Concealed in Death (In Death #38)(17)

“Why would I tell you?”

Quilla shrugged. “I could write about it. You don’t have to tell me, I’ll find out. Like I said, I can research. But if you figure Ms. J or Mr. J killed them, you’re not much of a f**king cop.”

“Why is that?”

“They’re too holy. And sure, some people play like they’re holy, and they’ll stick a hand down your pants first chance they get.” Now Quilla stuck her hands in the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie. “But they’re not playing at it.”

“How old are you?” Peabody wondered.

“Sixteen.”

Eve cocked her head. “Maybe you will be. In a couple years.”

The girl tossed her colorful hair in a kind of head shrug. “A year and a half, so what? Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I know. Writers gotta observe, a lot. Those two are complete PITAs, but they couldn’t kill a bunch of girls. That’s what I’m saying. All you gotta do is squint, and you can see the halos.” She circled her finger over her head.

“Didn’t notice that myself. Why do you care what we think about the Joneses?”

“No skin off my ass. I’m just saying. I gotta get back.” Another eye roll. “I don’t get outdoor privileges until I complete my ‘educational assignments and domestic tasks.’” She parroted the words, giving them a prissy edge. “But I’ll be watching, so you should ask me when you want to know something.”

She took a couple running steps, vaulted back over the fence. “I can write it up,” she said again. “I can write it as good as the reporter wrote up the Icove shit, but with a different angle. Because I’m like them. I’m like the dead girls.”

She cut toward the bench, veered back, disappeared back inside.

“What do you think?” Peabody asked.

“A lot, but first I think most every group of kids has at least one decent geek. If they’ve got one skilled enough to jam reasonably good security, it’s a good bet the group at The Sanctuary had one who could get in and out of the crappy security there. Food for thought.”

She started to walk around to the driver’s side. “And what the hell does that mean? Why would you serve food for thoughts, and what kind of food? If you serve spinach, do you get healthy thoughts? If it’s ice cream and candy, is it fun thoughts? Why do we say stupid sayings?”

“They’re in our idiom?”

“Idioms for idiots,” Eve muttered, and slid behind the wheel. “Let’s go harass DeWinter.”

“I’m game, but can I have some food for my thoughts? They’re pretty hungry, and I know this deli that’s not too far from here.”

“Of course you do.”

Peabody narrowed her eyes. “Is that a dig on my appetite?”

Eve only smiled. “Consider it food for thought.”

4

Eve rarely visited what was now DeWinter’s sector of the lab, but she remembered how to make her way through the maze—the down glides, through corridors, past check-ins and security stations to a wide set of reinforced glass doors—and a final security check.

The ample, two-level space held a honeycomb of labs, testing areas, machines, and equipment. Techs, rats, and supervisors, walked from area to area or worked at counters, behind more glass. They dressed in lab coats, protective gear, street clothes—and in one case what Eve was fairly sure were pajamas.

Someone, somewhere played music. She felt as much as heard the throbbing beat pumping against the walls. Unsure, she aimed right, glanced through an open door where a woman with dark skin, an upsweep of silver hair, and a snowy white lab coat appeared to be performing an autopsy on a really big rat.

She lifted her gory scalpel, gave a friendly nod. “NYPSD, right? Supposed to expect you. Are you looking for Doc D?”

“If that’s DeWinter, yeah.”

“Up the steps, make a left, then a right, then her lab’s straight ahead. Do you need me to show you?”

“I think we can find it, thanks. Why are you cutting up the rat?”

“To find out if he and his pals ate this guy’s face off, and when. We got rat turds to analyze, too. The fun never ends.”

“Sounds like a party.” And one she’d be happy to miss, Eve thought as she headed for the steps.

“You see a lot of terrible things when you’re a cop,” Peabody said.

“And there’s always worse things tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but I’d still rather do the job than cut open a rat to look for pieces of somebody’s face.”

“I’m not going to disagree.” She turned left past another lab where a clear jar of maggots wiggled obscenely, turned right past another area—where the music banged—holding computers, what she thought was a holo-station, monitors, and a large board covered with sketches of faces.

Then straight ahead where she saw bright lights, steel tables, more equipment, and shelves holding various skeletal parts.

Closer—and farther from the music—she heard voices. DeWinter’s, and another much more familiar to her.

She stepped to the opening where the glass pocket doors tucked into the walls and saw DeWinter hip-to-hip with Chief Medical Examiner Morris.

She wore her body-skimming black, and Morris one of his steel gray suits. He’d paired it with a shirt a click or two lighter, had his inky hair in a single long braid.