Connections in Death (In Death #48)(35)

“That makes it an even closer connection.”

“He’s got one marriage—divorced. One offspring. Bumps for possession, for fraud. Lost his position at a financial investment firm due to that fraud. Went into a white-collar prison nine years ago—when his son was two. Did three years—during which time his wife divorced him. Completed mandatory rehab, did a voluntary stint when he got out at Clean House, lived in their halfway house. Looks like he took some courses on counseling. He joined the staff three years ago.”

She scrolled more as they headed to the elevator. “His earnings took a dive. Before he got axed and locked up, he earned high six figures, not including some nice bonuses. Currently, well, I make more. He has a resident’s apartment in CH, included in his salary. No bumps since his release.”

“Contact him while I set things up, see if he’ll come in. If he balks, we’ll pay him a visit at work.”

Eve pushed out of the elevator, headed for the glides after one stop due to the crazy eyes of a woman in restraints between two uniforms.

She didn’t want any distractions.

When she turned into her bullpen, she regretted leaving the sunshades in her car. They might have prevented her eyes bleeding from a glance at Jenkinson’s latest tie, featuring jagged blue sperm squiggles over a field the color of chili peppers. If you infused them with plutonium.

“Bring Strong in when she gets here,” she told Peabody, and escaped to her office.

She tossed her coat aside, programmed coffee. As she began to set up her board she considered that only the day before she’d spent several loose hours at her desk tackling paperwork.

Now she had two unquestionably connected murders, a potential gang war in the offing, and a whole lot of questions.

At the center, Lyle Pickering, recovering addict. A man who had appeared to drive himself to a fresh start. The system had worked in his case. Crime, punishment, rehabilitation.

Now it would be her job to make certain that system continued to work for him, and find him justice.

Dinnie Duff. Eve pinned the ID shot, one of a worn-looking woman wearing a pound or two of eye gunk and pink streaks in her hair, and beside it the crime scene shots of the battered, bloodied dead.

An addict, one who’d sold her body and likely any remaining portion of her heart and soul for the next fix or a place to flop. In and out of lockup, part-time underground sex worker, and one complicit in the murder of Lyle Pickering.

And still the system she’d slithered around would work to find her that same justice.

Marcus “Slice” Jones. A bad dude, she considered as she added his photo. Maybe, maybe not behind the murders, but a bad dude nonetheless, and one she didn’t doubt had killed or ordered hits.

Not an addict, she mused. Likely sucked down some Zoner now and again, downed his share of brews, but he showed no signs of abusing his own products.

Too smart for that, she decided. He had some brains in there, and some canny with it. If he’d used those qualities on the right side of the law he’d probably have earned some reasonable success and a decent life. And he wouldn’t have her determined to slap him in a cage.

Because that’s where he belonged.

She added the tox report on Pickering as it came through her incoming. Enough Go in his system to kill him twice—and a solid, souped-up dose of Out—like an injected mickey.

Wouldn’t a man, one with brains, one who trafficked in illegals know that heavy of a tranq would show up in autopsy?

Would he care? she wondered. If not, why go through the motions to set it up to look like an OD?

Sloppy, sloppy, she thought as she added to the board. Maybe even impulsive. Slice struck her as more calculating than impulsive.

With more coffee, she sat at her desk, started her murder book. She’d barely begun when she heard the clomp of Peabody’s cowgirl boots.

Detective Lilah Strong stepped in with her.

Eve’s first thought was the Illegals detective looked tired, with shadows under the eyes, against the toffee-colored skin. She’d let her hair grow some, but unlike Peabody’s jaunty little tail, Strong let hers explode in a cloud of curls around her face.

She wore a rust-colored jacket over her service weapon, servicable boots and a grim expression.

It deepened when Strong’s tired eyes scanned the murder board.

“Lieutenant.”

“Detective.” Eve gave Peabody the come-ahead as she rose. “Close the door, Peabody. You want coffee, Detective Strong?”

“As strong and black as you’ve got it, thanks. I was finishing up a long one, didn’t get your message until . . . Damn it, Lyle.”

“You knew him.” Eve handed Strong her black coffee, Peabody her coffee regular. So the three women stood with their mugs facing the board. “You worked on the bust that sent him in the last time, with Officers Zutter and Norton.”

“Yeah. He was high and stupid, I was undercover. He tried to sell me Go, with a downer chaser to bring me down after the high. Then he ran, then he got in a pretty solid roundhouse before we got him under control. You know, later, he told me that was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

Eve could hear it. Not just regret, but grief. “You kept up with him?”

“He contacted me from prison, asked me to come talk to him. I figured maybe he had some info, wanted to turn it for some privileges or early parole. What he wanted? To apologize for the punch, and the uncomplimentary names he called me. Part of his twelve steps. I’m going to say I didn’t buy it right off, figured he had some angle.”