

  “Handy. Appreciate the assist, McNab.”

  “Where the She-Body goes, I go. I’m driving.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Peabody leaped up, chased him out the back.

  “I need to secure and lock the doors,” Eve told Roarke. “You’ve got a nice place here—on the fancy edge for me, but nice, and quality staff. It’ll be nice again.”

  He glanced down at the pool of blood, the river of it running from pool to stairway.

  “I thought very, very little of Larinda Mars, and what I did think was with sneering derision at best. But someone spilled her blood on my floor. I trust you to find justice for her. And I’ll find it for my place, and the people who make their livings working in it.”

  He looked around again, then picked up Eve’s coat. “Let’s lock up, then you can begin to fill me in on the blanks I haven’t filled in myself.”

  She put a hand on his arm, then, since they were alone, moved it to his cheek. “I know you’re pissed.”

  “Bloody well right I am.”

  “It happened in your place,” Eve said, framing his face firmly. “And it happened under my goddamn nose. Believe me when I say I’m as pissed as you are. Justice, yeah, it comes first and last for the victim. But it’s fucking personal for me, too. Under my nose, goddamn it.”

  He framed her face in turn, smiled just a little. “So here we are, all pissed off, and likely to give this particular dead woman more of our sweat than she deserved in life.”

  “Murder levels that.”

  “It does.” He kissed her lightly, then rested his brow on hers. “Aye, it does. So we’ll both do what needs doing until it’s done.”

  3

  The wind had snarled from bitter to outright mean. On its bitch slap wafted the scents of boiled soy dogs, roasted chestnuts, and frigid humanity.

  Eve filled Roarke in, bare bones for now, as they traveled the two blocks to her car.

  “I’m amazed she got out of the loo. She must have lost a half liter or more in there,” Roarke said.

  Still pissed, Eve thought, and who could blame him? “The doctor who assisted, and DeWinter agreed: Mars was mostly dead when she stumbled into the bar. She bled a damn river on the stairs. They gave her twelve minutes, tops, from the point of attack, but they didn’t see that blood trail. I’m betting half that, or less. And the wound…”