Connections in Death (In Death #48)(40)

And that picture, Eve thought, also came though clear enough. “Okay.”

“On the journal search,” Peabody said as she settled into the car. “There are mentions of Duff, of the gang, Slice and other members, of Strong, his sponsor—but, at a glance, he doesn’t write down about being a CI.”

“Kept it confidential, even from his journal. It wasn’t passcoded, probably to show his sister he had nothing to hide, but he’s careful. Maybe somebody breaks in, takes it, reads it.”

“He didn’t have any trouble writing down his thoughts about Duff. You go back a few months, they’re conflicted. She needs help. Maybe he can help, that sort of thing. But I read an entry he put in just a few days ago where he wrote about deciding he had to cut her off, all the way off and why. What he said to her, what she said.”

“That jibes with the sponsor’s take. What was the why?”

“He finally realized what his sponsor, the prison shrink, his family, his boss, the waitress at work had been telling him all along. He wasn’t helping, but enabling. In the case of his boss, it was a little more direct. She was a junkie whore, and just because he wasn’t doing her didn’t mean she wasn’t screwing him, and he paid her for it.”

“Sounds like his boss had it right. But Lyle still let her into his apartment.”

“From some I skimmed in the journal?” Peabody began. “He had a lot of soft spots. The wit said she was crying, and how she needed help. In the journal, Lyle wrote he told her she could come to him if she was ready to admit she needed help—for her addiction. He’d help her get into Clean House, take her to meetings, ask his sponsor to sponsor her. Otherwise, blow basically. If she kept coming around, high or jonesing to get high, he’d call the cops.”

“So she comes to his place, says she needs help. Maybe says he had it right, she’s ready to ask for help. Please help. He buys it, opens the door. She can spin him a load of bullshit, but she has to get him out of the room long enough for her to let the muscle in. So, can she have some water—crying, shaking. He goes into the kitchen to get it, takes out his ’link. Likely to tag his sponsor. And that’s that.”

As she thought it through, Eve drummed her fingers on the wheel. “But, how does the junkie whore come up with a plan to get into the apartment, when Lyle’s alone, and distract him enough to get all that muscle in there—with the tranq, with the illegals. And why if she set it all up, doesn’t she hang around and watch it go down? If this is her payback for him cutting her off, wouldn’t she want a bigger piece of it?”

She glanced over at Peabody’s thoughtful face. “Don’t you want to stay, make sure it’s done right? And where did she get the illegals, or the money to buy them?”

“All good and valid points,” Peabody conceded, “but we’ve got enough to confirm that’s how it went down.”

“We’ve got enough to confirm she got him to open the door, then she let in the killers. What all this says to me? She’s the bait. Maybe she wanted him dead, too—but then again, why did she leave?”

“She didn’t want to see the rest.”

Eve waved that off. “I’m not giving her the credit of actual feelings. She left, I think, because she’d done what she came to do. What someone with enough punch—and access to illegals—ordered up. Add in, they don’t kill him in a fight, don’t beat the crap out of him in payback or to teach him a lesson. Because it wasn’t so much payback. It was . . . business,” she decided.

“Sloppy, poorly planned, but business. Personal business. With Duff as the bait. And once that business was done, they—what is it—cut off bait.”

“Just cut. Cut bait.”

“Whatever.” Eve pulled up in front of the apartment building on the edges of Tribeca.

“Yeah, and whatever makes sense.” Peabody angled in her seat. “Duff whines to the right person—or the wrong one—about Lyle’s cutting her off, even threatening her. And that person sees an opportunity. Take the ex-Banger out—who does he think he is—and use the junkie who can’t keep her mouth shut to do it, then take her out. The gang-war angle, Dallas,” she continued as they got out of the car. “Jones said he’s not looking for that, but maybe he is—the property-value angle you played with. Or maybe one or more of his lieutenants are trying for a coup.”

“Dissention in the ranks, very possible. Or Jones saw this as a way to cement his authority.” She needed to think about that, the ins and outs of that.

They went inside, started up. “Sacrificing an ex-member and an easy lay isn’t much of a sacrifice.”

“Like pawns in chess.”

Eve considered, rolled it around. “Yeah, like that.”

They found Rochelle already on her apartment level, in the arms of the witness across the hall.

A young man Eve recognized as the younger brother ,from the ID shots, stood a few steps away.

“I’m so sorry, Ro, just so sorry. When I think I watched those awful people go right in there . . .”

“If you hadn’t, we might not know what they did. So I’m grateful. We’re all grateful.”

“He was a good boy. He’d come back to you a good boy,” Ms. Gregory said as she moved back. “You let me know when you’re having his memorial. I’m going to be there.” She let out a sigh as she nodded toward Eve. “I’ve got to get to work. You let me know if you need anything.”