Connections in Death (In Death #48)(16)

She went step-by-step, confirming ID. “Victim is identified as Pickering, Lyle, age twenty-six of this address.”

“There’s a glass of water overturned on the counter in the kitchen,” Roarke told her. “And what I’d assume is the victim’s ’link on the floor.”

“That’s interesting. Like this small, shallow nick on the vic’s throat and the faint bruises on his wrist are interesting.”

“Should I contact Peabody for you?”

Eve studied the body, especially that left arm where a gang tat—a fist encircled by the word Bangers—showed distinct signs of a removal process. Before she answered, she put on microgoggles, studied that arm.

And spotted the tiny—and fresh—needle mark on the first knuckle of the fist. The circular mark from the pressure syringe hit at the curled thumb.

“Yeah. Yeah, why don’t you do that?”

She sat back on her heels. “How do you kill a recovering addict if you’re bright but not real bright?”

Standing back, Roarke studied Rochelle’s brother with pity. “You stage it to look like a self-inflicted overdose.”

“Yeah. Better to have hit him on the street, make it look like a mugging, a gang retaliation, a wrong-place-wrong-time. Come here, into his home, shoot him up for his sister to find? Bright, not real bright. And personal.”

She nodded, reached in her kit for the next tool. “Yeah, pull Peabody in. We’re going from what looked like murder this morning and turned into accidental, to what looks like accidental OD but is murder.”





4

After he contacted Peabody, Roarke skirted around Eve, moved down a short hallway toward the two facing bedrooms and the single bath at the end.

He identified Rochelle’s not only from the floral spread on the bed and the frilly shade over the lone window, but by the neatly made bed with no clothes scattered over it or the floor. She’d squeezed in a small desk for a work area in the corner.

He turned to the brother’s room.

A thin, gray duvet covered the not-as-neatly made bed. In the closet, clothes heaped in a plastic basket or hung—a number crookedly—on a rail.

A two-drawer dresser held a framed copy of the Serenity Prayer. A stubby jar, empty, carried a handwritten label.

Save It!

The top drawer hung crooked, jammed a bit when Roarke pulled it open. On top of underwear and socks, a jumble of bandannas, was a second pressure syringe and a pair of dime vials he imagined the dealer Eve had rousted earlier sold routinely.

One of the vials was nearly empty.

He left them alone, for Eve’s record, moved to the second drawer.

Tees, workout gear, sweatshirts.

In the drawer of the box of a nightstand he found a cheap e-book that opened at a swipe. He scanned the contents, replaced it, moved into the bathroom.

As he came out again he heard Eve calling in sweepers.

“There’s another pressure syringe in his top dresser drawer, and two vials of illegals. All but in plain sight, Eve. Lying on top of his socks and boxers.”

“Which makes it look like he’s been using all along. Or at least he started up again.”

“There’s also a notebook in the bedside table. A journal of sorts that it appears he’s kept faithfully for about two years. Some poetry, some recipes. It has his work schedule. And a kind of log—how much money he’s banking every pay period, and what he spends on his share of the rent, food, his clothes, music, even what he puts in the jar at meetings. He has a jar on his dresser for saving—I’d suspect loose coin and credits. It’s empty.”

She listened as she replaced her tools, the evidence bags she’d used.

“Might as well take the money. The only thing in his pockets is his two-year chip, his keys, and a bandanna. No wallet, no loose coins. They may have lifted other things. We’ll have Rochelle go through the place later.”

“What do you see?”

Shoving at her hair, she turned to the door. “He let somebody in, and since TOD was nineteen-twenty-two, it couldn’t have been long after his sister left.”

“Someone watching the place then.”

“Possibly, yeah.” Almost had to be, she thought, because she didn’t buy that kind of lucky timing. “So he lets them in. Someone he trusted, wasn’t afraid of, or just wanted to deal with. Then he goes into the kitchen, pours a glass of water. Maybe he takes out his ’link—going to contact someone. They—because it’s probably more than one—get him from behind. The bruises on his wrist look like hand grips. Somebody with muscle. Glass gets knocked over, ’link hits the floor. I figure they jab him with the needle—he’s got a needle mark. Get him high or put him out. Pull him out here, stage the OD. He’s got a little slice on the throat. Hold a knife there in case he fights or tries.”

Roarke could see it, too. “He wouldn’t have had much of a chance, would he?”

“No, and it wouldn’t take long. Minutes, really. While he’s dying, they plant the illegals and works where they’re easy to find.”

She moved back to the body, lifted the sweatshirt to expose the abdomen and lower ribs, and the bruising.

“Couldn’t resist giving him a couple shots before they killed him. Personal. Could’ve been clean, but they’re not as smart as they think.”