“Well, we’re after some liquid refreshment before we haul in a bunch of lowlifes,” Carmichael told her. “We caught one last night. A couple of bangers went out in that illegals stall disguised as a basketball court on Avenue B. One guy’s dead on scene with a lot of holes in him. The other was still breathing, got holes, and also had his head bashed in with an old iron post—which had his blood, skin on it, but no prints.”
“More interesting than lemons,” Eve decided.
“Since the bashed-in guy croaked this morning, we’ve got a double, that maybe looks at first glance like the two DBs just DB’d each other.”
“But since the DB with just holes didn’t have gloves, wasn’t sealed, and was really completely DOS,” Sanchez added, “it’s hard to buy he wiped his prints off the iron post before he became dead. Plus the ME didn’t find any cloth, rag, or handy shirt inside the DB on the off chance he wiped and ate, and we didn’t find anything that could have done said wiping on scene. We conclude a third party did the bashing and wiping.”
Sanchez was fairly new to her division, but Eve liked his style. “At this point, I would be inclined to agree with that conclusion.”
“So we’re going to haul a bunch of bangers known to associate with both vics, which means a long day of bullshit.”
“Hence the desire for liquid refreshment prior to,” Sanchez finished.
“Hence. Was the iron pipe from the scene?”
“A few of them lying around,” Carmichael confirmed. “Used to be a fence.”
“Look for an initiate, younger banger wannabe or a girlfriend who’s not a full combat member. Another banger would more likely use a sticker. Pipe’s a weapon of opportunity, and any self-respecting banger wants to cut, not bash.”
“Good point.” Carmichael nodded. “And potentially less bullshit.”
“I’m still not drinking fake lemons.”
“There’s a deli on Avenue B that still does genuine egg creams,” Eve told them. “Cost you ten, but worth it.”
“I know that place.” Carmichael pointed at Sanchez. “I know where that is.”
“Good. You’re buying.”
They started toward the glide, arguing over who should pick up the tab. It was, in Eve’s mind, a good, solid partnership forming in a short amount of time.
“Now I want an egg cream,” Peabody muttered. “I missed breakfast due to asking if I wanted to be asked and sex.”
“Settle for fake lemons, because you’re not going to Avenue B. Do the run, set up the follow-ups. I’ll put the board and book together.”
She walked through the bullpen, through the familiar sounds and smells—fake sugar, fake fat, fake coffee, real sweat, voices, beeping ’links, humming comps—and into her office.
The message light on her desk ’link flashed like neon on Vegas II. She scowled at it, hit the AutoChef for coffee, then ordered a list of callers without the messages.
Reporters, she thought with mild annoyance as the list ran down. And more reporters. Nadine, of course— twice. She’d have to deal with them, and before much longer. But they’d just have to wait until she set up her board, wrote up her notes.
As she began, she had a low-level urge for that egg cream, which made her think of chocolate, and the candy she’d successfully hidden—again—from the greedy hands of the nefarious Candy Thief.
She glanced toward her rickety visitor’s chair where the candy sat snugly inside—she hoped—the bottom of the seat she’d carefully removed and replaced.
The candy would have to wait, too, she decided.
She finished the board, pinning up both ID and crime scene shots of the victim, ID shots of everyone who’d been at the dinner party, more crime scene photos—the purse, the herbal/zoner butts, broken glass—the sweeper’s initial reports, ME Carter’s reports and results.
She sat at her desk, drank the rest of the coffee while she studied the board.
She’d started on her notes, writing up a time line, when she heard footsteps approaching.
Not Peabody, she thought idly. Peabody had a distinctive clump. This was a purposeful stride.
Whitney, she thought, straightening at her desk seconds before her commander stepped in.
“Dallas.”
“Sir.” She got to her feet, uneasy. Commander Whitney rarely came to her. More rarely came to her office and shut the door as he did now.
“K.T. Harris,” he said.
“Sir. The ME has determined her death a homicide. As I was on scene at the TOD, I was able to interview, with Detectives Peabody and McNab, all individuals also present.”
“Including yourself?”
“I’ll be writing that up, yes, sir. I should have a full report for you shortly.”
“Sit down, Lieutenant.”
He lowered to her visitor’s chair, frowned. “Why in God’s name don’t you requisition a replacement for this? It’s like sitting on bricks.”
She felt weird knowing her commander’s ass was one crappy cushion away from squatting on her candy. “Because nobody sits on bricks for long. Take the desk chair, Commander.”
He waved that away, sat for a moment, studying her board. He had a wide, dark face, lined from years and the weight of command. His hair, cropped short and close to the skull, showed thickening threads of silver.
“We have some areas of complication with this matter.” He nodded toward her flashing ’link. “Media?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes, you will. That’s one complication. Another is your connection to the victim.”
“I had no connection to the victim.”
“Dallas, you had dinner with the victim shortly before her murder.”
“I had dinner with several people. I met the victim, spoke to her, only once. We had no connection, sir.”
“You had words with her.”
Eve’s face registered nothing, but inside there was a quick flick of surprised annoyance. “She had words, would be more accurate, Commander. The victim had been drinking, was, by all statements taken, a difficult individual. She spoke inappropriately and offensively during dinner, but not to me directly. My response was, I believe, brief and appropriate. And that was the end of it.”
“She was also portraying your partner in a major vid.” He gestured to her board. “Suspects at this time include individuals who are portraying yourself, your husband, other members of this department, other people who are associated with you personally.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The media will take that hay and mix it with manure.” He laid his wide hands on his thighs. “We need to get in front of that. Having you pass the case to another investigator won’t help at this point, and”—he said before she could speak—“could bog down the investigation. But that can’t be ignored,” he added, pointing to her ’link. “We’ll need a clear statement from you, and from Peabody. We’ll hold a media conference this afternoon. And you’ll work with the media liaison on that statement, and on approach to the conference.”
“Sir,” she said, thinking she’d rather be stabbed in the eye with a needle pulled out of that manure-ripened hay.
“Both of us might prefer you and your partner give the case your complete energy and attention, but this is necessary. There are already media reports about bad blood between you and the victim, others playing up the angle of you heading the investigation of the death of the woman playing your partner. All of them grinding up the fact you were at dinner, that you were present when K.T. Harris died. We’ll deal with it, and will continue to deal with it until—as I trust you will—you close the case.”
He rose. “Conference Room One. Now. With Peabody.”
“Yes, sir.”
Goddamn it, she thought as she walked with him to the bullpen, as he peeled off and she called to Peabody. “With me.”
This crap was already slowing down the work.
