Immortal in Death (In Death #3)(52)

“Puss head,” Eve muttered as she slammed into the Blue Squirrel. She spotted Nadine immediately, already in a booth and grimacing over the menu.

“Why the hell does it always have to be here, Dallas?” Nadine demanded the minute Eve dropped down across from her.

“I’m a creature of habit.” But the club wasn’t the same, she noted, not without Mavis standing onstage screeching out her incomprehensible lyrics in her latest, eye-popping costume. “Coffee, black,” Eve ordered.

“I’ll have the same. How bad can it be?”

“Just wait for it. Are you still smoking?”

Nadine glanced around, uneasy. “This isn’t a smoking booth.”

“Like they’re going to say something in a joint like this. Give me one, will you?”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I’m hoping to develop bad habits. You want the two bucks?”

“No.” Keeping an eye out, just in case anyone she knew was around, Nadine took out two cigarettes. “You look like you could use something a little stronger.”

“This’ll do.” She leaned over so that Nadine could light it, took one puff. Hacked. “Jesus. Let me try that again.” She drew in smoke, felt her head spin, her lungs revolt. Annoyed, she crushed it out. “That’s disgusting. Why do you do that?”

“It’s a developed taste.”

“So’s eating dog shit. And speaking of dog shit.” Eve slid her coffee from the serving slot and took one brave sip. “So, how’ve you been?”

“Good. Better. I’ve been doing things I didn’t used to think I had time for. It’s funny how a near death experience makes you realize not making time is wasting time. I heard Morse has been found competent to stand trial.”

“He’s not crazy. He’s just a killer.”

“Just a killer.” Nadine ran a finger along her throat where a knife had once drawn blood. “You don’t figure being the latter makes him the former.”

“No, some people just like killing. Don’t dwell on it, Nadine. It doesn’t help.”

“I’ve been trying not to. I took a few weeks, spent some time with my family. That helped. It also reminded me that I love my job. And I’m good at it, even though I folded — “

“You didn’t fold,” Eve interrupted impatiently, “you were drugged, you had a knife to your throat, and you were scared. Put it behind you.”

“Yeah. Right. Well.” She blew out smoke. “Anything new on your friend? I wasn’t really able to tell you how sorry I am that she’s in trouble.”

“She’s going to be all right.”

“I’d bank on you seeing to that.”

“That’s right, Nadine, and you’re going to help me. I’ve got some data for you from an unidentified police source. No, no recorders, write it down,” Eve ordered as Nadine reached in her bag.

“Whatever you say.” Nadine dug deeper, found a pad and a pen. “Shoot.”

“We have three separate homicides, and evidence points to one killer. The first, Hetta Moppett, part-time dancer and licensed club companion, was beaten to death on May 28, at approximately two A. M. The majority of blows were delivered to her face and head in such a manner as to obliterate her features.”

“Ah,” Nadine said and left it at that.

“Her body was discovered, without identification, at six the next morning and tagged as a Jane Doe. At the time of her murder, Mavis Freestone was standing on that stage behind you, belting her guts out in front of about a hundred and fifty witnesses.”

Nadine’s brow shot up, and she smiled. “Well, well. Keep going, Lieutenant.”

So she did.

It was the best she could do for the moment. When the broadcast hit, it was doubtful whether anyone in the department would have to guess who the unnamed source was. But they wouldn’t be able to prove it. And Eve would, for Mavis, if not for herself, lie without a qualm if and when she was questioned.

She put in a few more hours at Cop Central, had the miserable job of contacting Hetta’s brother, the only next of kin who could be tracked down, and informing him that his sister was dead.

After that cheerful interlude, she went back over every scrap of forensic evidence the sweepers had sucked up at the Moppett murder scene.

There was no doubt that she had been killed where she’d been found. The murder had been a clean, probably a quick hit. A shattered elbow had been the only defensive wound. No murder weapon had yet been found.

No murder weapon on Boomer either, she mused. A few broken fingers, the added finesse of the broken arm, the shattered kneecaps — all prior to death. That, she had to assume, was torture. Boomer had had more than information, he’d had a sample, and the formula, and the killer had wanted both.

But Boomer had hung tough there. The killer, for whatever reason, hadn’t had the time or wanted to take the risk to go to Boomer’s flop and toss it.

Why had Boomer been dumped in the river? To buy time, she speculated. But the ploy hadn’t worked, and the body had been found and ID’d quickly. She and Peabody had been at the flop within hours of the discovery and had bagged and tagged the evidence.

So, on to Pandora. She knew too much, wanted too much, proved an unstable business partner, threatened to talk to the wrong people. Any of the above, Eve mused and rubbed her hands over her face.