“Pleasebody! What the hell.”
“I’m Skinny Bitch, and I barely met her.”
“I guess it was,” Eve said. “Just not the way she figured.”
She flipped back. “I’ve got a note of a cash payment of a hundred grand to Triple A. That would be the PI. Two half payments. First a week from the last entry, second and last three days ago. And there’s a code. 45128. #1337.”
“Lock code and box number?”
“I’d say so,” Eve agreed. “Let’s check banks, Lower West to start, see if she rented a box under her name. Or yours.”
“Mine again?”
“Paranoid,” Eve said again. “And she’s playing you. It’s a natural fit. We finish here, find the bank and box, and pay Triple A a visit.”
Another hour of searching proved they’d already hit the mother lode. While Peabody worked on pinning down the bank, Eve called for sweepers and EDD. She wanted the room processed, the ’links and security checked—and all personal belongings of the vic bagged, sealed, and logged into evidence.
“Still working on it,” Peabody told her.
“We’ll head toward Asner’s office. Keep at it.”
A paranoid, obsessive personality with a substance abuse problem. Why bother to kill her, Eve thought, when she’d probably self-destruct before long anyway?
She could hide her flasks and illegals, but nobody ever hid them well enough. Her colleagues had to have known she had a drinking and an illegals problem. Come at one of them—any one of them could counterweight it with Harris’s secrets.
She considered Matthew and Marlo. They could have killed her, then gone back, made the recording of the discovery. Elaborate, dramatic—but that was their business, wasn’t it? Their nature, to some extent.
The motive seemed weak to her. Sure, having the public consume a vid of them having sex would be embarrassing, but they’d done nothing wrong. The public would goggle, snicker—and sympathize.
Then again, the push/shove/fall, that played like an accident or impulse. It could even be touted as self- defense. She came at me, I pushed her back. She slipped.
The rest might have been panic.
No, it didn’t play like panic. It played like calculation. It said to Eve:
Why take the recording? Why clean off the blood?
Because the recording had value. Because whoever did it was new to the game, assumed her death would be termed accidental drowning as a result of a fall
Back to square one. It could have been any of them.
“Got it! New York Financial, and she
“But not unpredictable. What address?”
Eve programmed it into the navigation when Peabody read it off. “Only a block from the PI. We’ll go see him first, get a warrant for the box in the meantime.”
Peabody put in the request, then sat back. “All this, over a guy? And one who dumped her, and was hooked with someone else.”
“No, he’s the—what do they call it—McGuffin. All this is about her. If not Matthew, somebody else or something else. It’s about ego and greed. Power plays and a generally pissy nature.”
“I can’t believe I was juiced when they cast her to play me. Please-body,” Peabody muttered. “She didn’t have any respect for me at all. I wish I’d known what a crappy human being she was before she got dead. I’d have shown her a Pleasebody.”
“How long do you figure you’re going to stew over this?”
“Awhile. I’ve never worked on a vic I wished I’d punched in the face before somebody killed her. I’ve been working on my hand-to-hand.”
“Is that so?”
“That is very so. I think I’m improving. Plus I lost two pounds. Well, one-point-seven pounds.”
“One-point-seven.” Eve slanted a look over. “Seriously? You weigh in decimals?”
“Easy for you, Skinny Bitch.”
“Hey, that’s Lieutenant Skinny Bitch to you, Detective Pleasebody.”
That got a lip twitch that spread to a reluctant smile. “But the point is, I’ve been working on that hand-to- hand, on not telegraphing my moves and all that. I could’ve taken her down, one-on-one.”
“Damn right. You’d have mopped the floor with her if she hadn’t gone and got herself killed first. Selfish fucker. The least she could’ve done is lived long enough for you to bloody her.”
“I don’t care how that sounds.” After folding her arms, Peabody jerked up her chin. “It’s true.”
“Maybe when we collar the killer, there’ll be an opportunity for you to engage in a bit of hand-to-hand. If you punch the killer, it should have some level of satisfaction.”
“It would. I think it would. Yeah, I feel better. Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Eve decided the fates had rewarded her for placating Peabody when she snagged a street-level slot half a block away. “Maybe you can lose that point-three pound walking to Asner’s office and back.”
11
Since Asner’s office was situated over a pierogi place in a pockmarked brick building that squatted between a dingy tattoo parlor and a particularly seedy-looking bar, they added a flight of stairs to the walk.
“Pierogies. Even smelling pierogies can offset weight loss. It’s a medical phenomenon.”
“Hold your breath,” Eve advised as they started the climb.
As the building squatted between bar and parlor, Asner’s office squatted between a law office Eve figured specialized in repping sleaze-balls and a bail bondsman who no doubt shared clients.
Eve opened the door into a claustrophobic reception area with barely enough room to hold the desk manned by a bored, busty blonde who sat painting her nails murderous red.
Clichés became clichés, Eve deduced, because they were rooted in fact.
“Good afternoon.” The blonde spoke in squeaky Brooklynese as she straightened at the desk. “How can we assist you today?”
Eve took out her badge. “We need to speak to Mr. Asner.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Asner is not in the office presently.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m sorry. I’m unable to give you that information.”
“Did you see this?” Eve tapped her badge.
“Uh-huh.” Cooperatively the blonde nodded, widened her eyes. “If you tell me the nature of your business I can tell Mr. Asner on his return.”
“When is he expected back?”
“I’m sorry. I’m unable to give you that information.”
“Listen, sister. We’re the police, get that? And we’re here on police business. We need your boss’s whereabouts.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t keep reading that same line.”
