Naked in Death (In Death #1)(26)

“The landlord went in?” All of this she could learn later, but she could see that he was steadying as she forced him to go over the steps.

“No, sir, he says not. After a complaint by one of the victim’s clients who had an appointment for nine P. M., the landlord checked the apartment. He unlocked the door and saw her. It’s only one room, Lieutenant Dallas, and she’s — You see her as soon as you open the door. Following the discovery, the landlord, in a state of panic, went down to the street and flagged down my patrol unit. I immediately accompanied him back to the scene, made visual confirmation of suspicious death, and reported in.”

“Have you left your post, officer? However briefly?”

His eyes settled finally, met hers. “No, sir, lieutenant. I thought I’d have to, for a minute. It’s my first, and I had some trouble maintaining.”

“Looks like you maintained fine to me, Prosky.” Out of the crime bag she’d brought up with her, she took out the protective spray, used it. “Make the calls to forensics and the ME. The room needs to be swept, and she’ll need to be bagged and tagged.”

“Yes, sir. Should I remain on post?”

“Until the first team gets here. Then you can report in.” She finished coating her boots, glanced up at him. “You married, Prosky?” she asked as she snapped her recorder to her shirt.

“No, sir. Sort of engaged though.”

“After you report in, go find your lady. The ones who go for the liquor don’t last as long as the ones who have a nice warm body to lose it in. Where do I find the landlord?” she asked and turned the knob on the unsecured door.

“He’s down in one-A.”

“Then tell him to stay put. I’ll take his statement when I’m done here.”

She stepped inside, closed the door. Eve, no longer a rookie, didn’t feel her stomach revolt at the sight of the body, the torn flesh, or the blood-splattered child’s toys.

But her heart ached.

Then came the anger, a sharp red spear of it when she spotted the antique weapon cradled in the arms of a teddy bear.

“She was just a kid.”

It was seven A. M. Eve hadn’t been home. She’d caught one hour’s rough and restless sleep at her office desk between computer searches and reports. Without a Code Five attached to Lola Starr, Eve was free to access the data banks of the International Resource Center on Criminal Activity. So far, IRCCA had come up empty on matches.

Now, pale with fatigue, jittery with the false energy of false caffeine, she faced Feeney.

“She was a pro, Dallas.”

“Her f**king license was barely three months old. There were dolls on her bed. There was Kool-Aid in her kitchen.”

She couldn’t get past it — all those silly, girlish things she’d had to paw through while the victim’s pitiful body lay on the cheap, fussy pillows and dolls. Enraged, Eve slapped one of the official photos onto her desk.

“She looks like she should have been leading cheers at the high school. Instead, she’s running tricks and collecting pictures of fancy apartments and fancier clothes. You figure she knew what she was getting into?”

“I don’t figure she thought she’d end up dead,” Feeney said evenly. “You want to debate the sex codes, Dallas?”

“No.” Wearily, she looked down at her hard copy again. “No, but it bums me, Feeney. A kid like this.”

“You know better than that, Dallas.”

“Yeah, I know better.” She forced herself to snap back. “Autopsy should be in this morning, but my prelim puts her dead for twenty-four hours minimum at discovery. You’ve identified the weapon?”

“SIG two-ten — a real Rolls-Royce of handguns, about 1980, Swiss import. Silenced. Those old timey silencers were only good for a couple, three shots. He’d have needed it because the victim’s place wasn’t soundproofed like DeBlass’s.”

“And he didn’t phone it in, which tells me he didn’t want her found as quickly. Had to get himself someplace else,” she mused. Thoughtful, she picked up a small square of paper, officially sealed.

TWO OF SIX

“One a week,” she said softly. “Jesus Christ, Feeney, he isn’t giving us much time.”

“I’m running her logs, trick book. She had a new client scheduled, 8:00 P. M., night before last. If your prelim checks, he’s our guy.” Feeney smiled thinly. “John Smith.”

“That’s older than the murder weapon.” She rubbed her hands hard over her face. “IRCCA’s bound to spit our boy out from that tag.”

“They’re still running data,” Feeney muttered. He was protective, even sentimental about the IRCCA.

“They’re not going to find squat. We got us a time traveler, Feeney.”

He snorted. “Yeah, a real Jules Verne.”

“We’ve got a twentieth-century crime,” she said through her hands. “The weapons, the excessive violence, the hand-printed note left on scene. So maybe our killer is some sort of historian, or buff anyway. Somebody who wishes things were what they used to be.”

“Lots of people think things would be better some other way. That’s why the world’s lousy with theme parks.”

Thinking, she dropped her hands. “IRCCA isn’t going to help us get into this guy’s head. It still takes a human mind to play that game. What’s he doing, Feeney? Why’s he doing it?”