Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(49)

With sealed hands he lifted the liver from Banks’s splayed torso to weigh. Smiled over at Eve and Peabody.

“A morning made for blues and bed, but since we can’t have both . . .” Still, he ordered the volume on the music to decrease.

“It’s slowing down,” Eve told him. “It’s down to really freaking annoying.”

“Could be worse,” he said, cleaning the blood off his sealed hands. “Could be snowing, and I’ve had enough of that this winter.”

“I’m forcing some narcissus—paper whites—in the kitchen,” Peabody told him. “They get me through the last of the winter.”

“I’ll have to try that myself.”

“The dead guy probably doesn’t care about rain or snow or whatever narcissus is,” Eve pointed out.

“A very pretty and fragrant flower,” Morris told her. “A harbinger of spring. In any case . . . I’m told our dead guy was pulled out of the JKO by a couple of boys too insulated by various substances to worry about the filthy weather or the jump into the drink.”

“Young and stupid. Without the young or stupid, Banks would have spent another couple of hours in the water. Not a prime day for jogging in the park.”

“Your killer had to have some muscle to get Banks over the fence.”

“There were probably two of them.”

“Ah, that would help. Still, it took some upper-body strength and skill to break this neck manually.”

“Military training, most probable.”

“And logical. From behind,” Morris added. “Dominant right hand. The late Mr. Banks didn’t put up a fight. No defensive wounds, no other injuries. He’d consumed quite a bit of red wine along with some brie and herbed crackers—rosemary—two deviled dove eggs, about a quarter ounce of beluga, with the accoutrements: a few marinated olives, some goose liver paté. He capped all that off with a few ounces of absinthe.”

“Party food,” Eve stated. “Expensive cocktail party.”

“The goose liver and the absinthe? He’d have enjoyed that less than an hour prior to his TOD.”

“Left the party, went to the park. The killers may have been at the party,” she speculated as she studied the body. “Or arranged for the meeting after. He knew them, told them I was poking around. So . . .” She twisted her hands in the air. “Snap. Tox?”

“Sent off. We should have the full results fairly quickly. He didn’t just eat and drink at the party,” Morris added.

He picked up a clear sample case from his tray, held it up. Inside, Eve saw the single bright red hair.

“Pubic hair, combed out of his own,” Morris told her. “I’ll send it to Harvo at the lab.”

“It’ll be female. There’s nothing to indicate he was into same-sex play. DNA would be helpful.”

“If the owner’s in the system, our queen of hair and fiber will track her down. I can tell you he’s had a bit of work here and there,” Morris continued as he set the case back on the tray. “Face and body, nothing major. As you can see, he believed in pubic grooming—of the permanent sort.”

Eve glanced at the narrow line of hair. “Made it easy to spot the stray red hair.”

“It did. The evidence indicates he died well-fed, buzzed, and sexually satisfied. I don’t suppose that’s much comfort to him.”

“Or me, since I was looking forward to slapping him in a cage as an accessory. Thanks, Morris.”

“We’re here to serve.”

As they walked out, he ordered the music up again, on a sob of tenor sax.

“Party and sex,” Eve said as they walked out. “Hit those cab companies and private transpos, Peabody. We’ll go by and talk to his money guy, see if we get any buzz there.”

She headed east, and by the time she approached the narrow streets and canyons of the financial district, Peabody got a hit.

“Yeah.” She held up a hand to signal Eve. “Can you patch me through to the driver? No problem. Rapid Cab,” she told Eve. “Logged a pickup on West Ninety-Sixth, two-twenty. Drop-off on West Eighty-Seventh. Yeah, still here.”

Eve listened with half an ear as she negotiated in the shadow of the tall buildings. Some of the Gilded Age buildings with their fancy architecture had survived the Urbans. Others had been built up after the war, so sleek bullets married with high, festooned palaces beyond the bronze bollards, wet with rain, that shielded them from vehicular bombs.

She ruled out double-parking, not because it worried her to piss off civilian drivers, but in order to avoid hiking blocks in the continuing piss-trickle. The street options were simply too narrow.

She found a lot, used her vertical option to squeeze into a stingy second-level slot.

“Confirmed,” Peabody told her. “RC pulled up the ticket. Banks charged the ride, so we have that. The driver remembers him—solo fare. Says the fare was high and tight, talked to somebody on his ’link. Doesn’t know or remember what he said beyond he’d be there in a few minutes. Fare called up a ride for pickup at 743 West Ninety-Six, and came out about a minute or two after the driver tagged his arrival.”

Peabody got out as Eve did, started down the clanging iron steps to ground level.

“Banks paid via his ’link for the charge, got out, walked away.”