Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(46)

“No!” He leaped out of the chair, then dropped straight down again as if his legs couldn’t hold him. “I didn’t even know that man, that Jamal person. I’m not a murderer!”

“Just a thief, liar, illegals pusher, and complete dick?” She shrugged. “Convince me, because I’ve got things to do, Mitch, and this one’s looking all wrapped up with a bow on it.”

“You’re crazy.” His eyes bulged and wheeled. “It’s crazy.”

“That’s not convincing.”

“Listen . . .” He tugged at the knot of his tie, wet his lips. “Okay, fine, we skimmed some inventory.”

“Inventory, as in drugs. As a rep for Dudley, Karolea could access them.”

“Yes. Yes. All we had to do was doctor the logs, tweak the invoices. It’s not a big deal. The company builds that kind of loss into the budget. We just wanted the money. I’m entitled to some perks considering the hours I put in. Do you know how much my education cost? And I’m stuck running errands for Sweet? We didn’t hurt anyone. We . . . we provide a service. We sell at a discount.”

“You steal drugs from Dudley—”

“Karolea acquires the merchandise,” he said quickly. “She handles that area. I’m in sales.”

“I see. So she acquires the drugs, and you sell them.”

“Yes. We have regular customers. It’s not as if we’re peddling Zeus on street corners to children. These are safe medications. We’re helping people.”

“Like the guy who’s addicted to painkillers and buys from you instead of going to the medicals for rehab or assistance. Or the one who ODs on tranqs, or the ones who mix the chemicals to get high. Or the ones, you fuckhead, who resell to kids on street corners.”

“We’re not responsible for—”

“Cut the crap. You’ve confessed, on the record. I don’t need your sob stories and justifications.”

“You can’t seriously believe I killed that driver.”

“Oh, hell no. I just said that so you’d spill your guts on the rest. Good job.” She checked the time. “Now we can both get out of here. Me to work, you to your cell.”

“But . . . I want a lawyer.”

“No problem. They’ll let you contact one on your way to booking. Thank you for your cooperation. Interview end.”

She rose, opened the door, and hailed the waiting uniforms. “Walk him through, let him contact his lawyer.”

She walked into Observation and watched Peabody wrap up a weeping Karolea Prinz.

“She cried a lot,” Peabody said when they headed down to the garage. “I mean a lot. She says, or thinks, she’s in love with the asshole. Didn’t want to roll, but—”

“Push comes to shove, love goes down.”

“I guess, except when it’s really love. Do we get to go look at shoes now?”

“We’re not looking at shoes. We know the shoe already. I want to make this quick.”

“Shoes are fun.” Peabody gave a little bounce of enthusiasm on her own. “It’ll be good to have the side benefit of fun after all that crying. See, it’s a nice combo. Shutting down a small, yet profitable prescription drug scam, running down a lead on the investigation, and getting to gaze longingly at shoes I’ll never be able to afford, but imagining I could.”

“You know what happens to people who longingly imagine having things they can’t afford?”

“Happy dreams?”

“A life of crime.”





As she drove, Eve considered that possibility as applied to the case. “Maybe this guy gazes longingly at fancy limos and high-priced LCs, and it just pisses him off he can’t order them up like pizza. So he vents the anger and frustration by killing them. Which isn’t bad as theories go except for the shoes. When you’ve got three thousand to spend on a pair of designer loafers, you’re not hurting.”

“Maybe he stole them,” Peabody suggested. “Or got them as a gift, or blew a wide chunk of his savings just to have them for his own.”

“All possible, and ors that shouldn’t be dismissed. But he’d also have to spend a chunk on a crossbow and bolts—pricey ones, and an antique bayonet. Unless he scammed someone else’s ID to acquire those. He still has to connect somewhere to the two corporations. Otherwise, why go through all the layers on the security there?”

It kept coming back to the companies, Eve concluded. “If he’s just a homicidal hacker, he could’ve accessed any IDs and credit lines—and he could afford all the fancy limos and high-priced LCs he wanted anyway, so it doesn’t jell.”

Eve twitched her head toward the dash comp when it signaled incoming data.

“It’s from the lab,” Peabody told her. “A report on the weapon. Antique is right. It’s mid-twentieth century. Dickhead’s got make, manufacturer, even a serial number. Pretty thorough.”

“You be thorough, start a search. Find us the owner.”

It gave Eve a few minutes of quiet. Who was next on his list? she wondered. What type? Maybe a top-drawer salon tech, private shuttle pilot, some hot, exclusive designer.

She thought of Leonardo, her oldest friend’s husband. And Mavis herself, Eve thought with a clutch in her belly. Famous music vid star. She’d make a point of checking in with them, putting them on alert.