by J. D. Robb
“I don’t think anything yet.” Eve turned back toward the building. Some lights had been on when she’d arrived, and there were more now so that it looked like a vertical chessboard in silver and black. “Homicide gets tagged on leapers like this. It’s standard. Do yourself a favor. Go in, take a pill, zone out. Don’t talk to the press if they wheedle your name.”
“Good advice. Will you let me know when . . . when you know what happened to her?”
“Yeah, I can do that. Want a uniform to take you up?”
“No, thanks.” She took one last look at the body. “As bad as my night was, it was better than some.”
“I hear you.”
“Best to Roarke,” Louise added, then walked toward the doors.
Peabody was already standing, her palm-link in hand. “Got an ID, Dallas. Bryna Bankhead, age twenty-three, mixed race. Single. Residence apartment 1207 in the building behind us. She worked at Saks Fifth Avenue. Lingerie. I established time of death at oh-one-fifteen.”
“One-fifteen?” Eve repeated, and thought of the readout on her bedside clock.
“Yes, sir. I ran the measurements twice.”
Eve frowned down at the gauges, the field kit, the bloody pool under the body. “Witness said she fell about one-thirty. When was the nine-eleven logged?”
Uneasy now, Peabody checked her ’link for the record. “Call came in at oh-one-thirty-six.” She heaved out a breath that fluttered her thick, straight bangs. “I must’ve screwed up the measurements,” she began. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize until I tell you you’ve screwed up.” Eve crouched, opened her own field kit, took out her own gauges. And ran the test a third time, personally.
“You established time of death accurately. For the record,” she continued. “Victim, identified as Bankhead, Bryna, cause of death undetermined. Time of death oh-one-fifteen. TOD verified by Peabody, Officer Delia, and primary investigator Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Let’s roll her, Peabody.”
Peabody swallowed the questions on her tongue, and the quick rise of her own gorge. For the moment she blanked her mind, but later she would think it had been like rolling over a sack full of broken sticks swimming in thick liquid.
“Impact has severely damaged victim’s face.”
“Boy,” Peabody breathed through her teeth. “I’ll say.”
“Limbs and torso also suffered severe damage, rendering it impossible to determine any possible premortem injury from visual exam. The body is nude. She’s wearing earrings.” Eve took out a small magnifier, peered through it at the lobes. “Multicolored stones in gold settings, matching ring on right middle finger.”
She eased closer until her lips were nearly on the victim’s throat—and Peabody’s gorge tried a second rising. “Sir . . .”
“Perfume. She’s wearing perfume. You walk around your apartment at one in the morning, Peabody, wearing fancy earrings and fancy perfume?”
“If I’m awake in my apartment at one in the morning, I’m usually in my bunny slippers. Unless . . .”
“Yeah.” Eve straightened. “Unless you’ve got company.” Eve turned to the crime scene tech. “Bag her. I want her tagged for priority with the ME. I want her checked for recent sexual activity, and any injuries that are premortem. Let’s have a look at her apartment, Peabody.”
“She’s not a leaper.”
“Evidence is pointing to the contrary.” She strode into the lobby. It was small and quiet, and security cameras swept the area.
“I want the discs from security,” she told Peabody. “Lobby level, and twelfth floor to start.”
There was a long pause as they stepped into the elevator and Eve called for the twelfth floor. Then Peabody shifted her weight, trying for casual. “So. . . are you going to bring in EDD?”
Eve stuck her hands in her pockets, scowled at the blank, brushed metal doors of the elevator. Peabody’s romantic liaison with Ian McNab, Electronics Detective Division had recently detonated. Which, if anyone had listened to me, Eve thought bitterly, wouldn’t be in many ugly pieces because it never would have existed in the first place.
“Suck it in, Peabody.”
“It’s a reasonable question on procedure, and has nothing whatsoever to do with anything else.”
Peabody’s tone was stiff enough to communicate insult, hurt feelings, and annoyance. She was, Eve thought, good at it. “If during the course of this investigation, I, as primary investigator, deem EDD is needed for consult, I will so order.”
“You could also request someone other than he who shall not be named,” Peabody muttered.
“Feeney runs EDD. I don’t tell Feeney which of his people to assign. And damn it, Peabody, this case or another, you’re going to end up working with McNab, which is why you should never have let him bang you in the first place.”
“I can work with him. It doesn’t bother me a bit.” So saying, she stomped off the elevator onto the twelfth floor. “I’m a professional, unlike some others who are always cracking wise and coming to work in weird getups and showing off.”
At the door of Bankhead’s apartment, Eve lifted her eyebrows. “You calling me unprofessional, Officer?”
“No, sir! I was . . .” Her stiff shoulders loosened, and humor slid back into her eyes. “I’d never call your getups weird, Dallas, even though I’m pretty sure you’re wearing a guy’s shirt.”
“If you’re finished with your snit, we’ll go back on record. Using master to gain entrance to victim’s apartment,” Eve continued, and coded through the locks. She opened the door, examined it. “Interior chain and snap bolt were not in use. Living area lights are on dim. What do you smell, Peabody?”
“Ah . . . candles, maybe perfume.”
“What do you see?”
“Living area, nicely decorated and organized. The mood screen’s on. Looks like a spring meadow pattern. There are two wineglasses and an open bottle of red wine on the sofa table, indicating the victim had company at some point in the evening.”
“Okay.” Though she’d hoped Peabody would take it a little further, Eve nodded. “What do you hear?”
“Music. Audio system’s playing. Violins and piano. I don’t recognize the tune.”
“Not the tune, the tone,” Eve said. “Romance. Take another look around. Everything’s in place. Neat, tidy, and as noted, organized. But she left a bottle of wine sitting open, and used glasses sitting out? Why?”
“She didn’t have a chance to put them away.”
“Or turn off the lights, the audio, the mood screen.” She stepped through, glanced into the adjoining kitchen. The counters were clean, and empty but for the corkscrew, the wine cork. “Who opened the wine, Peabody?”
“The most likely conclusion would be her date. If she’d opened it, she would have, giving the indication of the apartment, put the corkscrew away, dumped the cork in her recycler.”
“Mmm. Living area balcony doors closed and secured from inside. If this was self-termination or an accidental fall, it wasn’t from this point. Let’s check the bedroom.”
“You don’t think it was self-termination or an accident.”
“I don’t think anything yet. What I know is the victim was a single woman who kept a very neat apartment and that evidence indicates she spent at least a portion of this evening at home with company.”
Eve turned into the bedroom. The audio played here as well, dreamy, fluid notes that seemed to drift on the breeze fluttering through the open balcony doors. The bed was unmade, and the disordered sheets were strewn with pink rose petals. A black dress, black undergarments, and black evening shoes were piled beside the bed.
Candles, guttering fragrantly in their own wax, were set around the room.
“Read the scene,” Eve ordered.
“It appears as if the victim engaged in or was about to engage in sexual intercourse prior to her death. There are no signs of struggle here or in the living area, which indicates the sex, or plans for the sex, were consensual.
”
“This wasn’t sex, Peabody. This was seduction. We’re going to need to find out who seduced who. Record the scene, then get me those security discs.”
With a sealed finger, Eve eased open the drawer of the bedside table. “Goodie drawer.”
“Sir?”
“Sex drawer, Peabody. Single girl provisions, which in this case includes condoms. Victim liked men. Couple bottles of tasty body oils, a vibrator for when self-servicing is necessary or desired, and some vaginal lubricant. Fairly standard, even conservative and straight goodies. No toys or aids here to indicate victim leaned toward same-sex relationships.”
“So her date was a man.”
“Or a woman hoping to broaden Bankhead’s horizons. We’ll nail that down with the discs. And maybe we get lucky with the ME’s report and find some little soldiers in her.”
She stepped into the adjoining bath. It was sparkling clean, the ribbon-trimmed hand towels perfectly aligned. There were fancy soaps in a fancy dish, perfumed creams in glass-and-silver jars. “My guess is her bed partner didn’t hang around and wash up. Get the sweepers up here,” she ordered. “Let’s see if our Romeo left anything behind.”
She opened the mirror on the medicine cabinet, studied the contents. Normal over-the-counter meds, nothing heavy. A six-month supply of twenty-eight day contraceptive pills.
The drawer beside the sink was packed, and meticulously organized, with cosmetic enhancers. Lip dyes, lash lengtheners, face and body paints.
Bryna had spent a lot of time in front of this mirror,Eve mused. If the little black dress, the wine, the candlelight were anything to go by, she’d spent considerable time in front of it tonight. Preparing herself for a man.
Moving to the bedroom ’link, Eve played back the last call and stood, listening to Bryna Bankhead, pretty in her little black dress, talk of her big plans for the evening with a brunette she called CeeCee.
I’m a little nervous, but mostly I’m just excited. We’re finally going to meet. How do I look?
You look fabulous, Bry. You just remember real-life dating’s different from cyber-dating. Take it slow, and keep it public tonight, right?
Absolutely. But I really do feel like I know him, CeeCee. We’ve got so much in common, and we’ve been e-mailing for weeks. Besides, it was my idea to meet—and his to make it drinks in a public place so I’d feel more at ease. He’s so considerate, so romantic. God, I’m going to be late. I hate being late. Gotta go.
Don’t forget. I want all the deets.
I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Wish me luck, CeeCee. I really think he could be the one.
“Yeah,” Eve murmured as she shut off the ’link. “So do I.”
Chapter 2
In her office at Cop Central, Eve reviewed the security discs of the apartment building on the day of the murder. People came, people went. Residents, visitors. She pegged slinky twin blondes who strolled across the lobby in tandem as licensed companions. Double your pleasure, she thought as she watched one setting up the next job on her pocket-link while the other noted down the split in her daybook.
Bryna Bankhead rushed in at six-forty-five, a couple of shopping bags in tow and a pretty flush on her cheeks.
Happy, Eve thought. Excited. She wants to get upstairs, take out her new stuff and play with it. Groom herself, primp, change her mind about her outfit a few times. Maybe fix a quick bite to eat so her stomach won’t be too nervous.
Just a typical single woman anticipating a date. Who doesn’t know she’ll be a statistic before it’s over.
She watched Louise come in just before seven-thirty. She moved quickly, too, but then she always did. There was no light of adventure or anticipation on her face, Eve mused. She looked distracted, a little tired.
No shopping bags for Dr. Dimatto, Eve noted. Just her medical kit and a handbag as big as Idaho.
A not-so-typical single woman, Eve thought, who looks as if she’s already decided she isn’t going to enjoy the evening ahead of her.
And who doesn’t know she’ll end it with a body broken at her feet.
Louise was quicker than Bryna. She was striding out of the elevator, slicked into her killer red dress, at eight-forty. Polished, she didn’t look like the dedicated, overworked and steely minded crusader.
She looked sharp, sexy, female.
The guy coming in as she was going out obviously agreed. He took a good long look at her ass as Louise zipped out. She either didn’t notice or didn’t give a damn as she didn’t so much as glance back at him.
A kid of about eighteen swaggered out of the elevator. He was dressed in solid black leather, tip to toe, and carted an air scooter under his arm. He swung it down as he shoved open the doors, leaped on with an agility and flash Eve had to admire, and winged off into the night.
She sipped coffee as she watched Bryna exit the building just before nine P.M. Nearly running, Eve thought, risking a turned ankle in her date shoes because she didn’t want to be late. Her hair was styled in a glossy updo, like an ebony tower. Her face, a delicate caramel color, was flushed with anticipation and nerves. She carried a small evening bag and wore the pretty, flashing earrings.
“Check cab pick ups within a block radius of the building, Peabody. She’s in a hurry, so unless she’s meeting the guy closeby, she’d spring for a cab.” She frowned as she zipped through time, slowing whenever someone came in or out of the building.
“She was a good-looking woman,” Eve commented. “Seemed reasonably smart, had her own place, decent job. Why does someone like that go fishing in the cyber-pool for a date?”
“Easy for you to say,” Peabody muttered and earned a narrowed stare. “Well, jeez, Dallas, you’re married. For the rest of us, it’s a jungle out there, full of apes and snakes and baboons.”
“You ever do the cyber-thing?”
Peabody shuffled her feet. “Maybe. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
Amused, Eve started the scan again. “I was single a hell of a lot longer than I’ve been married. I never stooped to cyber-world.”
“Big deal when you’re tall and thin with jungle-cat eyes and have a sexy little dent in your chin.”
“You coming onto me, Peabody?”
“My love for you is a fearsome thing, Dallas. But I’ve given up dating cops.”
“Good policy. Ah, here they come. Freeze screen.”
The time read twenty-three thirty-eight. In two hours plus, Bryna had obviously gotten very cozy with her cyber date. They came in with their arms snugged around each other’s waists, and laughing.
“He looks great,” Peabody decided as she leaned closer to the monitor. “Answer to a maiden’s prayer kind of thing. Tall, dark, and handsome.”
Eve grunted. She judged the man to be about six one, running to about one-ninety. His dark hair was swept back in a tightly curled mane that spilled over his shoulders. His skin was poetically pale, and set off by glinting emerald studs at the corner of his mouth and the high point of his right cheekbone. His eyes were the same vivid green. A thin line of beard ran vertically from just below center of his bottom lip to his chin.
He wore a dark suit with a shirt, in that same jewel green, open at the collar. He carried a black leather bag from a strap on his shoulder.
“Nice-looking couple,” Peabody added. “She looks like she’s knocked back a few alcoholic beverages.”
“More than cocktails,” Eve corrected, then ordered the computer to zoom in on Bryna’s face. “She’s got a chemical gleam in her eye. Him?” She zoomed onto the man’s face. “He’s stone sober. Contact the morgue. I want a priority put on her tox screen. Computer?”
Working . . .
“Yeah, yeah, let’s try a little multitasking.” Since, at long last, she had a new unit, she had hope. “Run current image of male on-screen through identification banks. I want a name.”
OPENING IDENTIFICATION BANKS. REQUEST FOR CITYWIDE, STATE, NATIONAL, GLOBAL?
Eve patted the side of the ma
chine. “Now, that’s what I like to hear. Begin with New York City. Continue disc run, normal view.
WORKING . . .
The computer hummed quietly, and the image on-screen began to move again. Outside the elevator, the man lifted Bryna’s hand, pressed his lips to the palm.
“End run, begin run on elevator two, twenty-three forty.”
The image flashed off, the next flashed on. Eve watched the mating process continue on the ride to the twelfth floor. The man nibbled on her fingers, leaned in to whisper something in her ear. It was Bryna who made the advances, pulling him against her, aggressively pressing her body, her lips to his.
It was her hand that moved between their bodies, groping.
When the doors opened, they circled out, still locked together. Once again Eve ordered a disc change and studied the couple as they walked to her apartment door. Bryna fumbled a bit as she uncoded her locks. She lost her balance slightly, swayed against him. When she stepped inside, he stood at the threshold.
The perfect gentleman, Eve mused. He had a warm smile on his face, a question in his eyes. Are you going to ask me in?
She watched Bryna’s arm shoot out, watched her hand fist in the man’s jacket. She pulled him inside, and the door shut behind them.
“She was making the moves.” Peabody frowned at the empty hallway now on-screen.
“Yeah, she was making the moves.”
“I don’t mean she deserved to die. I just mean he wasn’t pushing. Even when she got aggressive in the elevator, he didn’t push. A lot of guys—hell, most guys—would’ve had a hand under her skirt at that point.”
“Most guys don’t sprinkle rose petals over the sheets.” She fast-forwarded, ordered full-stop when Bryna’s apartment door opened.
“Note time unidentified male exits victim’s apartment. Oh-one thirty-six. Same time the nine-eleven’s logged. Louise said she checked for a pulse. Give her a few seconds for shock, a few seconds to run to the body, then check the pulse, then get her pocket-link out and make the call. And that’s all the time it took him to walk away from the balcony, move through the apartment and out the door. Computer, continue run.”
