Connections in Death (In Death #48)(51)

“Seventeen.” Peabody shoved her arms in her coat. “And he’s already killed twice.”

“Bad boy,” Eve said, looking forward to sweating his co-killers’ names out of him once she had him in the box. “Here’s how we’re going to roll it out.”





11

Eve didn’t care about double-parking on police business, but in this case, she had a purpose to pissing off drivers when she slid next to the beater at the curb in front of the mini-mart.

If Aimes managed to get by her out the front, she’d pursue on foot while Peabody jumped back in the car to cut him off.

If he tried the back, she had her two uniforms waiting.

A big guy at six-three and two-sixty, she’d reminded her takedown team—and one who likely carried sharps and couldn’t be expected to go quietly.

With Peabody, she walked into the mini, a quick shop approximately the size of her closet. Its wares included snack packs of junk food, some canned goods, candy, condoms, a section of cheap makeup and hair dye. She imagined the lottery tickets and black-market tobacco products sold illegally under the table kept the place afloat.

She didn’t see Aimes—and it would’ve been impossible to miss him in a space that size with the only occupants one middle-aged male wearing a do-rag and a sour expression behind the counter, and a lone female with an infant in a sling, a dented basket in her hand.

Eve approached the counter with its short stock of candy bars inside a locked case.

“Help ya?”

“We’re looking for Barry Aimes.”

“Yeah?” His sour expression soured further. “Let me know when you find his lazy punk ass so I can fire it. He hasn’t been in for two days running.”

Too busy killing people, Eve thought. “Is that usual?”

“It’s not unusual, right? You cops?”

Eve took out her badge. “You don’t seem surprised cops would be looking for your employee.”

“Employees show up for work, right? What he is, is the lazy punk-ass nephew of my woman’s cousin, so she nags me shitless to give him a job. What he do this time?”

“Do you know where he might be?”

“Hell.” After shoving at his do-rag, the man let out a long-suffering sigh. “Probably out getting high or at home where he mooches off his old lady—who works for a living—sleeping off his last high. You find him, you tell him he’s done here. Last time he showed up I come up sixty short. He’s done and if the Banger trash he runs with don’t like it, screw ’em.”

“Do the Bangers extort money from you for their questionable protection?”

“This place ain’t much, but it’s my ain’t much. I got nothing to say about that. But that don’t mean I have to put up with Barry’s lazy punk ass anymore.”

“All right. Could I have your name?”

“Ain’t you got one of your own?” He actually grinned at his own humor. “Hoobie. Kent Hoobie.”

“Mr. Hoobie, if he comes in, or you see him, I’d appreciate you not mentioning this visit—and contacting me.”

When she passed him a card, Hoobie started to stuff it in his pocket, then he stopped, eyes narrowed. “Homicide? Jumping Jesus, did that stupid kid kill somebody?”

“We need to speak with him,” was all Eve said.

Outside, she contacted her uniforms, told them to come around. “Peabody, did you dig up the exact location of the apartment?”

“Fifth floor, east side. My map shows an alley between the building and the one directly east.”

“Okay. Suspect hasn’t come into work the last two days,” she told the uniforms. “So here’s how we roll on the residence.”

A few blocks later, Eve double-parked again. They’d moved beyond Banger turf, into the sort of borderland between the badlands and the solid middle class.

Working-class building, she judged, with a single entrance cam that might even work. She mastered in while the uniforms took the alley.

Inside the lobby with its dull beige walls stood two elevators with dull green doors.

She took the stairs.

“Five flights,” Peabody grumbled. “Loose pants. His mother works as a sales clerk at Trendy, a chain store in the Sky Mall. Long commute.”

“Rent’s cheaper here.”

She could hear music and muffled voices from screen shows, some baby sending out wild screams as if being eaten by wolves. And a lot of quiet. Working class, she thought again. Too early for most to be home.

“It’s 516,” Peabody said as, breathing a little heavy, she reached the fifth floor.

Eve approached, noted the additional lock and another cam that might actually work.

She rapped the side of her fist on the door, listened hard for any sound, any movement. Heard nothing. Pounded harder.

The door just down the hall opened. A girl of about fourteen, wearing a teenager’s bored disgust, poked her head out. “What’s the what, duet? Nobody’s in there, okay? Some people are trying to do their homework.”

“We’re looking for Barry Aimes. Have you seen him?”

The girl, a lot of wavy brown hair with fading blue streaks, eased out a little more. “No. Why would I want to? If he was in there, he’d have the music or the screen on. Probably both, so I have to put on my headphones to get my homework done. So he’s not in there. Maybe at work. Probably not, but maybe.”