Connections in Death (In Death #48)(18)

Now she puffed out her cheeks. “Never wanted much to do with the police, but I’ll look at the pictures and whatnot. For young Lyle and Rochelle.”

“Thank you. Peabody, why don’t you go inside with Ms. Gregory, get a description. McNab, you can start knocking on doors. Maybe we’ll get lucky again.”

“They killed that boy, that’s what they did, then they walked away laughing like it was one big joke.” Ms. Gregory shook her head again, gestured Peabody inside.

*

By the time Eve knocked on Crack’s door, she had the broad strokes of what she believed happened. She’d sent Peabody to Central to write up a preliminary. She had a vague description of the female from Ms. Gregory, and might need to pull in Yancy for a sketch.

But if Lyle knew the woman, odds were Rochelle did, too. She’d go there first.

Crack answered wearing the same conservative dinner-date black sweater and pants. No feathers, no beads, no tats on view.

The Down and Dirty pulled them in, and Crack—or Wilson—was nobody’s fool of a businessman. So his apartment climbed several steep flights over Rochelle’s.

Rochelle sat in his living room with its bold African art and the oversized furniture to suit the size of the man. She popped to her feet, her eyes rimmed with red, her face sallow with stress.

“He wouldn’t have done this. Whatever you say, I know he wasn’t using again. And he’d never bring illegals into our home.”

“You’re right. Or, my conclusion at this stage of the investigation lines up with yours.”

“He—” The fists at Rochelle’s sides unballed. She lowered shakily into the chair again. “What happened to my brother?”

“Y’all sit down. I don’t have any of that coffee you like around, but I got Pepsi.” As he spoke, Crack stroked his hand over Rochelle’s curly wedge of hair. “That’s your cold drink, right?”

“That’d be great.”

“Roarke?”

“I’m fine with that, thanks.”

“I’m sorry.” Rochelle pressed a fist to her lips, fought to steady. “I haven’t even thanked you for coming so quickly, for helping. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Eve sat so she and Rochelle were eye-to-eye. “Rochelle, Lyle had a jar on his dresser.”

“His Save It fund. He’d toss loose change in there every night after work.”

“How much would you say he had in it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess it was about half full, maybe a little more.”

“It was empty.”

“No, that’s not right. I saw it just tonight. His door was open—he keeps it open to show me he’s got nothing to hide. I saw it when I went in to change for dinner with Wilson. It was loaded up at least half way.”

“It was empty,” Eve repeated, “and in his top drawer we found a second pressure syringe, and two vials of what appear to be illegals, one nearly empty.”

Those heavy-lidded eyes hardened like granite. “I don’t believe you. Not for one minute.”

“You should because I believe whoever emptied that jar planted the syringe and illegals. Whoever did that killed your brother and attempted to stage it like an overdose.”

“Killed him. Killed him. Killed—”

“You breathe, Ro.” Crack hurried in with the drinks. “You take your breaths.” After setting the glasses down, he plucked her out of the chair, then sat and cradled her in his lap.

“I knew he didn’t—but to hear . . . Murder. Somebody murdered Lyle. I can’t think. I need a second. Hold on to me, Wilson.”

“Don’t you worry. I’ve got you.”

Eve picked up the glass, took a welcome infusion of caffeine while she waited for Rochelle to steady herself again.

“He was so happy,” she murmured. “He’d found himself again, found the real Lyle again. I have to be grateful for that, that he had this time to be himself. I said, when I left tonight, ‘I love you,’ and he said, ‘Back at you squared.’ We said that to each other, the last thing. I have to be grateful for that. Oh God, if I’d insisted on staying home, making that celebration meal—”

“They’d have come another time,” Eve finished. “It reads like they waited for you to leave. It’s likely they knew his schedule well enough to know he had the night off. Who’d want to hurt him, Rochelle?”

“I swear I don’t know. If you’d asked me a couple years ago, I could’ve named a dozen. But he’s been out of that life, and he’s stayed away. He goes to work, to meetings, to see our brothers and Gram. He’s not even dating yet. He just got his two-year chip for sobriety.”

“We have a witness who saw a female go to your apartment door shortly after you left. She wore a hoodie, baggies, boots. All dark. The witness believes Caucasian, middle twenties, small build. Very thin. She described her—and she only caught a glimpse—as having a thin, hard face. Pink in her hair.”

“It sounds like Dinnie.”

“Dinnie?”

“Dinnie Duff. They lived together in that flop. She’s one of the Banger Bitches. That’s what they call themselves. He was with her before he got arrested. She’s done time, too. He wouldn’t have started seeing her again. He’d violate his parole.”