Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(82)

“What can I do for my cop?”

“If your own decks are clear, there’s that angle about Mars going for pattern under another name. Maybe using another name to buy or rent another place. It’s all speculation, but it’s a good angle.”

“I can play with that. Once I get that set up, it’s going to run primarily on auto. I can clear what’s left on my decks while it does. I’ll start that in my office.”

Following their tacit agreement, since he’d put the meal on, she cleared it off before updating her board and book.

She let the updates simmer while she read the St. Louis file.

Not really sloppy work, she thought, not altogether careless work, but borderline on both. One witness had mentioned a teenage girl running out of the alley, but the investigating officers didn’t follow up or through on it. And obviously didn’t put much faith in the statement of another junkie whore.

Partially the times, she thought, partially the area. And far too much who-gives-a-shit because the dead were the dregs.

A cop had to give that shit, no matter the dregs, or didn’t deserve the badge.

In any case, the ME had done his job, she decided. The throat wound on the male vic had been severe, as had two chest wounds and a gash on the arm—but the gut wound had been determined as COD. A few defensive wounds as well—both vics. Female vic, two facial gashes, three chest wounds. Including the heart stab (a lucky shot, in Eve’s opinion) that had killed her. The vics’ TODs were within two minutes of each other, with the male bleeding out last as he attempted to crawl out of the alley.

Eve read it all a second time, considered, then engaged her ’link.

A woman with a pleasant face, a pleasant voice answered. “Good evening, Knight residence.”

“Lieutenant Dallas to speak with Ms. Knight.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Knight has retired for the evening and asked not to be disturbed.”

“Disturb her with my name, see what she says.”

“One moment, please.”

It took barely more than that for Knight to come on—making Eve think of the personal assistant again.

“Lieutenant.”

“I thought you’d want to know, I received and reviewed the case files from St. Louis.”

“Oh. I see.”

“You didn’t kill anyone.”

“I—what?” Knight lifted a hand and pressed it to her mouth. “I’m sorry?”

“Sarvino might have died from the throat wound you inflicted if he hadn’t sought medical assistance. But, in point of fact, that didn’t cause his death. They killed each other, sloppily and stupidly, because, in my opinion, they were high and pissed off. Carly Ellison died because she dragged a thirteen-year-old girl into an alley so she could make some money by allowing a junkie to rape her. You didn’t kill anyone, so put it away. Tell your mother to put it away.”

“I…”

“This is what I do for a living, Ms. Knight. I’m telling you, you weren’t responsible for what happened in that alley. I’m telling you that as an investigator. Mars had to know you weren’t responsible. If she dug deep enough, she knew, but she exploited you anyway.”

Tears glittered in Knight’s eyes. “We didn’t go to the police.”

“I’m the police,” Eve said. “Better late than never.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I’m doing my job. Put it away.”

“I think I can at least start to. I think I finally can. Thank you. Good night, Lieutenant.”

Eve clicked off, began her deeper runs on connecting names she felt were low probability. Get them out of the way, she thought.

From there, she moved on to what she thought of as the next tier. Unlikely, but more possible.

She programmed coffee, gathered data, added notes to her murder book.

Then she went back to Guy and Iris Durante. Missy Lee’s parents—father leading—were most probable of her current crop to her mind. But she’d added Wylee Stamford’s sports agent and his two other friends from back in his old neighborhood who fit the pattern of victims of the abuser.

If Stamford’s story had come out, theirs might, too.

When Roarke came in, she noted his warning look when she reached for more coffee. Instantly annoyed, she started to snap something, then noted the time.

Okay, he had a point.

“It’ll continue to run on auto,” he told her. “Nothing substantial as yet. I did find a Starr—that’s two r’s—Venus with a flat downtown, but she’s actually an over-the-’link psychic, born Karen Leibowitz. Did some time under that name for fraud. And how about you?”

“I’ve moved the bulk of connections to the bottom of the list. No one there has a probability over ten percent. I’ve got a couple who hit low twenties. Guy Durante’s at sixty-five and change with current data, so he bears more study. And I’ve got a couple of possibles connected to Wylee Stamford. Very likely victims of the same fucking pedophile. If I keep on them, I’m going to find who killed the fucking pedophile. I lean toward the father of one of them.”

He read the conflict on her face. “Will you push on that?”

She stood, paced. “Rock, hard place. It’s my job. But I can tell myself it’s not my case. I can take the straight-arrow line and start peeling things back. And the man I’d peel things back on has two more kids, has worked at the same company for thirty years, volunteers at a youth crisis center—he started there six months after the fuck’s death. He also coaches a Little League team.”