Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(92)

“Reineke,” Peabody told her, on dash ’link.

“This better be damn good,” Eve warned him.

“We think it’s one of yours, Lieutenant. It looked like a suicide first glance, then when we got here, took a better look, it smelled of homicide. We ran the vic. Adrianne Jonas. She was what they call a facilitator for the rich. They want it, she finds a way to get it. She’s number one, get it?”

Yeah, she thought as her stomach sank. She got it. “Keep going.”

“She’s hanging from a tree right off the track here, by a freaking bullwhip. You don’t see bullwhips every day, and you don’t usually see some skirt in a party dress hanging by one. We figured it fit your vic profile pretty much down the line. Public place, vic considered the tops, screwy weapon.”

“Keep the scene secure.” She swung toward the curb, ignored the blare of horns. “Get the recording to Feeney, get the rest set up. Get what you can started. Run the list, Peabody. Work it. I’ll take this with the detectives on scene.”

“Dallas, how the hell did he do it? How’d he—”

“Just work it. Out. Out, now.”

Peabody had barely slammed the door before Eve hit the sirens, swung out, and headed uptown running hot.

She imagined Adrianne Jonas had been a beauty, but hanging victims just didn’t stay pretty. The whip had bloodied her throat, and she’d had time to claw at the constriction before she’d been yanked off her feet.

She’d lost her shoes, probably from her body jerking, twisting, legs kicking. They lay sparkling in the grass.

“Couple early joggers spotted her, called it in.” Reineke wiggled his thumb toward a pair of women huddled together talking to Jenkinson. “They said some woman hanged herself, and were pretty hysterical. Hard to blame. Uniforms got here, took a gander, and sent out for Homicide to take our sweep. Once we ID’d the vic, got the skinny on her, got a good look at what she’s hanging by, we figured, well, f**k us sideways, this is Dallas’s.”

“Yeah, you figured right. TOD’s going to be early this morning. Not last night. Last night was Moriarity’s round. Dudley just hit his early.”

“You’re on it. About three A.M. We went ahead and established TOD. You wanna talk to the wits? I can tell you we’ve gone round with them. They jog here three times a week, together for safety. They’re both clean. Live in the same building over on Hundred and Fifth.”

“No, if you’ve got their information, spring them. Give me five here, Detective.”

“You got it, LT.”

She pressed her fingers to her eyes a moment, ordered herself to clear everything else out of her head. Work it, she ordered herself just as she’d ordered Peabody.

Lured her here, she thought. Hired her, false ID to keep his name out of her books. Facilitator. That sort would be used to going to odd places at odd times. Catering to the rich and eccentric. He’d be here first, waiting. She probably knows him, yeah, probably he’s used her before. His sort would. She’d be surprised to see him, wouldn’t she? Not expecting him, but not worried.

She circled the body. No tears in the clothing, she noted. One lash of the whip then, he’d practiced. One lash wraps it around her throat. Painful, shocking, strangling.

Frowning, Eve crouched, studying the ground.

She fell . . . maybe hands and knees. Eve detected what looked like faint grass stains on the heels of the victim’s hands, on the knees just below the skirt of her suit.

“But he’s got to get the whip over the limb. It’s not high. It doesn’t have to be. She’s what, five three in her bare feet?”

“Five two and a half on her ID. Sorry, Lieutenant.” Jenkinson shrugged when she turned to frown at him. “I thought you were talking to me.”

“Just thinking out loud. He’s got to hoist her up. He’s in good shape, and he’s tall enough to manage it. But that takes some solid muscle. Or some chemical help,” she considered.

Zeus made gods out of men—or at least gave them the adrenaline rush to think so.

“He’s a user. A couple tokes to get his juices up. Maybe he brought a collapsible ladder. Hell, maybe he told her to bring one. Drag her up while she’s choking, kicking, clawing. Secure the butt end of the whip, wait until she stops kicking. Wouldn’t take long, then go home and tell your pal it’s a tie.”

“We got word there was another one last night.”

“Yeah, they’re all revved up.”

“Me and Reineke want in, Dallas. These f**kers need some ass-kicking.”

“You’re in. Get her to Morris. Have crime scene go over this area like it was sprinkled with diamonds. Let me have her address. Where’s her purse?”

“There wasn’t one. Might be some mope came by and snatched it. People will do any damn thing.”

“And leave those shoes? I bet you could sell them for a grand easy. He took her bag. She’d have a bag. For face stuff, credit, ’link. Probably had some sort of repel spray, panic button, too. He took the bag, like his pal took the wine. Sloppy, getting sloppy,” she murmured. “Cocky bastards.”

“She’s got a place on Central Park West. Didn’t have to come far to die. You want one of us with you?”

“No.” She took the address. “Finish up here. Dot every ‘i.’ And write it up. Work with Peabody on this. Sylvester Moriarity is going to have some past connection to her. You need to find it. Peabody will bring you up to date. If you’ve got anything else hot, pass it to another detective. This is priority.”