Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(98)

“Yeah.” And there went her very rational, reasonable plan to postpone the whole deal. “Well.”

“Can I ask a favor? I’d like to bring someone.”

Her jaw nearly hit the floor. “Ah, sure . . . I didn’t realize you were . . .”

“Not that sort of someone. Chale—Father Lopez. He’s a good friend now, and I know you think highly of him. He’s fond of you.”

A lot of fondness going around, she thought. A priest at a cop party. Mostly cops, she corrected. What the hell. “No problem. It’ll be good to see him again.”

“Thanks. And now for your doubleheader.”

“Ha. I called it a two-for-one sale. We’re both sick.”

“How else do you get through a hell of a summer? Our Frenchman is actually from Topeka, by the way. Born Marvin Clink.”

“No shit?”

“Peabody did the run, which included the full data, and legal name change. In any case, your supposition on scene was correct. Death by harpoon. It’s been identified as such, and you’ve had the weapon—the gun, I think it’s called—ID’d by the lab.”

“That’s not your usual line. You verified with Dickhead?”

“We’re all pulling a bit more. And I was curious. He’s in love, you know.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“It’s a bit disturbing.”

“Yes!” She gave him a shove of solidarity. “Thank God. It gave me the serious creeps.”

Humor lit his dark eyes, and gave Eve her first lift of the day. “Which is unkind, but I confess to the same. You have the weapon ID on your office unit by now. This was another heart wound. In simple terms the barb pierced the chest, ripped straight through the heart and out the back. Your spear’s been removed, as you see, logged and sent to the lab. There are no other wounds. He had consumed just shy of eight ounces of white wine. I’m having the type analyzed.”

“I have the bottle.”

“And we’ll confirm. He’d eaten a light meal several hours before death. A salad, grilled shrimp, asparagus in wine sauce, and a small amount of vanilla bean crème brûlée.”

Despite the circumstances, her stomach yearned. “Sounds pretty good.”

“I hope it was. He did have more current stomach contents that from the variety and amount I’d say came from sampling what he was cooking, along with a little cheese, a couple of crackers. There were no drugs in his system. He was a smoker.”

“It all fits.”

“He’s had some face and body work,” Morris continued. “Minimal. He kept in good shape, his muscles are nicely toned.”

“What about her?” Eve moved to Adrianne’s body.

“She didn’t die as quickly. She’d consumed about sixteen ounces of champagne, and neutralized the effects with Sober-Up. We’ll get you the timing on that. Some party food in her stomach. Caviar, toasted bread, some berries, some raw vegetables, and so on—very light amounts—consumed over a period of two to four hours before death. No sign of sexual activity, forced or consensual.”

He lifted her hand. “There’s some light bruising on the heels of her hands, on her knees, consistent with a fall, these deep scrapes on her throat—consistent with the blood and flesh under her own nails. She’d clawed at her throat, and you see she broke three of her nails, snapping two below the quick.”

“Dragging at the whip.”

“It circled her neck three times, and with force. Tearing the skin in these patterns here, constricting her airway, bruising her larynx.”

“She couldn’t have screamed.”

“No. And if you look . . . Do you want goggles?”

“No, I can see.” But she bent down closer. “He jerked her—maybe even pulled her off her feet. Then jerked again, but upward—that would be dragging her up, hoisting her on the branch. Her neck’s not broken.” She glanced at Morris for confirmation, got a shake of the head. “So it would’ve been painful and terrifying, and endless. Just a minute, maybe two, but endless.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” With Eve, he looked down at the body. “She would have suffered.”

“Her parents will be contacting you.”

“I’ll tell them it was quick, and she didn’t feel any pain.” He touched a hand to Eve’s arm briefly. “They’ll want to believe me, so they will.”

As she walked back down that white tunnel, she wished she could believe it.

20

EVE HIT THE BULLPEN AT HOMICIDE LIKE A blaster.

“Trueheart.”

He jolted in his seat, then knocked a short stack of file discs to the floor as he sprang to attention. “Sir!”

“Whatever you’re doing, stop doing it. I’m going to send you a list of weapons—images, makes, models, ID numbers where applicable. Run them. I want a complete list of vendors, outlets, collectors, and licenses. Cross-reference same with Dudley and Moriarity, personally, through their companies—Dudley and Son and Intelicore, respectively, all arms and locations—and family members, living and dead. Include ex-wives and their family members, living and dead.

“Questions?”

While his eyes were wide enough to swallow Pluto, he shook his head. “Ah . . . no, sir.”