Connections in Death (In Death #48)(29)

Under his protective cloak, the chief medical examiner wore a suit not the color of Peabody’s beautiful sky, but softer, more the tone it would take on as dusk crept in. He’d paired it with a shirt the color of the salmon Galahad favored.

Which she had to admit, was a kind of pink.

His tie matched the suit, as did the cord woven through the black braid down his back. Though blood streaked his sealed hands, his dark eyes warmed as he looked up—and paused in the act of weighing some internal organs.

Kidneys, Eve decided.

“Ah, two of my favorite people, and my first live visitors of this gorgeous day.”

His tone matched the—damn it—jaunty music on his speakers. She began to worry that spring wasn’t such a winner after all.

He ordered the music’s volume lower, turned away to clean his bloody hands.

“A good catch on the needle mark, Dallas. It’s all but obscured by what’s left of his gang ink. We’d have caught it in the PM, of course, but finding it on scene gave us all a head start.

“What was it? Do you have that yet?”

“I put a rush on the tox. Hopefully, it won’t take long. I can tell you the fresh needle mark, the fresh mark from the pressure syringe are the only signs of the body of drug use. Added to the health of his internal organs, his skin tone, and so on, I’d judge him as clean before the overdose.”

“The bruises on his wrists.”

“I agree with your on-site there, too. Gripped by good-sized hands, with some force behind them. From the angle—” He ordered a close-up on-screen, enhanced it. “You can see the bruising from the thumbs, from the fingers. From the angle,” he repeated, “he was gripped from behind.”

“Grab his wrists from behind, keep him locked while a second assailant jabs the needle in to take him out. It’ll be a barbiturate of some kind. Some kind of tranq.”

“Most likely, yes, and again, I agree. I found microscopic bits of fabric in the needle mark. The lab will, no doubt, confirm they came from his shirt. So they injected him right through his shirt.”

“In a hurry. Get him down, or at least compliant, then you can stage the self-induced. The tourniquet to pop the vein, the pressure syringe, overloaded. Plant illegals in his room.”

“Just another addict losing the battle,” Peabody said. “They’d figure that’s what the cops would see, would say.”

“They’re not as smart as we are, are they, Peabody?”

She nodded at Morris. “Not even close.”

“It’s sloppy,” Eve added. “Surface smart, maybe, but not thought through. Bad tactics. Rushed, maybe. Because if you wanted him dead, send the three guys to beat the crap out of him one night when he’s heading to a meeting, or coming home from work. It’s . . . a cop bias on top of it. It’s thinking, cops won’t look past the obvious show. He’s just another junkie. Stupid to jab him with a tranq—but without it, he’s going to put up a fight. And the slice on his throat. Just in case he struggled, even under the tranq, hold a knife to his throat as you shoot him up.”

She slid her hands into her pockets, rocking on her heels as she studied the body. “It’s lousy tactics. I don’t see how you climb up to command status in a gang by using crap tactics. You take him in his apartment, you kill him with the substance he’s worked hard to kick? There’s personal in there. Sloppy, rushed, personal.”

She pulled her hands out, along with her communicator as it signaled. “Dispatch,” she said. “Maybe something on the BOLO.

“Dallas.”

Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, the body of the subject of your BOLO, Duff, Dinnie, has been found on East Broadway under the Manhattan Bridge underpass. See the officers at that location. Probable homicide.

“Copy that. Detective Peabody and I are on our way. Damn it,” she added, stuffing the comm back in her pocket. “I’ll be sending you another body, Morris.”

“We’re here to serve.”

“Let me know, will you, when this vic is ready for his family to come in?”

“Why don’t I contact Rochelle directly, save you that time?”

“Appreciate it. Let’s move, Peabody.”

“Moving.” At the doors, Peabody glanced back. “You totally smoked the sax at Nadine’s, Morris.”

He smiled at her. “Happier times.” When the doors closed, he sighed and looked down at the body. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”

Peabody trotted to catch up. “You didn’t seem surprised about Dead Duff.”

“Because I wasn’t. She had to be dead or in the wind, and dead was the better bet. Junkies are unreliable, so you use one to kill, you’d get rid of her before she gets picked up for something and blabs to try to get out of it. Or blabs the next time she’s high, or blabs to try to broker a high.”

“You figure she was dead, essentially, the minute she opened the door of Pickering’s apartment.”

“Yeah.” Eve slid behind the wheel. “She was mostly an easy lay. Just one more junkie who’d trade sex for a flop or a fix. Her usefulness here was the connection to Pickering.”

Eve pushed into crosstown traffic. “And that usefulness ended when she opened the door. Turned her into a liability. Shaky tactics again.”