Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(18)

“Computer pause. Yeah?” She glanced over as Peabody hovered at the door.

“Captain Feeney said you’re finished with me for the day.”

“Right. I’m just running some names before I go.”

“He, uh, mentioned that you were going to use McNab for some of the e-work.”

“That’s right.” Eve angled her head, then kicked back in her chair as Peabody struggled to keep her face controlled. “You got a problem with that?”

“No — that is… Dallas, you don’t really need him. He’s such a pain in the ass.”

Eve smiled cheerfully. “He’s not a pain in mine. I guess you’ll just have to work on making your ass a little tougher, Peabody. But buck up, he’ll do most of what I give him over in EDD. He won’t be around here much.”

“He’ll find a way,” Peabody muttered. “He’s such a show-off.”

“He does good work. And anyway — ” She broke off as her communicator beeped. “Shit, I should have gotten out of here on time.” She pulled it out. “Dallas.”

“Lieutenant.” Commander Whitney’s wide, stern face filled the small screen.

“Sir.”

“We have a homicide that appears to be connected to the Hawley case. There are uniforms on the scene now. I want you as primary. Report to 23B West One Hundred and Twelve, apartment 5D. Contact me at my home office after you’ve confirmed the status.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.” She spared Peabody a glance as she rose and grabbed her jacket. “You’re back on duty.”

The uniform standing guard at Sarabeth’s door had eyes that told Eve she’d seen the likes of what was inside before, and expected to see it again.

“Officer Carmichael,” Eve began, scanning the nameplate. “What have we got?”

“White female, early forties, dead at scene. Apartment’s in the name of Sarabeth Greenbalm. No sign of forced entry or struggle. There’s no video security in this building other than on the main door. My partner and I were on our cruise when Dispatch sent the call at sixteen thirty-five. A 1222 anonymous report at this address. We responded, arriving at sixteen forty-two. The entrance door and the door of the reported unit were unsecured. We entered and found the deceased. We then secured the scene and alerted Dispatch of a suspicious death at this location.”

“Where’s your partner, Carmichael?”

“Locating the building manager, sir.”

“Fine. Keep this hallway clear. Stand until relieved.”

“Sir.” Carmichael slid her eyes over Peabody as they passed. Among the uniforms Peabody was regarded as Dallas’s pet, with varying degrees of envy, resentment, and awe.

Feeling a combination of all three from Carmichael, Peabody twitched her shoulders as she followed Eve through the door.

“Recorder on, Peabody?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant Dallas and aide, on scene at 23B West One Hundred Twelve Street, apartment of Sarabeth Greenbalm.” As she spoke, Eve took a can of Seal-It from her field kit and sprayed her hands and boots before handing it off to Peabody. “Victim, yet to be identified, is white female.”

She approached the body. The bedroom area was no more than an alcove off the main room, the bed a narrow bunk style that could be folded up to afford more room. It had plain white sheets and a brown blanket worn at the edges.

He’d used red garland this time, wrapping it around her boa style from neck to ankle so that she resembled a festive mummy. Her hair, a shade of violet Eve imagined Mavis would admire, had been neatly brushed and styled into an upswept cone.

Her lips, slack in death, had been painted a rich purple, her cheeks a tender pink. Pale gold glitter shadow had been carefully applied to her eyelids all the way to the brow line.

Pinned to the garland just at the center of her throat was a circle of glossy green. Within it two birds, one gold, one silver, nested, beak to beak.

“Turtledoves, right?” Eve studied the brooch. “I looked up the song. The second day his true love gives him two turtledoves.” Gently, Eve pressed a hand to the painted cheek. “She’s fresh. I’d bet it hasn’t been more than an hour since he finished her.”

Stepping back, she took out her communicator to contact Whitney and request a Crime Scene team.

It was nearly midnight when she got home. Her shoulder was throbbing a little, but she could ignore that. What annoyed her was the fatigue. It came too quickly and too intensely these days.

She knew what the department’s orifice poker would say about it. Not enough recovery time. She’d been entitled to another ten days injury leave. Her return to full duty had been too soon.

Because it tended to sour her mood to think of it, she blocked it out.

She’d forgotten to eat, and the minute she stepped inside the warmth of the house the first pangs of hunger hit. Just need a candy bar, she told herself and scrubbed her hands over her face before turning to the scanner near the door.

“Where is Roarke?”

Roarke is in his home office.

Figures, she decided as she started up the stairs. The man didn’t seem to need sleep like a normal human. She imagined he’d look as fresh as he had when she’d left him that morning.

He’d left his door open, so it only took one quick glance inside to confirm her suspicions. He sat at the wide, glossy console, scanning screens, giving orders into his ‘link while his laser fax hummed behind him.