by J. D. Robb
“Clear it. He may be lying low, or sleeping off a high.”
The living area, clean, neat without being crazy about it, held decent furniture without a lot of fuss, the standard entertainment screen, a scatter of photographs, including one she took to be the suspect as a toddler.
The kitchen off the living space—also clean—told her the kid next door had it right. Even lying low or high, if a teenage killer was in residence, there’d be dirty dishes.
The mother’s bedroom, neat and spare, faced one with a lock drilled into it, and a handwritten sign.
KEEP OUTTA MY SPACE!
“Not today, Barry.”
Eve mastered through.
The smell told her the mother obeyed the sign. It stank of stale Zoner from the minute butts of same littering a small plate; of sweaty, who-needs-a-shower male; and of the remnants of a days-old burrito.
Dirty clothes littered the floor along with discarded, empty tubes of Cola Blast and a couple of foggy brown bottles of what she deduced had been cheap, homemade brew.
She doubted the sheets had been changed this year, and from the varying stains decorating them, she had to be grateful she wouldn’t be the one dealing with them.
Peabody made a soft gagging sound. “I don’t know if it’s scientifically possible, but I swear there’s about six months’ worth of trapped boy-farts in this room.”
“Oh, it’s possible,” Eve said, breathing through her teeth. “It’s possible.”
With more reluctance than she’d have felt approaching a mangled corpse, Eve stepped to the narrow closet, nudged it fully open with an elbow.
And spotted a bright, shiny red bag hanging by its silver chain.
“Field kit, Peabody.”
“I got a mini can of sealant right here.” Peabody passed it to her, and Eve sealed her hands, passed it back so Peabody could do the same.
“Looks like most of his clothes are gone from in here—if he ever actually used the closet. But he leaves this.”
“He could be flopping somewhere else and doesn’t want anybody else to see it,” Peabody suggested. “Maybe even at Banger HQ.”
“Yeah, we could try there, see if Reo can expand the warrant for entry. We might get him, but we’d send up a flag to the other two, and whoever put out the hit. He might be there, but he’s in the wind if he’s lucky, dead if he’s not.”
She took the purse off the hook, opened it.
“And look here.”
Peabody looked inside, saw the pair of oversize hoop earrings in gaudy fake gold. “Jesus, Dallas, he didn’t even clean her blood off them.”
“They’re Duff’s, but we’ll send them to the lab, confirm. Unless you’ve got evidence bags in your pocket, we’re going to need a kit.”
“Loose pants,” Peabody said, and took off.
“Tell the uniforms to stand down, but hold,” Eve called out.
She took the earrings out, studied them. Not just blood, she noted, little bits of flesh, too.
Shiny things, she mused as she stepped out of the closet, scanning the room. Would this particular murderous magpie leave his shiny things behind if he ran?
Dirty clothes left, and a couple of shirts, on the ragged side, on the closet floor. No shoes.
Holding the purse carefully, she got down, looked under the bed. A few more scattered clothes, a lot of dirt and dust, another plate holding a moldy smear of God knew what.
No shoes.
She opened one of his three dresser drawers, found a pair of truly filthy socks that hadn’t made it to the floor.
Peabody hustled back in. “Gave up, took the elevator. I justified it because it’s quicker.”
“Bag the earrings, then put them back inside the purse, bag that. No shoes in his room.”
“He might only have one pair,” Peabody pointed out as she bagged the evidence, marked and sealed it.
“Yeah, maybe. Here’s what we’re going to do. We get the two cops from last night to sit on the place, that’s Officers Zutter and Norton. See if he goes in or out. Make that happen—and while you’re at it, ask them if they know the finger-snapping guy. Maybe we can push there.”
She paced as she thought it through. “He’s going to have a ’link, and he’s seventeen years old. He’s going to use it, unless he’s dead. Let’s put EDD on that. See if they can locate him. I’ll do that. You find out who in the bullpen’s not working something hot. Bring them up to speed. Let’s get them out to the Sky Mall to talk to the mother.”
“If the kid had the time right, she might be on her way home.”
Eve glanced at her wrist unit, said, “Shit. You’re right. Long commute. We’ll get them to sit on this place, talk to the mother when she gets home. She hasn’t been in his room, not for weeks anyway, and not likely since he put in the lock. She doesn’t know where he is, but she might know something.
“Christ, who could live with this smell?”
She walked out, left the door open and unlocked.
Outside, she cut Carmichael and Shelby loose.
“We can sit on the place, Lieutenant,” Carmichael told her. “Until you get another team on. It’s a nice night for a stakeout, right, Shelby?”
“You got that. Sir, we’ve got the suspect’s ID on the ’links. We can generate copies if you want us to ask around.”
“Not yet. He’s bound to have one person around here who doesn’t think he’s a pervy jerk or a lazy punk ass. If he’s just chilling somewhere, we’d spook him. Just sit on it for now.”
As she drove back to Central, Eve contacted EDD.
“Feeney, I need a trace and target.”
“I need a brew and the game on-screen. Damn it, it’s the wife’s girls’ night. I’m picking up pizza on the way home, with freaking anchovies.”
“Ditch it on McNab. I’ve still got Peabody, so he’s at Central most likely. Or somebody. Just a trace and target. The name’s Aimes, Barry.” She rattled off the address. “It might be under his mother’s name. She’s—”
“You think I can’t find some asshole’s mother’s name? Stop wasting my time. Anchovies.” His droopy eyes took on a little shine. “I can’t even have them in the house when the wife’s in it. The boy’ll tag you back when he gets what you need.”
“We should do a girls’ night,” Peabody said. “Go to a club and—no, a piano bar! Classy. We could all have fancy drinks, and—”
“Consider this conversation the closest you’ll ever get me to a piano bar with a bunch of women drunk on fancy drinks. Who’s on the mother?”
“Santiago and Carmichael, so—hee hee—Carmichael’s going to relieve Carmichael. Zutter and Norton are checking with their LT on sitting on Banger HQ, don’t see an issue. And Zutter said he’s seen this finger-snapper. Pretty sure. They don’t have a name, don’t think he’s an official Banger unless he’s new, but they’ve seen him around, hanging with some of the lower levels. Big guy, they say about six-two, maybe two-sixty. Black, late teens to twenty. They’ll ask around—they know how.”
Another killer in his teens, Eve thought.
“What he did—whoever he is—is pull on the lower levels, young, stupid. The type who’d do what he said, want to impress, make their mark. So, sloppy.”
She pulled into Central. “Write it up. If McNab hits the target, let me know asap. Otherwise, when you’re done, the two of you swing by Casa del Sol, talk to Pickering’s boss, coworkers, then take this home.”
“You’re going home?”
“I’m going to see a sleazy, disbarred lawyer.”
“I’m up for that.”
“In this case, I’m going to see if I can hook in somebody who knows sleazy lawyers. Write it up—copy Mira. It might add to her profile.”
“All over it. How about I see if Reo can expand the warrant—just in case?”
“Do that. Out.”
Eve plugged in the sleazy lawyer’s address, pulled out. And tried Roarke on the in-dash.
“Lieutenant. I’m just
on my way home, and assume you’re not.”
“I’m not. We ID’d one of the killers.”
“Quick work.”
“Depends,” she decided, and brought him up to date.
“That’s quite a bit packed into your day,” he commented. “And more to come?”
“Yeah. I could’ve done without the stinky memory of trapped boy-farts at the end, but that’s the job.”
“I’m doing my best to be grateful you’ve shared that particular experience with me.”
“The telling doesn’t come close to the experiencing, trust me. So we’ve got a BOLO out on Aimes, and I’m going to tug another line. How about taking a detour, adding a tug of your own?”
He smiled. “Where?”
“I’m going to pay a visit to Samuel Cohen, Jones’s business partner in real estate.”
“Ah yes, the ambitious, enterprising street gangster. Makes me nostalgic.”
“I bet. Which is why I thought you’d be handy when I talk to the partner.”
She swung well away from a lumbering maxibus, cut nimbly back in front of it to take the next turn.
“The disbarred lawyer, remember? Who lives with a stripper about half his age.”
“That may make up for the disbarred.”
“Yeah, most people with dicks would think that.”
“Darling, that’s sexist. I’m sure there are some lovely lesbians who’d think the same.”
“Okay, got me there. Hold on.”
Punching it a little, Eve threaded the needle between a double-parked cargo van and a crew jackhammering a section of the cross street. And nipped through the intersection seconds before pedestrians surged across.
“Anyway—”
“Are those shouted expletives aimed at you?”
“Maybe. The stripper’s name’s on the papers, too. They’ve got a place on the Lower East Side.”
“Give me the address, I’ll meet you.”
She did, added, “Make sure you’re wearing your intimidating rich bastard suit.”
“I have no other kind. I’ll see you shortly.”
She pushed through traffic along with what seemed like half the city of New York, and thought of Barry Aimes’s mother’s long commute. Air tram or commuter bus, Eve figured, and likely close to an hour both ways unless she got lucky.
And while Mom stood on her feet most of the day dealing with customers, then dragging herself home after a day at the mall—which right there should qualify for combat pay—her son was fat-assing and farting in his filthy room smoking Zoner, or out killing people.
How would she react, what would she think when she got home and found the cops at the door?
Resigned, defensive, weepy?
Could be any of those, Eve thought, but odds are shocked wouldn’t make the list.
What bad boy Aimes’s hardworking mother ought to do is find herself a little apartment near the mall. Though Eve admitted she’d rather stun herself multiple times than nestle into the ’burbs. But once he was in a cage—and he damn well would be unless he ended up on Morris’s slab—it didn’t make any sense to add a couple hours onto a workday so you could afford a two-bedroom in Manhattan to accommodate your lazy-ass son who disrespected you enough to put a lock and a sign on the bedroom door you paid for.
She put it aside—not her problem—and began the hunt for parking. When she spied a sedan nosing out from the curb, she hit vertical, zipped forward, and hovered while the overly cautious driver inched, waited, inched, waited.
The second his rear bumper cleared, she punched down, destroying the hopes of a compact all-terrain that tried to beat her claim.
Satisfying, Eve thought, then stepped out on the busy crosstown street. Pedestrians streamed by as she stepped onto the sidewalk. In light jackets, many in shirtsleeves, they took advantage of the evening balm. She smelled the gyros and skewered meats from a Greek place with its door open and a pair of tables, already occupied, flanking the door.
A far cry from the handful of blocks that hosted Banger HQ.
As she began to walk, traffic hitched and honked, hampered by a delivery truck hogging the bulk of the street. A couple of women hurried by, chattering about somebody named Julio who thought he was God’s gift as they turned into an after-work watering hole.
Some kid with a demon grin zoomed by on an airboard. The odds of a pack of roaming street rats knocking him off and stealing it in this neighborhood ranked low.
She paused outside Cohen’s building. A nice four-stack—two up, two down, with the faded red bricks, the doors all snowy white. Decent security on all four units, to her eye, and with privacy screens engaged on all the windows.
According to the data, Cohen/Vinn had both west-side units. Which in this quietly mid to almost upscale neighborhood wouldn’t come cheap.
She spotted Roarke strolling her way, waited. More than a couple of heads turned. She saw one woman nudge her companion, then pat a hand on her heart.
Yeah, he had a way of tripping up the heartbeat.
He stepped up to her, took her hand, and kissed it before she could stop him.
“On duty.”
“And look it,” he said. “Every inch. It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it, to grill suspects.”
“It’s always a lovely evening for grilling suspects, but I’m going at Cohen more as a connection. He’s in business with Jones. Is he in business with the Bangers? How much does he know? It’s worth a conversation. He’s got both units on this side.”
She walked up to the door, pressed the buzzer.
Seconds later the intercom hummed, then let out a cheerful female voice. “Wow, Jimmy, that was fast! Be right there.”
“Might be Vinn,” Eve said. “Eldena. The stripper.”
“You must’ve flown. I didn’t— Oh.”
She had the body for the job, Eve thought. At the moment a snug black tank and cropped black skin pants covered the curvy inches. She had her hair, roasted chestnut, scooped back in a tail from a face dominated by wide brown eyes and currently devoid of enhancements.
Her bare feet had the toenails painted bright green.
She looked young and dewy, and surprised.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were Jimmy with the Chinese.”
“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with the NYPSD.”
Eldena frowned at the badge Eve offered. “Can I help—” She broke off, wide eyes going even wider as they focused on Roarke. “Oh, oh! Dallas. Dallas and Roarke. God, I loved The Icove Agenda. I mean, you think that couldn’t happen, but it did. This is even better than Red Dragon’s noodles, and they’re mag. Do you want to come in?”
“As a matter of fact.”
“Sorry, I was working on some choreography, so I’m a mess. I’m a dancer. Come in and sit down. I’ll take your coats. Can I get you a drink?”
“We’re good. Ms. Vinn—”
“Oh, please, call me El.”
“We’re here on police business, and would like to speak with you and Mr. Cohen.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry, I’m just thrown off. Sam’s back in his office. I’ll go get him. Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”
“We’re good,” Eve said again.
“Well, make yourselves at home. I’ll be right back.”
As she hurried out, chestnut ponytail bouncing, Eve shook her head. “See? See? What did I say? The Oscar thing just makes it worse. Cop at your door, and you’re all, Oh, I loved the vid. Jesus.”
In mock sympathy, Roarke patted her back. “A brutally heavy cross to bear.”
“Bite me,” she muttered and took stock of the living area.
She supposed she expected more of the ornate from a stripper and a sleazy ex-lawyer. But the walls, a quiet, muted green, held a few cheerful floral prints. The furniture ran to the simple, even tasteful in the wide, U-shaped sofa in cream—covered with bright, fussy pillows, of course. The chairs had a geometric design that picked up the green and cream.
A lot of matchy, sort
of studied, but … average, she decided.
“Not your usual den of iniquity,” Roarke commented, smiling at her. “I think you’re a bit disappointed.”
“No, but it’s interesting. The fact it comes off ordinary.”
She turned when she heard Eldena hurrying back in her house skids. “He’s on the ’link—just wrapping up. Please, have a seat.”
She sat herself, crossed her excellent legs. “Is there anything I can help with? I hope there hasn’t been any trouble in the neighborhood. We haven’t had any.”
“I’d like to talk about your business partnership with Marcus Jones.”
“Who?”
“Marcus Jones,” Eve repeated. “Maybe you know him as Slice.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t have any business partnerships.” She smiled, obviously puzzled but willing. “I’m a dancer.”
“During the course of an investigation, I’ve read the documents, your business connection with Jones, the ownership—Jones, Mr. Cohen, yourself—of several buildings in New York.”
She actually laughed. “Oh, that’s not right. I’m sorry. We don’t own any buildings. I wish!”
Not lying, Eve thought. More interesting. She pulled out her PPC, keyed up the file with the papers for Banger HQ. Rising, she offered it to Eldena. “Is that your signature?”
“I … It sure looks like it.”
Eve scrolled to papers on another property. “And this?”
“I don’t understand. This is…” She looked up at Eve.
Wide eyes, sure, Eve thought, but not stupid. “I need to know what this is about, all right? What investigation?”
“Murder, Ms. Vinn. Two of them.”
Every ounce of color drained. “Murder. Who? How? It can’t have anything to do with me and Sam. It just can’t. I don’t understand.”
Someone else came hurrying down the hall. “Now, who’s here, cutie-pie, who’s so special?”
Sam Cohen’s big white smile died away the instant he turned into the room. He struggled to put it back in place. “El, you should’ve told me the police were here.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” She stared at him with those wide eyes gone cold. “Surprise.”
12
He kept the smile going, though it looked a little sickly to Eve’s eye. He hit about five-eight, carried a soft belly under a white shirt and navy sport coat. His gilded hair showed no gray as it swept back from a high forehead. His eyes, blue, looked both worried and calculating.
