Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(22)

“But with clean, fresh breath,” Morris added. “The barb of the bolt entered here.” Gently, he turned the body to reveal the insult. “Slightly right of center, angling left and down as it pierced through.”

“Killer’s sitting in the back, right side, shoots at that slight angle. The bolt went right through, stuck in the control pad of the wheel.”

“He’d need a good angle,” Peabody commented, “to keep from hitting the seatback.”

“One shot, and a pretty good one if he hit what he was aiming for.” Eve brought the vehicle into her head, the interior with its long, plush passenger area, the open privacy screen to the driver’s cab.

“And it’s dark,” she concluded, “lights on in the limo, but it’s not optimum light. Still, it has to be dark or somebody might notice, even through the tinted windows, some guy sitting at the wheel of a limo with a bolt through his neck. Maybe he had a scope,” she speculated, “or a target gauge. Put the little red dot where you want it, fire. Score.”

She blew out a breath. “Well, I guess that’s all he’s got to tell me. His widow wants to see him, probably the kids, too.”

“Yes, I’ll arrange it once I’ve closed him.”

Since they hadn’t managed Peabody’s hopes of a sit-down lunch, Eve sprang for soy dogs and fries from the corner glide cart, and put the vehicle on auto to eat on the way to the lab.

“How many people,” she speculated, “own crossbows much less actually know how to use one with any accuracy? You’d need a collector’s license to own a weapon like that, possibly a recreational use permit—if you acquired it legit. And I just don’t see somebody going black or gray market to get one specifically for this. A lot of easier ways to kill. This feels like showing off, or at least showy.”

“It wasn’t target specific,” Peabody added, “since the killer couldn’t have known for sure who’d be driving. If he’d wanted Houston specifically, he could’ve requested him. Easy enough to blow smoke there. I’ve heard he’s an excellent driver, blah blah.”

“The target could be the business itself. Could be an inside deal, but it doesn’t have that feel. It feels random, at least at this stage. At the same time, the Sweet connection isn’t random.”

“Maybe somebody decides to kill Houston, or whoever takes the job, to put pressure on Sweet. Top security man for an important corporation gets pulled into a homicide investigation, has to explain how his data could be compromised. It doesn’t look good, even if you’re innocent, and could have repercussions on the job.”

“Yeah, some people are sick or ambitious enough to try something that convoluted. We’ll check and see who might be up for his position if he gets the ax. Or who he’s axed in the last few months. I don’t like the PA,” Eve added with her own curl of the lip. “Not sure he’d have the stomach to kill somebody, but I don’t like him. Want a closer look there.”

The lab meant dealing with Dick Berenski, not so affectionately known as Dickhead. Eve understood he was brilliant at his work, but it didn’t make him less of a dick.

He considered bribes his due for expediting work on a hot investigation, juggled the women who actually agreed to go out with him—she expected he paid for most of them—like bowling pins and often held small orgies in his office after hours.

She walked to his station, the long white counter where he slid from comp to scope to gauge on his stool, squatting on it like a bug, she thought, with his weird head like a shiny egg plastered with thin, boot-black hair.

He glanced up, shot her a smile that put a hitch in her stride. It resembled an actual human expression.

“Yo, Dallas, looking good. How’s it hanging, Peabody?” The weirdly human smile remained in place, and made the back of Eve’s neck itch. “First day back, and you got a DB. Fancy one, too. We don’t get many crossbow bolts through here.”

“Okay. Tell me about the bolt.”

“Top of the line. Carbon with a titanium core and barb. Front two-thirds of it’s weighted heavier for increased penetration, with the back third lighter. It’s got a specialized coating that helps you pull the bastard out of whatever you shot. It’s twenty inches long. Brand name’s Firestrike, manufacturer’s Stelle Weaponry. You gotta have a license and permit to purchase, and there’s an auto-check on that. Bastard costs a hundred through legit outlets.”

For a moment Eve said nothing, wasn’t certain she could. She hadn’t threatened, insulted, bribed, or even snarled, and he’d given her more data in one shot than she usually beat out of him in a full meet.

“Okay . . . That’s good to know.”

“No prints, no trace but the vic’s. But I got the code, manufacturer codes them in case of defect and whatnot. It was made in April of last year, shipped to New York from Germany. Only two outlets in the city. I got those.” He offered her a disc. “All the data’s in there.”

“Did you get bashed on the head recently?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Anything out of the vehicle?”

“We got the ’link transes and the trip log. We’re still processing the rest. It’s a damn big bastard. Prelim doesn’t turn up prints or trace, not even a loose hair, except for the driver’s. Cleanest damn car I’ve ever seen, if you don’t count the blood in the front.”