Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(66)

“Sounds kind of normal,” Peabody observed, “settled. Happy lovebirds.”

“The morning routine was no surprises. A workout, shower sex—which I assume, as they left the bathroom door open and the audio picked up some sex sounds—fruit and yogurt for breakfast, more work and getaway talk. They laugh a lot. Dressed and out the door.”

“No sign of Harris, or the PI picking up the cameras?”

“He’d have edited himself out, if he had a brain. Since the recording ends with them leaving, he has a brain. No sign of Harris, and very little said about her from either spied-on party. Which probably burned her ass.”

Eve parked, checking Asner’s office window as she got out. The overcast sky made the day a little gloomy, but no lights shone in his office.

“He’s either not in yet, or still asleep.”

As they went in, started up, she asked herself why, if he had a brain, he dodged the cops. He had to know they’d pin him down, and the longer it took, the less friendly the pinning. Maybe working out a story, a cover, maybe consulting his lawyer.

Or maybe he’d taken his big paycheck and smoked.

She didn’t much like that idea, and liked the other possibility that circled her mind even less.

She approached Asner’s office door, started to rap on the glass. “It’s not secured.”

The other possibility stopped circling to hover. She drew her weapon, as did Peabody.

“He could have forgotten to lock it,” Peabody said quietly.

“A waste of good locks.” She nodded, counted off, and they went in the door together.

The quick initial sweep showed her the disorder of the reception area. All that was left of the computer on the desk was the screen. The drawers had been pulled out, upended.

Again at Eve’s signal Peabody moved toward the inner office. She pulled open the door, swept right while Eve swept left.

Disorder reigned here, too, as well as death. A. A. Asner lay facedown on the floor. The back of his skull had been smashed in, presumably with the statue of a bird that lay nearby covered in blood and matter.

He wouldn’t be paying his gym buddy the twenty, Eve thought, and was beyond being pressured to talk about his equally dead client.

Eve holstered her weapon. “Go get the field kit, and I’ll call it in.”

“Hit him from behind,” Peabody said. “Hard, and more than once. No calling this one an accident.”

She hurried out while Eve contacted Dispatch, reported the DB, requested uniforms for securing the scene and canvassing, a sweeper unit, and a morgue team.

She took out her recorder, fixed it on, engaged it. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, entered the offices of Asner, A. A., Private Investigations. The door was not secured. Detective Peabody has returned to our vehicle for a field kit. Dispatch has been contacted, and support teams have been requested.

“The victim, identity yet to be confirmed, has suffered multiple blows to the back of the head. The weapon appears to be a statue of a black bird, wings folded in, beak—Maltese falcon,” she murmured. “He got bashed with a replica—souvenir—whatever from the vid. Book, too,” she remembered.

Both were among Roarke’s favorites.

“Hero in the story’s a hard-bitten PI, early twentieth century. More irony, I guess.”

She walked out, studied the entrance door. “No visible sign of forced entry. He let the killer in, or came in with him. He either knew him or wasn’t worried about him as the killing blow came from behind.”

Careful to touch nothing, she walked toward the office again. “Moving toward the desk, back to the killer. Small table to the left of the office door. Easy reach. Grab it, smash it. Asner goes down.”

Avoiding the congealed blood pooled on the floor, she moved closer to the body. “Another blow as he’s going down. Maybe a third and fourth for good measure when he’s on the ground. Messy. The office has been ransacked, as has the reception area. Computers are missing, drawers searched. The vic is not wearing a wrist unit, possible robbery. But that’s bogus. Bogus. Coincidence, my ass. Whoever did Asner did Harris. And wanted the recording, wanted information, wanted … silence.”

She glanced over as Peabody came back, panting slightly, with the field kit. “What are the chances of it being a coincidence that the PI Harris hired got bashed to death in the neighborhood of twenty-four hours after she drowned?”

“Slim to none,” Peabody responded and offered Eve the Seal-It from the kit.

“I say even extra-slim to none. Let’s verify his ID for the record, get TOD.”

“Take off the coat.”

“What?”

“It’s brand-new, Dallas, and extreme. Why risk getting blood or dead yuck on it? I put three coats of protective shield on my boots, so they won’t get yucked up.”

She had a point, Eve thought as she took off the coat. Which was why, in her view, cops shouldn’t wear anything they had to worry about getting yucked up.

With the coat set safely aside, she crouched by the body.

“Victim is confirmed as Abner Andrew Asner,” Peabody said when she checked prints. “Age forty-six, licensed private investigator, and owner/operator of the business at this location.”

Working with the gauges, Eve nodded. “TOD, twenty-three-twenty. So, a late appointment or meet.” She checked pockets. “No wallet in his back pockets, none front pants pocket my side, no loose change, no nothing. Your side?”