Immortal in Death (In Death #3)(76)

His words were a sharp slap on a naked cheek. She nodded once, slid down into bed, and turned away from him. “All right. But what happened to me when I was a child wasn’t sex. It was an obscenity.” She closed her eyes tight and willed herself to sleep.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When her ‘link beeped, it was barely dawn. Eyes still closed, Eve reached out. “Block video. Dallas.”

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Dispatch. Probable homicide, male, rear of 19 One hundred eighth Street. Proceed immediately.”

Nerves churned in Eve’s stomach. She wasn’t on rotation, shouldn’t have been called. “Cause of death?”

“Apparent beating. Victim not yet identified due to facial injuries.”

“Acknowledged. Goddamn it.” She threw her legs over the side of the bed and blinked when she saw Roarke was already up and getting dressed. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to a murder scene.”

“You’re a civilian. You don’t have any business at a murder scene.”

He merely shot her a look as she tugged on jeans. “Your vehicle is in repair, Lieutenant.” He had some small satisfaction of hearing her mutter oaths as she remembered. “I’ll drive you. Drop you,” he qualified. “On my way to the office.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged on her weapon harness.

It was a miserable neighborhood. Several buildings were decorated with vicious graffiti, broken glass, and the tattered signs the city used to condemn them. Of course, people still lived in them, huddled in filthy rooms, avoiding the patrols, blissing out on whatever substance offered the most kick.

There were neighborhoods like it all over the world, Roarke thought as he stood in the thin sunlight behind the police barricade. He had grown up in one not so different, though it had been three thousand miles across the Atlantic.

He understood the life here, the despair, the deals, just as he understood the violence that had led to the result Eve was even now examining.

As he watched her, along with the derelicts, the sleepy street whores, the miserably curious, he realized he understood her as well.

Her movements were brisk, her face impassive. But there was pity in her eyes as they studied what had once been a man. She was, he thought, capable, strong, and resilient. Whatever wounds she had, she would live with. She didn’t need him to heal, but to accept.

“Not your usual milieu, Roarke.”

Roarke glanced down as Feeney stepped up beside him. “I’ve been to worse.”

“Haven’t we all.” Feeney sighed and took a wrapped Danish out of his pocket. “Breakfast?”

“I’ll pass. You go ahead.”

Feeney downed the pastry in three whopping bites. “Better go see what our girl’s up to.” He walked through the barricade, tapping his chest where his badge was fixed to settle the nervous uniforms guarding the scene.

“Lucky the media hasn’t come in yet,” he commented.

Eve flicked a glance up. “Not much interest in a murder in this neighborhood — at least not until the how leaks.” Her clear-coated hands were already smeared with blood as she knelt beside the body. “Got the pictures?” At the nod from the video tech, she slid her hands under the body. “Let’s turn him over, Feeney.”

He’d fallen, or had been left facedown, and had leaked a great deal of blood and brains from the fist-sized hole in the back of his head. The flip side wasn’t any prettier.

“No ID,” Eve reported. “Peabody’s inside the building doing door to door, see if we can come up with anyone who knows him or saw anything.”

Feeney shifted his gaze to the rear of the building. There were a couple of windows, filthy glass heavily grilled. He skimmed the concrete yard where they crouched. There was a recycler, broken, a grab bag of garbage, junk, rusted metal.

“Not much of a view,” he commented. “We tag him yet?”

“I took prints. One of the uniforms is running them now. Weapon’s already bagged. Iron pipe tossed under the recycler.” Eyes narrowed, she studied the body. “He didn’t leave a weapon with Boomer or Hetta Moppett. It’s obvious why he left one at Leonardo’s. Now he’s playing with us, Feeney, tossing it where a blind frog would hop to it. What do you make of this guy?” She snapped a finger under a wide, neon-pink suspender.

Feeney grunted. The corpse was decked out in full fashion. Pegged knee shorts in rainbow stripes, moon glow T-shirt, expensive beaded sandals.

“Had money to waste on bad clothes.” Feeney studied the building again. “If he lived here, he wasn’t putting it into real estate.”

“Dealer,” Eve decided. “Midlevel. You live here because your business is here.” She rose, smearing blood from her hands onto her jeans, as a uniform approached.

“Got a match, Lieutenant. Victim is ID’d as Lament Ro, aka Cockroach. He’s got a long sheet. Mostly under Illegals. Possession, manufacturing with intent, a couple of assaults.”

“Anybody use him? He weasel for anyone?”

“That data didn’t come up.”

She glanced at Feeney who acknowledged the silent request with a grunt. He’d dig and find out. “Okay, let’s bag him and ship him. I want a tox report. Let the sweepers in here.”

Her gaze skimmed the scene again and landed on Roarke. “I need a ride, Feeney.”