Forgotten in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “I’d like to speak to him, ma’am, that’s all.”

  “Bull hockey! Cops at my door! Well, he’s not here, is he? And he won’t be here because I kicked his stupid, lying ass out eight months ago. Nine. Almost nine.”

  “You’re separated?”

  “Damn right we are, because I’ve had enough. Twenty-six years, and he promises no more gambling. But does he stop? Hell to the hell no, he doesn’t stop.”

  She was winding up, Eve saw, and would keep right on winding.

  “We could’ve lost the house where I’m standing right here!” Angelina rapped a fist on the doorjamb. “But he doesn’t stop. Lost most of our middle boy’s college fund, so we had to take out a loan, but he doesn’t stop.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Delgato, but the separation wasn’t listed on his data, and this address was.”

  “I see he hasn’t changed it. You have to pay a fee to change it, so why should I pay more to cover his stupid ass? Man’s got a good job, he’s got a skill, but he can’t keep away from the horses. I’m done.”

  “Could you tell us where to find him?”

  “Took himself off to some flop.” She rattled off an address, included a room number, which told Eve she kept such things in the memory banks.

  “And if you don’t find him there, try the track or Delancy’s Bar and Grill, they have offtrack betting and he can’t stay the hell away. And you tell him he can stop tagging me up and making his lousy promises and whining about coming home. I’m done.”

  “Could I ask if you know if he ever sharked out a loan?”

  She snorted. But the glitter in her eyes didn’t come from anger. It was grief.

  “He’ll claim he hasn’t, but I know damn well. More than once he’s come home with a black eye or worse, and claimed he got hurt on the job. More than once I’ve heard him whispering and pleading on his ’link when he thinks I don’t hear. I said you need help, Carmine, and he’d say he was going to meetings. Bull hockey!”

  Eve took out her PPC, brought up Tovinski’s photo. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Angelina frowned at it. “Maybe. Not sure. But I recognize the type. The type who gave Carmine the black eyes and bruised ribs, and one time broke his fingers so he couldn’t work for a week. Trash. I recognize trash, and I’m not having it in my house anymore. I’m done.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

  “You tell him I’m done!” she called out as Eve and Roarke walked away. Then slammed the door.

  “I have a feeling Carmine Delgato just popped up several rungs on your list.”

  “Damn right.”

  Roarke wrapped an arm around Eve’s waist as they walked back to the car. “She still loves him.”

  “Come on.”

  “She’s too angry not to still love him. I saw a broken heart in her eyes.”

  Eve sighed. “Yeah. So did I.”

  7

  New York, Eve knew, merged different worlds into one big, crowded, diverse city. Traveling a few handfuls of blocks, Carmine Delgato had moved from a tidy neighborhood of upper-middle-class townhomes, apartments, and the shops and restaurants they patronized, to a dingy corner of flops, dives, low-rent street LCs, and the downtrodden who patronized them.

  He’d chosen a squat post-Urban box squeezed between the dirt-fogged display window of a pawn shop boasting a sign reading $ 4 U, and a dive bar called The Hard Stuff.

  The four-story box had plenty of graffiti and no security.

  When she walked inside—no need to buzz in or use her master—it surprised her to find the closet-size lobby looked and smelled clean. The tiny counter held a sign:

  RING BELL FOR ASSISTANCE.

  WE’LL BE RIGHT BACK!

  Eve eyed the single elevator, swiveled to the stairs.

  No litter or graffiti in the stairwell, and again that sense of clean.

  “Somebody scrubbed the place down recently.”

  “It’s more than that,” Roarke commented. “I expect it’s next to impossible to keep the exterior tag free, but someone maintains the inside. No soundproofing to speak of, as we can plainly hear.”

  “Yeah, why is there always a baby screaming like somebody’s jabbing a needle in its eye?”

  “I couldn’t say, though someone else appears to be enjoying themselves.”

  Over the baby’s wailing and someone’s choice of trash rock, the sound of sex thumps and grunts came through, enthusiastically.

  “A long way from flowers on the stoop.”

  She pushed through the door on the second floor, spotted the skinny, pint-size Black guy hammering a fist on 2B.

  “I know you’re in there, Carmine. Open the effing door.”

  He paused when he spotted Eve and Roarke, and dropped his fist. “Help you?”

  Eve held up her badge. “Are you a friend of Carmine Delgato’s?”

  “Not exactly. I’m the building super. My partners and me own the place. Is there a problem?”

  “I need to speak with Mr. Delgato.”

  “Yeah, well, get in line.” His shoulders hunched the second the words spurted out of his mouth. “Sorry, don’t mean to be a jerk. He hasn’t paid the rent in four effing weeks, and I gave the GD SOB plenty of chances on it. I told him how this was his last one, and he’s dodging me.”

  “Are you sure he’s in there?”

  “Pretty doggone sure. I had to turn one of the rooms and I saw him coming in when I looked out the window. We keep the rooms clean, see, between the thirty minutes and hourly rents. Wasn’t more than a half hour ago. Look, I gotta kick him out. I’m sorry to do it, but it’s been four effing weeks.”

  The little guy, Eve thought, had an expressive face that managed to look aggrieved and apologetic at the same time.

  “You’re within your rights to enter the premises.”

  “Yeah.” He blew out a breath that had his lips vibrating. “I was gonna. Makes me feel like a jerk, but I was gonna.”

  Eve switched on her recorder. “Can I have your name?”

  “I’m Dell, Jamal Dell. I’m the in-building super. My brother and my two cousins, we rotate when we can, but I’m the in-building. We own the building. I know it doesn’t look like much, but—”

  “It’s very well maintained,” Roarke told him.

  “Thanks.” Jamal brightened right up. “We work at it. We pull in enough, we’re gonna add some security and soundproofing, but we can’t do that if SOBs like Carmine try stiffing us.”

  “Mr. Dell, we have official business with Mr. Delgato. If you enter the premises, do we have your permission to do so as well?”

  “Jeez, I’m sorry if he’s in any cop trouble. He’s got a sad story—which is why I let him sob-story me into four weeks. Yeah, you can come in.”

  He pulled a passkey out of his pocket. “Doggone it, Carmine. I’m coming in and you’re going out.”

  He unlocked the door, shoved it open. After one step inside, he froze.

  “Holy cow! Oh my gosh!”

  Eve had already rushed past him to grab the legs of Carmine Delgato and shove his limp body upward. It hung from the rope around his neck tied to a hook in the ceiling.

  “Call nine-one-one,” she shouted at Dell. “Call for an ambulance. Now. Now!”

  “Oh my effing goodness.”

  Roarke righted the chair on its side under the body, then, pulling out a folding knife, sawed at the rope. To help with the weight, he wrapped an arm around Delgato as he cut through.

  “He’s still warm.” Roarke let the knife fall and used both hands to help lower Delgato to the floor.

  Eve yanked at the rope to loosen it, felt for a pulse.

  “I’ve got a pulse. Just barely, but he’s not breathing.”

  She straddled him, started CPR.

  “They’re coming! The ambulance. Holy cow, holy cow.”

  “Go down, lead them up. Tell them I’m doing CPR.”

  Roarke crouched beside her as Dell raced out. “
I can take over.”

  “I’ve got it, I’ve got it. Goddamn it. He’s swinging up there while we’re standing outside the door.” She pumped, pumped, pumped, pushed her breath into him, pumped.

  “There’s drywall bits on the floor from putting that hook in. Fresh. Fuck, fuck, come on, you asshole. Come back. But where’s the tool? Need a tool to get it into the what-do-you-call-it.”

  “Joist.”

  “That. Just into that ceiling? It wouldn’t hold him. Wouldn’t hold the weight. Could’ve put it away, but why? Place is a pigsty.”

  She heard the sirens. “I need my field kit.”

  “I’ll get it.” But he waited, stayed beside her as she fought to bring Carmine Delgato back to life.

  He rose when the MTs rushed in.

  Eve swung off Delgato, gave them room as they got to work.

  “No pulse.”

  “He had one when we got him down. Faint, but he had one.”

  They shocked him, once, twice. Eve watched the line on the portable lay flat.

  They shot adrenaline into his heart, but the line stayed flat.

  She pushed to her feet when Roarke came back with her kit. And shook her head before the MT called it.

  “He’s gone.”

  “I’ll take it from here.” She held up her badge.

  “Yeah, I recognized you, Lieutenant.” The female half of the MT team glanced up at her. “I’ve mopped you up before. Nothing we could do for this one. Likely he was gone when you cut him down.”

  “Appreciate the effort.”

  “We all do what we can.”

  While they packed up, she walked over to Roarke. “I won’t waste my breath saying you don’t have to wait while I deal with this, so I’ll use it to tell you to seal up.”

  She took a can of Seal-It out of her kit, coated her hands, her boots, then passed it to him.

  “You can play Peabody, collect some of the drywall bits.”

  When the MTs moved out, she went back to the body to formalize the ID.

  “Victim is Delgato, Carmine, currently of this address. TOD, seventeen-forty-three. He died when I was doing CPR.”

  “The MT was right. He was, essentially, gone when we got to him.”

  “Yeah. COD, asphyxiation, strangulation by hanging. No visible defensive wounds, no visible trauma other than severe bruising around the neck.”

  She put on microgoggles, leaned close. “Bruising is consistent with the rope used to…”

  Leaned closer. “There’s … it looks like a slight, possible anomaly in the neck area. A lot of bruising, swelling, but … it looks like … potentially a faint circle. Pressure syringe. It’s from a fucking pressure syringe. ME to examine and verify.”

  She sat back on her heels, tagged Morris as she scanned the room.

  “Dallas? How’s your evening going?”

  “I’m looking down at a dead guy.”

  “So, as usual then.”

  “Ha. I need you on him, Morris, and right away. I’m sorry to ask, and it would read as a self-termination by hanging, but … Wait, let me magnify this area and show you.”

  Once she had, Morris studied the magnified area. “Yes, I see what you mean. I’d want to take a look—in the flesh—to confirm. But from the visual, it appears to be the mark left by a pressure syringe. It’s very nearly blurred out in the bruising, which would have been a smart and efficient way to mask it. Send him to me. I’ll head back now.”

  “Sorry to screw up your evening.”

  “The dead are demanding creatures, as we both know. I’ll verify, and run tests to see what, if anything, was injected. Do you have a TOD?”

  “About ten minutes ago.”

  “Ah, well, that’ll make my job easier. I’ll send a team out now myself. I want him fast. Before any substance—and some can quickly—dissipates from his system.”

  “Thanks.”

  She pocketed her ’link again, looked at Roarke.

  “Open window over there, fire escape outside. Hook recently added to the ceiling. We’re going to look for the drill or other tool that installed it, but we’re not going to find it because whoever came through that window took it back with him. Like he brought the hook, the rope, the syringe full of whatever he jabbed into Delgato so he could just string him up.

  “His neck’s not broken. That doesn’t automatically mean homicide, because it doesn’t always snap when somebody puts on a noose and steps off the chair.”

  “And when it doesn’t,” Roarke said, “you choke to death. Slowly.”

  “Yeah. Not an easy way. No broken neck, it’s one more added to the hook, to the mark, to the fact Delgato makes an excellent fall guy.”

  “Dead men tell no tales.”

  “You got that.” She stepped away from the body to walk to the window. “We’ll get some uniforms to do the canvass, but we’re not likely to get a cooperating witness around here. Could luck out, but for a solid ID—a long shot.”

  She studied the windowsill, angled her head, then put on her goggles again.

  “What did you say about the building?”

  “It’s well maintained.”

  “Yeah, and these jimmy marks look real fresh. They’re faint, careful, but they’ve scratched the paint a little. And … son of a bitch! Son of a bitch. I need tweezers and a small evidence container. The lidded vials, not a bag. I’ve got a couple bits of fabric. Not so smart as you think, you murdering bastard fuck. Jimmied open the shitty window lock—didn’t take much, but you scratched the paint. And when you climbed in, the scratches caught at your pants. Didn’t even feel it, just a couple threads.”

  She drew them out, put them in the container. Still wearing the goggles, she studied them. “But I’ve got Harvo, the fucking Queen of Hair and Fiber.”

  She labeled it, initialed it.

  “He was waiting for him, that’s how he did it. Knows Delgato’s routine, so he times it. He was probably leaving by the window about the time we were coming in the damn building. Dell saw Delgato coming in about a half hour before he started banging on the door. Killer grabs Delgato when he comes in, jabs him. No defensive wounds so he’s either able to control him or the stuff he put in him takes him out. He’s already installed the hook—maybe somebody heard that, we’ll check.”

  She looked up, climbed up, examined the hook. “That’s going to hit zero, most likely. It couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds to drill through.”

  She hopped down. “Now he’s got time to get the rope ready. No drag marks I can see, so he hauls Delgato up, gets the noose around his neck. He’s the one on the chair, not the vic. Stand on the chair, haul on the rope—got some muscle—loop it around the hook, tie it off, good and strong. Step off while he’s dangling, knock the chair down, and then leave the way you came. Sealed up—we’re not going to find prints, and I’m betting the rope came off a job site, one Delgato worked. I’m betting that.”

  She glanced toward the door when she heard footsteps. “That’s going to be the morgue team. Morris is quick. Go ahead and let them in. I’m calling for sweepers, then we’ll do a quick search.”

  They didn’t find any tool for installing the hook. Roarke did locate a fake soup can with a roll of cash. Enough—maybe—to pay a couple weeks’ rent. She didn’t find his ’link, and that told her she would’ve found some kind of communication on it to/from his killer.

  “No ’link, no appointment book, job schedule, no PPC or tablet.”

  “You believe, and I’d agree, they went out the window with his killer.”

  “Yeah. Why risk it? You had to communicate some way or other. And he could have your name listed somewhere.”

  Roarke looked around again, considered the small, sad life ended there. “And you believe Delgato was responsible for Alva Quirk.”

  “He was responsible, he was part of it, or he knew who was. Ducked Peabody all day, and damn well told whoever put that noose around his neck the cops wanted to talk to him.”

  As Roa
rke did, she scanned the lost-man mess of the single-room flop. “Sweepers won’t be much longer, then I’ll turn the scene over to them—and they can get the evidence we already collected into the lab tonight. Still…”

  She looked at Roarke. “That fine dining and bottle of red has to wait.”

  “I may not be a trained investigator, but I deduced that.”

  “Sorry. I need to talk to Dell, then I have to go notify the victim’s wife. She’s still next of kin. And a drop by Bolton Singer’s is still on the plate. I can pull Peabody in for all that.”

  “Why? I’m here, and you don’t need either of us for those tasks in any case.”

  “Partners sometimes hear or see something you don’t, or think of a fresh angle.”

  “Then I’ll do my best to be a good partner.”

  “You already are.”

  When the sweepers arrived, she and Roarke went down to the lobby. Dell paced the tiny space, literally wringing his hands, while another man, not quite as skinny and clearly a blood relation, sat behind the counter.

  “Officer!”

  “Lieutenant,” Eve corrected.

  “Sorry. So sorry. I’m so twisted around. I don’t know what to do. We decided we should close to new bookings until … We have some week-to-week and month-to-month tenants, but we closed down for now for the rest.”

  “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Dell.”

  “Told ya,” said the man behind the counter.

  “My brother, Koby, we’re partners—with our cousins. I called Koby. I hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s fine. We’ll need to seal off 2B. It’s a crime scene. We’ll clear it as soon as possible. I have a couple officers coming in to canvass—to check and see if anyone saw anything.”

  “I don’t know how I can go in there again. Carmine effing killed himself. I had to get the rent, but I wouldn’t have pushed at him so hard if I’d known he’d—”

  “Mr. Dell—Jamal—this isn’t your fault.”

  “Told him that, too. Jamal takes everything to heart. He’s a GD softie.”

  “Okay, I’m going to ask. What’s with the language censoring? I’m a cop. I’ve heard it all. I’ve said it all.”