by J. D. Robb
“Silk covers him—ha ha.” Peabody stepped back. “She came right out and said he’d contacted her five minutes ago, frantic, asked her not to mention they’d enacted a few of her more memorable scenes, but she doesn’t see the problem. In any case, she verifies Day was naked, handcuffed, and covered in passion fruit body gel when Mars was bleeding out.”
“I did not need that image in my head,” Nadine said. “Really, really didn’t.”
“And he likes to be spanked.”
“Stop it,” Nadine begged.
“Arrange for the electronics and the board to be transported,” Eve said. “Give the office a good look. I’ll start with her staff. I have to get back for the damn media conference, but we’re going to squeeze in a talk with Ongar on the way.”
She got a lot of tears from Mars’s staff. Though clearly Mars had been demanding, often edging close to abusive, she’d gained some loyalty there.
“She was sort of their queen,” Peabody said as they left Seventy-Five. “Maybe not always benevolent, but they all looked up to her. She gave them swag—little gifts. Worked them like slaves, but, oh, here’s some perfume or this scarf or whatever Mars got in a swag bag at some event and didn’t want or like. I don’t think any of them were in on her sideline.”
“Nope.” Eve negotiated traffic. “Mars worked that line alone. She didn’t share. Shit she didn’t want, sure. Stuff she got tired of, maybe. Rewards to ensure loyalty. But she worked her hobby all by herself.”
She brooded a moment. Mitch L. Day clicked some boxes—regardless of his cover of Silk—ha—but she judged him to be a dog, a lying dog. And unfortunately, a lying coward of a dog.
Tough to see him killing in cold blood.
She wanted to do another walk-through of the crime scene, push on Mars’s electronics, start digging into her work board. Actual work. But after Ongar—home on a sick day, according to his office—she had to deal with the media.
It felt as if she’d dealt with them all damn day.
She really wanted to hit the lab, bug the shit out of DeWinter for some results.
A new face for Mars. Why?
“Why would you change your face?”
“Me?” Peabody tipped down the vanity mirror, studied herself, smiled at Trina’s work. “If I had nothing but money, didn’t get the wigs at the idea of it, I’d change some features. Not my whole face. I want to look like me, but better.”
“You change your face because you want to be somebody else,” Eve insisted. “Or need to be somebody else. Who she was before may play into this.” Eve glanced over. “What features?”
“Oh, I’d have them round my jawline, soften it up.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s really square.”
“It’s strong. What kind of cop wants a soft jaw?”
“Just a softer line. And I wouldn’t mind more defined cheekbones. Maybe slim down the nose some.”
“I’m sorry I asked. All of that’s just stupid. If you want to look like you, you don’t have them change your face.”
“Mostly I’d like to be taller.” Peabody continued with the dream. “If I could be a couple inches taller, just have them stretch me out, my ass would be smaller.”
When Eve rolled her eyes, Peabody shrugged. “Didn’t you ever want to be different?”
“I wanted to be a cop, so the shape of my jaw didn’t factor in.”
She pulled up, stunned to find a curb spot, in front of a four-unit townhome. Ongar and Case had the east side ground level.
They’d painted their door a glossy blue. Eve rang the buzzer.
“Decent neighborhood,” she observed. “Easy walk to the bar.”
She rang it a second time. “Home sick?”
“His office said.”
No palm plate, she noted, no comm security. Solid locks, a standard cam. She considered buzzing again, but heard the locks clunk.
Ongar pulled the door open to the length of the security chain.
“Can I help you?” His eyes, heavy, blurry, focused on her badge. His face was pale as death. “What’s the— Cheyenne?”
The door slapped shut, swung open seconds later off the chain. “Cheyenne, is she—”
“She’s fine as far as I know. We’re not here about your cohab.”
He sagged a little. “She just left about … God, what time is it? I’m pretty out of it.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “What’s this about?”
“Can we come in?”
“Yeah, after you tell me what this is about.”
“It’s about an incident at Du Vin last night.”
“The bar? We were there. There wasn’t any … Can I see your badge again? I’m still foggy. I was down for the count.”
She offered the badge, let him study it.
“Yours?” he asked Peabody and repeated the process.
“Okay, come on in. Jeez, it’s really cold out there. Look, I’m going to just sit down, okay?”
He went into a living area off a short foyer, dropped down onto an oversized couch splashed with sweeping curves of red over cream. “Sorry, sit, okay? What about the bar?”
“I take it you haven’t watched any screen, checked for media reports.”
“I’m lucky I can see you.”
“You look pale, Mr. Ongar,” Peabody said.
“You should’ve seen me about two this morning.” His attempt at a smile came off as a grimace. “We tried a new restaurant last night. Do not order the seafood medley at Jamaica Joy. Trust me. Touch of food poisoning, I guess, and a touch is bad enough.”
“Can I get you something?” Peabody offered. “Some water?”
“No, that’s— Actually, there’s some ginger ale back in the kitchen. It’s helped. If you don’t mind.”
“No problem.”
Peabody left the room while Eve took stock of Ongar. Pale, heavy-eyed, his hair sticking up everywhere. He still wore what she took as pajamas—cotton pants, a long-sleeved tee, heavy socks. And pulled a red throw over him.
“A woman was killed last evening.”
“At the bar?” He started to push himself up, then eased back again. “No sudden moves. It’s not the sort of place you expect trouble.”
“I’m sure the victim thought the same. You were there with a small party?”
“Yeah, but there wasn’t any trouble.”
“Who were you with?”
“My fiancée, Cheyenne Case; my best friend, Nick Patelli—we work together—and his date, Sylvie MacGruder.”
“Just the four of you?”
“Yeah. Double date. We had drinks at Du Vin, then Sylvie wanted to try this new place. I must make her pay.” He smiled wanly when Peabody came back with a glass holding ice and ginger ale. “Thanks, really.”
Closing his eyes, he sipped slowly. “Easy, stomach. Everything was fine when we left. I guess it was about six-thirty or six-forty. You don’t need reservations for Jamaica Joy. I can currently attest to why.”
“Did you notice anyone who left when you did?”
“I wasn’t paying attention. I was pushing for Italian, and we were sort of joking around because I pretty much always push for Italian.”
“A man, right behind you,” Eve prompted.
“Like I said, I wasn’t … Yeah, yeah, now that you mention it. I guess there was this guy who stepped out when we did, and we were talking. I guess blocking his way. He might’ve had to wait a minute before we started moving again.”
“Any sort of description?”
“I really didn’t see him. More sensed him, the way you do, and honestly wouldn’t have remembered if you hadn’t pushed on it. Maybe I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye for a second. Not really his face, just the presence. He killed somebody? In the bar?”
“We’re hoping to identify him, speak with him.”
“But nothing happened when we were in there, and he left when we did, so…”
“A woman was attacked downstairs mi
nutes before you and your party and this individual left.”
“Holy shit. Shit.” He bolted straight again, one hand going to his stomach. “Cheyenne and Sylvie were down there like ten or fifteen minutes before we left. God.”
“We’ll want to speak with them, and with Mr. Patelli.”
“Sure. Do you want me to tag them up?”
“We’ll contact them. If you speak to them in the meantime, and if you, or they, have anything to add, you can contact me at Central. Peabody, leave a card.”
“Mr. Ongar, is there anything more we can do for you?” Peabody set the card on the coffee table.
“No, but thanks. Chey’s only going in to work for a couple hours. She’ll be back soon. You can let yourselves out, okay, because I’m just going to lie down here for a minute.”
“Where’s your ’link?” Eve asked him.
“My ’link? I don’t honestly know.”
“There was one in the kitchen. Good thinking,” Peabody said to Eve. “I’ll get it.”
“If you need medical assistance before your fiancée gets back, call for it,” Eve told him.
“Okay, but I’m actually better. Just hollowed out.”
Peabody came back with the ’link, set it within easy reach, then pulled the throw more securely over him.
“Thanks, really. If any of us think of anything, we’ll contact you. We really like that bar.”
Eve stepped out, took a breath. “Well, that was a long shot anyway. You can contact the others while I’m doing this stupid media conference.”
Peabody offered a big smile. “At least you’ll look really good for it.”
“That’s, of course, my primary concern. Get in the damn car.”
11
Eve hit her office first, frowning at the insulated tote on her desk. Wary, she gave it a poke, then twisted off the top.
The scent hit her first. Meat, a little grease, salt.
Tucked inside on a fancy disposable plate sat a fat burger and a large sleeve of fries. And in Roarke’s oddly artistic handwriting around the lip of the plate, looped the one-word order:
Eat
First, she wondered how the hell he’d pulled it off, and second, as she ate a fry, how food of any kind had managed to survive the ravagers in her bullpen.
She supposed the answer was the same for both questions: Roarke was Roarke.
She’d intended to have coffee, but a burger and fries demanded, in her mind, a cold tube of Pepsi. She thought she probably had enough time to scarf it all down, update her board, and think for five damn minutes before dragging her ass to the media center.
Stuffing in another fry, she shrugged out of her coat, turned to the AutoChef.
“Hey, Dallas, I just checked in with…” Peabody stopped, sniffed the air like a hound. “I smell— Oh my God, is that a burger? It’s a burger. And it’s fries.”
Saying nothing, accepting her duty—which was not the primal instinct to stuff the entire burger in her own mouth—Eve pulled out the knife in her pocket, flipped open the blade.
Peabody’s hopeful eyes watched as Eve cut the burger in half.
“No drooling,” Eve ordered and handed Peabody her share.
“Oh, man. Thanks.” Peabody bit in, then hummed like a woman being gently stroked like a lover. “It’s cow. It’s a cowburger. Here is joy and rapture.”
After her own bite, Eve just thought: good. And continued to eat one-handed as she updated her board. “Why are you in here eating half my burger instead of contacting the wits?”
Peabody swallowed the tiny bite of burger—had to make it last. “Got a tag in to all three in Ongar’s party. And I had one from McNab, which is why. Can I have a fry, too?”
“Half of them. Not a single fry over half.”
“I’m not going to eat half because loose pants, but a quarter. I can eat a quarter.” She selected one, bit in, hummed again. “McNab said they’re into her home and purse electronics—and the shields were serious. Serious moolah to pay for them,” she added after another bite and hum. “Now they’re working on the encryption.”
Eve glanced back. “She has data encrypted?”
“Not all of it, but considerable. He thinks what he’s prioritizing is her list of marks, probably payments and maybe contact info. And Roarke’s there now, helping out.”
“I figured, since I’m eating half a cowburger.”
“One day I might develop your really casual relationship with food.” With a glance at what was left of her half a burger, Peabody sighed. “Except I don’t think so, as we have a lifelong love affair.”
Eve continued to work on her board. “Let’s eliminate the intern, this Monicka Poole. The wits didn’t see the suspect’s face, but they all lean toward male. But maybe that was deliberate. Poke around there, determine if we should bring her in.”
“Will do,” Peabody said around a mouthful of fries. “Maybe, as the kill was so quick and clean, somebody hired it out. I can see if she had the finances to pay for a hit.”
“Hit’s unlikely. A pro’s not going to box himself into a public restroom with only one way in and out. But we should tie the possibility off. Work the wits. Take a look at the bar layout again, pull up the receipt list. Follow up on any customers who sat with an eyeline on the suspect’s table. We could get lucky.”
“On it. Thanks for the burger. Mega time.”
Eve only nodded, and as Peabody went out again, sat on the corner of her desk, idly nibbling on fries while she studied her updated board.
Alibis, she mused. Even seemingly solid ones—like Day’s—often cracked. But she didn’t believe his would. If he’d wanted to cover his ass, he’d have done it with something a lot less humiliating than being oiled up by a porn princess.
Plus, she didn’t see him as a killer—not a cold-blooded, stone-spined one. He definitely rated lying dog, but she also saw him as a weak sister.
Fabio Bellami. Lower on her list than Day. His statement, reaction, demeanor had rung true. Plus, the timing simply didn’t work.
Two more known marks—if Trina’s information was accurate, and it likely was.
Annie Knight, successful screen personality. Wylee Stamford, superior athlete and baseball star.
What secrets had Mars dug up on them, and hoarded away?
She sat, thinking to start a run on both, to get a sense of them beyond ratings and baseball stats. Then both her desk unit and her ’link signaled.
Kyung, on both, she noted.
Lieutenant, you’re needed in the media center. K
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
But she got up, headed out.
Both Whitney and Kyung waited for her. Kyung gave her a long look, eyebrows arched. And smiled.
“Don’t start on me.”
“Only to say you look … quite prepared, Lieutenant. And to add your one-on-one with Nadine hit the right tone. I’ve already prepped them, and the commander will give an opening statement. You can go straight to questions. Do you have any of your own?”
“No. Let’s just get it done.”
She scanned the rows of reporters, the cameras, while Whitney stepped to the podium to give the official statement.
“The primary investigator, Lieutenant Dallas, will take questions.”
He stepped back, she stepped up, and the barrage began.
She ignored the shouts, said nothing at all, wondering why they never learned that she didn’t play this game.
When a hand shot up several rows back, she pointed.
“It’s been confirmed you were in Du Vin, a bar owned by your husband, when Larinda Mars was killed. Did you speak with her, interact with her?”
“I, along with two doctors on scene, attempted to save her life. Unsuccessfully. You could call that interaction.”
“I’m sorry, I meant before she was attacked.”
“No.”
“But you knew her. Personally.”
“I met her briefly three years ago in the course of anoth
er investigation.” And since they’d ask. “At that time, she asked for and was given an invitation to a party at Roarke’s home. Since that time I haven’t seen or spoken to her until the events that transpired at Du Vin.”
Another hand shot up—maybe they could learn.
“Isn’t the fact you were a witness to this crime a conflict of interest to your function as the primary investigator?”
“I didn’t witness the crime, but the result of it.” A fine line, Eve thought, but a line. “If I had witnessed the crime, the perpetrator of same would now be in custody. However, the fact I was on scene, thereby able to secure the scene and any witnesses quickly, serves as an investigative advantage. I imagine the individual who killed Ms. Mars would have preferred otherwise.”
“Would it be accurate to say, as you were there, you most likely saw her killer?”
She’d asked herself the same damn question. “I can’t say, with accuracy. It’s a good-sized bar, with a spreading layout, and was, at the time, near full capacity.”
The questions went on, a lot of the usual bullshit about leads, motive, details she couldn’t and wouldn’t answer or answered only in generalities.
When she felt herself running out of patience, she wrapped it up.
“Let me finish up with a statement. Investigative work must remain objective. In the usual course of my job, I stand over the dead, and I do my best by them, as does everyone who works in this department. In this case, I didn’t come on scene after a body had been discovered or a crime reported. I watched Larinda Mars die. The two medicals on scene with me watched her die despite their best efforts. The people in that bar, there to have a drink with a friend after their workday, and those serving them, watched her die. I will do my best by her, as will everyone on the investigative team.”
She stepped back, ignored the ensuing barrage of questions. She looked at Kyung, got his nod.
And left to do her best.
Hoping EDD had more forward progress, she aimed there first. She skirted the madness, went straight to the geek lab.
Through the glass she saw McNab, skinny butt bopping on his stool, along with Feeney, his hair in an explosive bush, which told her he’d been pulling at it. And Roarke, slick suit coat off, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back.