Festive in Death

by J. D. Robb

“So changing your hair makes it even more about you, the way I see it.” Peabody twisted a lock of hair that poked out from her cap. “I think I’m going to try something different for the holidays. I should’ve talked to Trina.”

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Eve decided, pulling into a slot. “We’ll take Schubert’s hair to Harvo.”

  “The Queen of Hair and Fiber.”

  “Yeah, her. Just give it to her, ask her to get us the results as soon as she can, then we’ll get Dickhead to make some tea.”

  • • •

  Holiday fever had infected the lab with colored lights and a tree—twice the size of the puny reject in Homicide—decorated with evidence bags, brushes, tweezers, and other sweeper tools.

  But the centerpiece was a fat Santa dressed like a sweeper toting a banner that read:

  CSI SANTA KNOWS WHEN YOU’VE BEEN BAD!

  It kind of gave Eve the creeps.

  But then, so did Dick Berenski.

  Still, she carted her gift bag toward his long counter where he sat on his rolling stool. His spidery fingers switched between two computers. He sported a half-assed goatee—that was new. The pointy triangle on his chin, the sparce hair above his upper lip made her think of graffiti drawn inexpertly on an egg.

  She set the gift bag on his counter. “Merry Christmas.”

  He paused in his work, gave her then Peabody a wary look before reaching into the bag.

  Surprise flooded his face, then delight—demonstrated by the shift in the poor excuse for a mustache when his skinny lips curved.

  Then with eyes darting left, right, he shoved the bottle back into the bag, shoved the bag into one of the drawers of his workstation.

  “Thanks.”

  Eve wiggled fingers at Peabody, who lined up evidence bags on the counter.

  “What’s this?” Berenski demanded.

  “That’s what I need you to tell me. Now.”

  “You want me to do an analysis on all this, right now?” He swept his arm over his workstation. “Can’t you see I got work going here?”

  “This is work, too. We had samples sent in already.”

  “Low priority.”

  “Now it’s high priority. Start with this.” She pushed the tea labeled Relaxation toward him. “That might be enough for right now. If you’re so busy, delegate. How long does it take to analyze some tea leaves?”

  “Get in line. We’ll get to it when we get to it.”

  Saying nothing, Eve tapped the drawer where he’d hidden the scotch.

  He radiated insult. “That was a gift.”

  “Yeah, and if you ever want another gift, you’ll analyze this evidence.”

  Maybe Summerset couldn’t be bought, she thought, but she knew damn well Dickhead could.

  “I’m doing you a favor.” He pointed one of his long, skinny fingers at her.

  “Okay.”

  He snatched up the tea, did a fast roll to the other end of his counter, muttering all the way.

  Satisfied, Eve said nothing, leaned on her side of the counter. She watched him pull on thin gloves, open the evidence bag, unstop the container.

  He took a sniff of it, frowned. “Chamomile and lavender shit.”

  He took tweezers out of a tray, transferred some of the leaves into a tube, put the tube in a slot of a small machine on the counter. He repeated the process, this time adding liquid to the tube with an eye-dropper.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “Do I tell you how to do your job?”

  Eve only shrugged as he gave her the evil eye, then went back to work.

  He lowered a clear lid over the tubes, ran those skinny fingers over a control panel. The machine began to hum, and Eve, still leaning on the counter, felt it vibrate.

  Curious, she pushed off the counter, intending to walk down for a closer look.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.”

  Dr. Garnet DeWinter, the new forensic anthropologist, swept up. She wore a hot pink lab coat over a pink-and-green striped dress that molded her tall, curvy body. She’d slicked her hair back into some sort of sleek twist that made her exotic eyes dominate the sharp-featured face.

  Her green, ice-pick heels sported tiny pink bows at the ankle straps.

  “Dr. DeWinter.”

  “Someone must be dead.”

  “Someone always is.”

  “That’s true, isn’t it? Oh, well, it keeps us busy. Richard, I just wanted to come down and thank you for getting that report to me so quickly this morning.”

  Richard? Eve thought, and watched Berenski preen.

  “No problem, Doc. We’re on the same team.”

  “Yes, we are.” She moved down, laid a hand on his shoulder, studied the computer screen along with him. “Chamomile, lavender, valerian. Tea? A soother?”

  “So far.”

  Stuffing her hands in her pockets—no way she was touching Dickhead—Eve moved down the counter to read the screen herself.

  “What’s that?” she demanded with a long, unpronounceable element scrolled on.

  “Hold on,” Berenski murmured, then nodded as a second, then a third element popped up.

  “Those sure as hell aren’t herbs. That’s a Rohypnol-bremelanotide compound. Erotica with a twist. It’s a sex drug.”

  DeWinter glanced over at Eve. “The combination would stimulate the sexual drive, yes, and potentially lower inhibitions. The tea is a relaxation blend, and would mask the chemicals, add to the lack of inhibition and certainly increase sex drive.”

  “Your vic didn’t have any of this in him,” Berenski told her. “I saw his tox screen, and it was clean.”

  “No, he didn’t drink it. He used it on women.”

  “What you’ve got here is like a super soother, and it’s laced with illegals. Sort of a mild date-rape drug.”

  Eve scorched him with a look. “Nothing’s mild about rape.”

  “Don’t get twisted. I ain’t saying that. I’m saying the product’s on the mild side. It’s not like whore or rabbit, and the user’s likely to feel relaxed instead of jumpy after the job’s done. It don’t make it legal, and it sure don’t make it right. Your vic was an asshole if he used this without telling the women what it was.”

  “No memory loss with this,” DeWinter added. “No wild up and downs or desperation. But compliance and escalated sexual desire. His victims, as that’s just what they were, would likely have thought themselves agreeable, even pleased. Afterward, again depending on the circumstances, there may have been some regret or embarrassment.”

  “He used these, too.” Eve gestured for Peabody to put the incense case on the counter. “In combination.”

  “I’ll check them out. You want the other teas analyzed?”

  “Yeah, do the whole lot, but I think we hit the mother lode. Appreciate the quick work,” she added, and turned to go.

  DeWinter fell into step beside her. Eve spared her a look.

  “Richard?”

  “It makes him feel special, and by making him feel special I often get my samples and specimens moved to the head of his list. Is he a bit of a dick?” DeWinter said with a hint of a smile. “Absolutely. But he’s also excellent at his work.”

  “I just bribe him.”

  “Also a viable option. I wanted to say I’m looking forward to your party. Li’s bringing me.”

  “Morris? You and Morris?”

  “Yes—and no, so don’t look so appalled. We have the dead, an appreciation of music, and absolutely no interest in a relationship in common. So it’s nice for both of us to have a date for your party. So, I’ll see both of you then.”

  “It is nice,” Peabody said as they headed out. “It’s nice that Morris has someone to hang out with. He’s a sociable guy.”

  “Maybe.” Eve had ye
t to make up her mind about DeWinter.

  Eve pushed through the door. “I want you to start on Trina’s list, start talking to these women. Any one of them admits to drinking Ziegler’s tea, give her the details, and get a full statement. Press the money angle, too. Let’s find out who gave him cash and why. Get a feel for them, Peabody.”

  “Because one of them might’ve killed him.”

  “Get started. I’ve got to get to Central, meet with Mira. I’ll tag you as soon as I’m done, catch up with you.”

  “I’ve got this, Dallas. I’ll be the sympathetic cop—because I do sympathize. I can usually get more that way than going in tough.”

  “Is that the fly, sugar, vinegar deal?”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Eve said and strode to her car.

  Mira’s admin offered silence and a frosty stare when Eve walked into Mira’s outer office. Eve wondered if she should’ve grabbed another one of those handy gift bags, but the woman with the icy eyes tapped her interoffice ’link.

  “Lieutenant Dallas is here. Of course.” She tapped it again. “You can go in.”

  “Thanks.” Eve opened the door, walked in. “Your admin’s pissed I went around her.”

  Mira glanced up from the work on her desk, smiled a little. “She’s protective. But I do have some free time this morning, and I do enjoy consulting on your cases.” She rose. “Tea?”

  “Definitely not, but that’s something I want to discuss with you.”

  “Tea?” Mira said again as she turned to her AutoChef.

  “Yeah. Turns out Ziegler mixed a low-grade date-rape drug with loose tea, brewed it up when he got the urge.”

  Eve flipped out her notebook. “A Rohypnol-bremelanotide combo mixed with chamomile, lavender, and valerian. Dickhead called it Erotica with a twist.”

  “I see.” Mira programmed one cup of the flower-smelling tea she liked. “I’m not surprised to learn that.”

  “Because?”

  “Sit,” Mira invited, bringing her tea over to one of her pretty blue scoop chairs.

  They suited her—elegant and functional. As the soft coral of her dress, the slightly bolder color of her ankle-breaking heels, the understated but excellent jewelry suited the department’s top shrink and profiler.

  “He was a narcissist,” Mira began. “Extremely self-focused. His choice of career, and apparent skill at it, provided a service to others, but put him in control of them, physically and emotionally. Even spiritually for some who consider their physical regimen a kind of religion. It also put him in the spotlight.”

  “Yeah, I get that. Add the photos—of himself—in the apartment, the mirrors, the clothes, the really extensive collection of hair and body products. He could’ve opened his own store there. I also get some people can self-focus, can indulge themselves without being narcissists. Or rapists.”

  “Rapists.” Mira sipped her tea. “Tell me about that.”

  “One of the women who slept with him—married, a client—described the experience.”

  She laid out Martella Schubert’s statement, her suspicions, and the discovery of the tea.

  “He laced tea to gain this woman’s—and you believe other women’s—acquiescence for sex. Tea he served them as if a kind of romantic gesture.”

  “Exactly. He even used it on his former live-in girlfriend when she wasn’t in the mood.”

  “He wouldn’t have seen it as rape.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact.”

  “No, but he would’ve seen it as a kind of seduction. Setting the scene. And it again, put him in control, physically and emotionally. To this man sex was another act of being admired, a validation of his prowess, his physical appearance, his body. He gave them a service, he’d think. He gifted them with his skill. And as with his other skills, why shouldn’t he be paid for it? A narcissist, a sex addict with sociopathic tendencies.”

  “No friends,” Eve added. “Coworkers who could respect his skill, but only tolerated him at best. All that money in his locker.”

  “His secret. Banking or investing money is so ordinary, isn’t it? He was extraordinary. And why should he make an effort to be friendly with coworkers when he was so obviously superior?”

  “Too special, too superior to go through training and channels and get a license for sex.”

  “Why train for something he excelled at? Be screened by some bureaucracy? A license? Far too regimented.”

  “And it costs. Word is—and it’s bearing out—he was cheap with everything but himself. He dealt in cash, cash only. Unreported cash. And I think greedy enough to resort to blackmail.”

  “Oh, absolutely, though again he wouldn’t have considered it blackmail. The exchange of pay for a service.”

  Mira sipped her tea, recrossed her very fine legs. “In his mind, he deserved it all, and more. I believe he’d have escalated—sex and money—as he went on. The use of the illegals certainly demonstrates his driving need to have exactly what he wanted, to control the women he selected. They not only succumbed to his allure—in his mind—but paid for the privilege. Every success would reinforce his self-belief, and he would have wanted more.”

  “The awards—the trophies—they played in.”

  “Reinforcing again he was special, above the rest. You’re approaching this from a different angle,” Mira commented. “A profile of your victim rather than the killer.”

  “The more I learn about him, the more it’s clear pretty much anyone who knew him could’ve done it. Temper, payback, an argument over sex, blackmail, a competition, a client. I think the murder itself was a moment of fury, impulse, but the rest . . .”

  “Cold, calculated. Still angry. How could you drive a knife into a dead man unless there was anger? The message left? An insult. A brutal sort of sarcasm.”

  “A definite fuck-you.”

  “Precisely. The anger was personal and intense, but controlled. Absolute rage? You’d expect more violence. And I agree with your conclusion in your report that he knew his killer, had no fear, no time to defend. He was a very strong and fit individual. But there were no signs of struggle, no offensive or defensive wounds on the body, just the killing blows and the postmortem stab wound. And nothing taken?”

  “Not that the ex-girlfriend knew. Plenty of easy money in electronics and jewelry, so not robbery, no. I can’t know if the killer gave him something the ex didn’t know about, then took it. Jewelry again or more cash. But he was packing to go out of town, and let this person in the apartment, and by the evidence at the scene, let this person into the bedroom.”

  “He was fully dressed when killed.”

  “Dressed, yeah. The blood spatter on the sweater from the head wound. I don’t think the killer came for sex, or Ziegler was looking for sex. He should have left for AC about thirty minutes after TOD, and he wasn’t fully packed.”

  “Are you thinking one of the women he raped learned what he’d done?”

  “I’ve got Peabody talking to a short list right now. Could be that. Could be a husband, a boyfriend, especially since you say he wouldn’t have considered it rape, wouldn’t see the wrong in it.”

  “More, the wrong in it wouldn’t have mattered to him.”

  “Right. Or it could’ve been a competitor,” Eve added. “I’ve got one guy I need to talk to. One of the top competitors for the stupid award—and Ziegler had sex with his barely of age, impaired at the time, sister.”

  “Again, I’m going to agree with you. Any one of those types could have killed him in this way, at this time. That isn’t a great deal of help.”

  “It helps that I don’t lean too heavy on it being a woman. The bedroom as the killing field. It leaned woman to me. The killer was about the same height, but even a shorter woman in heels would fill the bill. But the way you’ve profiled him, I can see
him letting some annoyed guy back there while he packed. It’s like another slap, isn’t it? I’m busy, got places to go. You can have a couple minutes of my valuable time.”

  “He must have been an infuriating individual. Yet he accumulated clients, and short-term girlfriends. He knew how to be charming and attentive. Most narcissists can be, particularly if it gains them admiration and attention.”

  “He got plenty of both. The murder weapon. It’s probably an impulse—something right at hand—but you can’t miss the irony.

  “Thanks for squeezing me in. I’d better go catch up with Peabody.”

  “Dennis and I are really looking forward to tomorrow night. It’s one of the highlights of our holiday season.”

  “Really?”

  “You and Roarke throw a marvelous party, Eve, in your gorgeous home. And there are always so many people there we enjoy. I also know that while at least part of you would be thrilled never to host or attend another party in your lifetime, you’ll enjoy it, too.”

  “I had to make a deal with the devil and agree to help with the prep.”

  Mira laughed. “Not Roarke—Summerset.”

  “That’s why you’re the head shrink around here. Yeah.” She pushed to her feet. “As if they need me to tell somebody where to put a pot of flowers or whatever.”

  “I’m sure Summerset could run the preparations seamlessly. But, Eve, your participation is valued.”

  “Yeah? Let’s hear him say that after I screw it up.”

  • • •

  Eve caught up with Peabody on the corner of West Twelfth and Broadway after squeezing her car into a skinny, overpriced lot a couple blocks north. The walk through the brisk winter air gave her a little more time to think.

  “How many did you talk to?” Eve asked.

  “The first three, so only one more on Trina’s hot list. But there’s still more on the overall client list.”

  “We’ll talk to the last on Trina’s, then hunt up Rock Britton. He’s probably at his gym, and it’s not that far.”

  “Okay. Oh, look, there’s a cart. We could grab a couple of dogs, and I could fill you in before we talk to the last woman. Kira Robbins.”