Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(22)

“Grab the arm, twist, pull,” Eve concluded.

“Yes. Violently. As it didn’t heal properly, I doubt it was properly treated. And I expect it troubled him still from time to time, particularly in damp weather. None of these, of course, relate to cause of death. I believe the bolt through his neck gave you a clue on that.”

“Yeah, it got me thinking.”

“Otherwise, he was a healthy, and very fit, man in his early forties. No trace of drugs or alcohol in his tox. Stomach contents show his last meal was about seven last evening. Whole grain pasta with mixed vegetables, a light white sauce, water, and a coffee substitute. He also ingested breath mints. The body’s clean but for the killing wound.”

“Guy eats a nice healthy dinner, knocks back some fake coffee because it’s going to be a long night and he wants to pump in a little caffeine. He grabs a shower, puts on a fresh suit, the chauffeur’s cap. Takes his ’link, his memo book—he’s got books on the ’link, according to the wife, to read while he waits for his clients. Pops the breath mints, kisses wife good-bye. About ninety minutes later, he’s dead.”

“But with clean, fresh breath,” Morris added. “The barb of the bolt entered here.” Gently, he turned the body to reveal the insult. “Slightly right of center, angling left and down as it pierced through.”

“Killer’s sitting in the back, right side, shoots at that slight angle. The bolt went right through, stuck in the control pad of the wheel.”

“He’d need a good angle,” Peabody commented, “to keep from hitting the seatback.”

“One shot, and a pretty good one if he hit what he was aiming for.” Eve brought the vehicle into her head, the interior with its long, plush passenger area, the open privacy screen to the driver’s cab.

“And it’s dark,” she concluded, “lights on in the limo, but it’s not optimum light. Still, it has to be dark or somebody might notice, even through the tinted windows, some guy sitting at the wheel of a limo with a bolt through his neck. Maybe he had a scope,” she speculated, “or a target gauge. Put the little red dot where you want it, fire. Score.”

She blew out a breath. “Well, I guess that’s all he’s got to tell me. His widow wants to see him, probably the kids, too.”

“Yes, I’ll arrange it once I’ve closed him.”

Since they hadn’t managed Peabody’s hopes of a sit-down lunch, Eve sprang for soy dogs and fries from the corner glide cart, and put the vehicle on auto to eat on the way to the lab.

“How many people,” she speculated, “own crossbows much less actually know how to use one with any accuracy? You’d need a collector’s license to own a weapon like that, possibly a recreational use permit—if you acquired it legit. And I just don’t see somebody going black or gray market to get one specifically for this. A lot of easier ways to kill. This feels like showing off, or at least showy.”

“It wasn’t target specific,” Peabody added, “since the killer couldn’t have known for sure who’d be driving. If he’d wanted Houston specifically, he could’ve requested him. Easy enough to blow smoke there. I’ve heard he’s an excellent driver, blah blah.”

“The target could be the business itself. Could be an inside deal, but it doesn’t have that feel. It feels random, at least at this stage. At the same time, the Sweet connection isn’t random.”

“Maybe somebody decides to kill Houston, or whoever takes the job, to put pressure on Sweet. Top security man for an important corporation gets pulled into a homicide investigation, has to explain how his data could be compromised. It doesn’t look good, even if you’re innocent, and could have repercussions on the job.”

“Yeah, some people are sick or ambitious enough to try something that convoluted. We’ll check and see who might be up for his position if he gets the ax. Or who he’s axed in the last few months. I don’t like the PA,” Eve added with her own curl of the lip. “Not sure he’d have the stomach to kill somebody, but I don’t like him. Want a closer look there.”

The lab meant dealing with Dick Berenski, not so affectionately known as Dickhead. Eve understood he was brilliant at his work, but it didn’t make him less of a dick.

He considered bribes his due for expediting work on a hot investigation, juggled the women who actually agreed to go out with him—she expected he paid for most of them—like bowling pins and often held small orgies in his office after hours.

She walked to his station, the long white counter where he slid from comp to scope to gauge on his stool, squatting on it like a bug, she thought, with his weird head like a shiny egg plastered with thin, boot-black hair.

He glanced up, shot her a smile that put a hitch in her stride. It resembled an actual human expression.

“Yo, Dallas, looking good. How’s it hanging, Peabody?” The weirdly human smile remained in place, and made the back of Eve’s neck itch. “First day back, and you got a DB. Fancy one, too. We don’t get many crossbow bolts through here.”

“Okay. Tell me about the bolt.”

“Top of the line. Carbon with a titanium core and barb. Front two-thirds of it’s weighted heavier for increased penetration, with the back third lighter. It’s got a specialized coating that helps you pull the bastard out of whatever you shot. It’s twenty inches long. Brand name’s Firestrike, manufacturer’s Stelle Weaponry. You gotta have a license and permit to purchase, and there’s an auto-check on that. Bastard costs a hundred through legit outlets.”