Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(33)

“More interesting than lemons,” Eve decided.

“Since the bashed-in guy croaked this morning, we’ve got a double, that maybe looks at first glance like the two DBs just DB’d each other.”

“But since the DB with just holes didn’t have gloves, wasn’t sealed, and was really completely DOS,” Sanchez added, “it’s hard to buy he wiped his prints off the iron post before he became dead. Plus the ME didn’t find any cloth, rag, or handy shirt inside the DB on the off chance he wiped and ate, and we didn’t find anything that could have done said wiping on scene. We conclude a third party did the bashing and wiping.”

Sanchez was fairly new to her division, but Eve liked his style. “At this point, I would be inclined to agree with that conclusion.”

“So we’re going to haul a bunch of bangers known to associate with both vics, which means a long day of bullshit.”

“Hence the desire for liquid refreshment prior to,” Sanchez finished.

“Hence. Was the iron pipe from the scene?”

“A few of them lying around,” Carmichael confirmed. “Used to be a fence.”

“Look for an initiate, younger banger wannabe or a girlfriend who’s not a full combat member. Another banger would more likely use a sticker. Pipe’s a weapon of opportunity, and any self-respecting banger wants to cut, not bash.”

“Good point.” Carmichael nodded. “And potentially less bullshit.”

“I’m still not drinking fake lemons.”

“There’s a deli on Avenue B that still does genuine egg creams,” Eve told them. “Cost you ten, but worth it.”

“I know that place.” Carmichael pointed at Sanchez. “I know where that is.”

“Good. You’re buying.”

They started toward the glide, arguing over who should pick up the tab. It was, in Eve’s mind, a good, solid partnership forming in a short amount of time.

“Now I want an egg cream,” Peabody muttered. “I missed breakfast due to asking if I wanted to be asked and sex.”

“Settle for fake lemons, because you’re not going to Avenue B. Do the run, set up the follow-ups. I’ll put the board and book together.”

She walked through the bullpen, through the familiar sounds and smells—fake sugar, fake fat, fake coffee, real sweat, voices, beeping ’links, humming comps—and into her office.

The message light on her desk ’link flashed like neon on Vegas II. She scowled at it, hit the AutoChef for coffee, then ordered a list of callers without the messages.

Reporters, she thought with mild annoyance as the list ran down. And more reporters. Nadine, of course—twice. She’d have to deal with them, and before much longer. But they’d just have to wait until she set up her board, wrote up her notes.

As she began, she had a low-level urge for that egg cream, which made her think of chocolate, and the candy she’d successfully hidden—again—from the greedy hands of the nefarious Candy Thief.

She glanced toward her rickety visitor’s chair where the candy sat snugly inside—she hoped—the bottom of the seat she’d carefully removed and replaced.

The candy would have to wait, too, she decided.

She finished the board, pinning up both ID and crime scene shots of the victim, ID shots of everyone who’d been at the dinner party, more crime scene photos—the purse, the herbal/zoner butts, broken glass—the sweeper’s initial reports, ME Carter’s reports and results.

She sat at her desk, drank the rest of the coffee while she studied the board.

She’d started on her notes, writing up a time line, when she heard footsteps approaching.

Not Peabody, she thought idly. Peabody had a distinctive clump. This was a purposeful stride.

Whitney, she thought, straightening at her desk seconds before her commander stepped in.

“Dallas.”

“Sir.” She got to her feet, uneasy. Commander Whitney rarely came to her. More rarely came to her office and shut the door as he did now.

“K.T. Harris,” he said.

“Sir. The ME has determined her death a homicide. As I was on scene at the TOD, I was able to interview, with Detectives Peabody and McNab, all individuals also present.”

“Including yourself?”

“I’ll be writing that up, yes, sir. I should have a full report for you shortly.”

“Sit down, Lieutenant.”

He lowered to her visitor’s chair, frowned. “Why in God’s name don’t you requisition a replacement for this? It’s like sitting on bricks.”

She felt weird knowing her commander’s ass was one crappy cushion away from squatting on her candy. “Because nobody sits on bricks for long. Take the desk chair, Commander.”

He waved that away, sat for a moment, studying her board. He had a wide, dark face, lined from years and the weight of command. His hair, cropped short and close to the skull, showed thickening threads of silver.

“We have some areas of complication with this matter.” He nodded toward her flashing ’link. “Media?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yes, you will. That’s one complication. Another is your connection to the victim.”

“I had no connection to the victim.”