Naked in Death (In Death #1)(53)

“No. Why?”

“I already tagged it this morning. You might be surprised that there were about a hundred gun assaults last year, country wide. About that many accidental, too.” He jerked a shoulder. “Bootlegged, homemade, black market, collectors.”

“But nobody fits our profile.”

“Nope.” He chewed contemplatively. “Perverts either, though it’s a real education to scan the data. Got a favorite. This guy in Detroit, hit on four before they tagged him. Liked to pick up a lonely heart, go back to her place. He’d tranq her, then he’d strip her down, spray her with glow-in-the-dark red paint, top to toe.”

“Weird.”

“Lethal. Skin’s gotta breathe, so she’d suffocate, and while she was smothering to death, he’d play with her. Wouldn’t bang her, no sperm or penetration. He’d just run his eager little hands over her.”

“Christ, that’s sick.”

“Yeah, well, anyway. He gets a little too eager, a little too impatient with one, starts rubbing her before she’s dry, you know. Some of the paint rubs off, and she starts to come around. So he panics, runs. Now our girl’s naked, covered with paint, wobbly from the tranq, but she’s pissed, runs right outside on the street and starts screaming. The unit comes by, catches on quick ‘cause she’s glowing like a laser show, and starts a standard search. Our boy’s only a couple of blocks away. So they catch him…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Red-handed,” Feeney said with a wicked grin. “Kiss my ass, that’s a good one. Caught him red-handed.” When Dallas just rolled her eyes, Feeney decided the guys in his division would appreciate the story more.

“Anyway, we maybe got a pervert. I’ll bump up the pervs and the pros. Maybe we’ll get lucky. I like the idea of that better than a cop.”

“So do I.” Lips pursed, she swiveled to look at him. “Feeney, you’ve got a small collection, know something about antique firearms.”

He held out his arms, wrists tight together. “I confess. Book me.”

She nearly smiled. “You know any other cops who collect?”

“Sure, a few. It’s an expensive hobby, so most of the ones I know collect reproductions. Speaking of expensive,” he added, fingering her sleeve. “Nice shirt. You get a raise?”

“It’s borrowed,” she muttered, and was surprised that she had to control a flush. “Run them for me, Feeney. The ones that have genuine antiques.”

“Ah, Dallas.” His smile faded away at the thought of focusing in on his own people. “I hate that shit.”

“So do I. Run them anyway. Keep it to the city for now.”

“Right.” He blew out a breath, wondered if she realized his name would be on the list. “Hell of a way to start the day. Now I’ve got a present for you, kid. There was a memo on my desk when I got in. The chief’s on his way in to the commander’s office. He wants both of us.”

“Fuck that.”

Feeney just looked at his watch. “I make it in five minutes. Maybe you want to put on a sweater or something, so Simpson doesn’t get a good look at that shirt and decide we’re overpaid.”

“Fuck that, too.”

Chief Edward Simpson was an imposing figure. Well over six feet, fighting trim, he preferred dark suits and vivid ties. His waving brown hair was tipped with gray.

It was well known throughout the department that those distinguished highlights were added by his personal cosmetician. His eyes were a steely blue — a color his polls indicated inspired voter confidence — that rarely showed humor, his mouth a thin comma of command. Looking at him, you thought of power and authority.

It was disillusioning to know how carelessly he used both to do laps in the heady pool of politics.

He sat down, steepling his long, creamy hands that winked with a trio of gold rings. His voice, when he spoke, had an actor’s resonance.

“Commander, captain, lieutenant, we have a delicate situation.”

And an actor’s timing. He paused, let those hard blue eyes scan each face in turn.

“You’re all aware of how the media enjoys sensationalism,” he continued. “Our city has, in the five years of my jurisdiction, lowered its crime rate by five percent. A full percentage a year. However, with recent events, it isn’t the progress that will be touted by the press. Already there are headlines of these two killings. Stories that question the investigation and demand answers.”

Whitney, detesting Simpson in every pore, answered mildly. “The stories lack details, chief. The Code Five on the DeBlass case makes it impossible to cooperate with the press or feed it.”

“By not feeding it,” Simpson snapped back. “We allow them to speculate. I’ll be making a statement this afternoon.” He held up a hand even as Whitney started to protest. “It’s necessary to give the public something to assess, and by assessing feel confident that the department has the matter under control. Even if that isn’t the case.”

His eyes zeroed in on Eve. “As the primary, lieutenant, you’ll attend the press conference as well. My office is preparing a statement for you to give.”

“With all respect, Chief Simpson, I can’t divulge to the public any details of the case that could undermine the investigation.”