Connections in Death (In Death #48)(53)

She took the earrings out, studied them. Not just blood, she noted, little bits of flesh, too.

Shiny things, she mused as she stepped out of the closet, scanning the room. Would this particular murderous magpie leave his shiny things behind if he ran?

Dirty clothes left, and a couple of shirts, on the ragged side, on the closet floor. No shoes.

Holding the purse carefully, she got down, looked under the bed. A few more scattered clothes, a lot of dirt and dust, another plate holding a moldy smear of God knew what.

No shoes.

She opened one of his three dresser drawers, found a pair of truly filthy socks that hadn’t made it to the floor.

Peabody hustled back in. “Gave up, took the elevator. I justified it because it’s quicker.”

“Bag the earrings, then put them back inside the purse, bag that. No shoes in his room.”

“He might only have one pair,” Peabody pointed out as she bagged the evidence, marked and sealed it.

“Yeah, maybe. Here’s what we’re going to do. We get the two cops from last night to sit on the place, that’s Officers Zutter and Norton. See if he goes in or out. Make that happen—and while you’re at it, ask them if they know the finger-snapping guy. Maybe we can push there.”

She paced as she thought it through. “He’s going to have a ’link, and he’s seventeen years old. He’s going to use it, unless he’s dead. Let’s put EDD on that. See if they can locate him. I’ll do that. You find out who in the bullpen’s not working something hot. Bring them up to speed. Let’s get them out to the SkyMall to talk to the mother.”

“If the kid had the time right, she might be on her way home.”

Eve glanced at her wrist unit, said, “Shit. You’re right. Long commute. We’ll get them to sit on this place, talk to the mother when she gets home. She hasn’t been in his room, not for weeks anyway, and not likely since he put in the lock. She doesn’t know where he is, but she might know something.

“Christ, who could live with this smell?”

She walked out, left the door open and unlocked.

Outside, she cut Carmichael and Shelby loose.

“We can sit on the place, Lieutenant,” Carmichael told her. “Until you get another team on. It’s a nice night for a stakeout, right, Shelby?”

“You got that. Sir, we’ve got the suspect’s ID on the ’links. We can generate copies if you want us to ask around.”

“Not yet. He’s bound to have one person around here who doesn’t think he’s a pervy jerk or a lazy punk ass. If he’s just chilling somewhere, we’d spook him. Just sit on it for now.”

As she drove back to Central, Eve contacted EDD.

“Feeney, I need a trace and target.”

“I need a brew and the game on-screen. Damn it, it’s the wife’s girls night. I’m picking up pizza on the way home, with freaking anchovies.”

“Ditch it on McNab. I’ve still got Peabody, so he’s at Central most likely. Or somebody. Just a trace and target. The name’s Aimes, Barry.” She rattled off the address. “It might be under his mother’s name. She’s—”

“You think I can’t find some asshole’s mother’s name? Stop wasting my time. Anchovies.” His droopy eyes took on a little shine. “I can’t even have them in the house when the wife’s in it. The boy’ll tag you back when he gets what you need.”

“We should do a girls night,” Peabody said. “Go to a club and—no, a piano bar! Classy. We could all have fancy drinks, and—”

“Consider this conversation the closest you’ll ever get me to a piano bar with a bunch of women drunk on fancy drinks. Who’s on the mother?”

“Santiago and Carmichael, so—hee-hee—Carmichael’s going to relieve Carmichael. Zutter and Norton are checking with their LT on sitting on Banger HQ, don’t see an issue. And Zutter said he’s seen this finger-snapper. Pretty sure. They don’t have a name, don’t think he’s an official Banger unless he’s new, but they’ve seen him around, hanging with some of the lower levels. Big guy, they say about six-two, maybe two-sixty. Black, late teens to twenty. They’ll ask around—they know how.”

Another killer in his teens, Eve thought.

“What he did—whoever he is—is pull on the lower levels, young, stupid. The type who’d do what he said, want to impress, make their mark. So sloppy.”

She pulled into Central. “Write it up. If McNab hits the target, let me know asap. Otherwise, when you’re done, the two of you swing by Casa del Sol, talk to Pickering’s boss, coworkers, then take this home.”

“You’re going home?”

“I’m going to see a sleazy, disbarred lawyer.”

“I’m up for that.”

“In this case, I’m going to see if I can hook in somebody who knows sleazy lawyers. Write it up—copy Mira. It might add to her profile.”

“All over it. How about I see if Reo can expand the warrant—just in case?”

“Do that. Out.”

Eve plugged in the sleazy lawyer’s address, pulled out. And tried Roarke on the in-dash.

“Lieutenant. I’m just on my way home, and assume you’re not.”