Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(15)

“I’ll need to look at them. Did anybody see him leave, what he left in?”

“Outside security caught him, on foot.” Trying in vain for comfort, Peabody shifted in Eve’s visitor’s chair. “He could’ve had transpo waiting or picked it up once he was out of range.”

“Let’s send some uniforms around to neighboring businesses, see if they picked anything up. In the meantime, I couldn’t connect with the ex. According to her neighbor she’s out with a friend today—and buying a new ’link, with a new number. See if you can find anything on that. The neighbor—Sela Crabtree—has my contacts, so I expect to hear from the ex when they connect. Otherwise, we’ll round her up in the morning.”

“Got it.”

“I’m going to set up a meet with Mira, do the notifications. The vics’ parents need to be told before the media leaks their names. Get your notes together so I can—” She broke off as her desk ’link signaled. Though she intended to ignore it, she glanced over at the readout.

“Crap. It’s the commander.” After swiping a hand over her mouth, in case, she flipped it on. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

Rather than his admin’s, Whitney’s face filled her screen. “I’d like to see you in my office, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now.”

“On my way.”

He clicked off.

“God, I get gut knots just thinking about if it was me he called up like that.”

“Shit. I ate most of a loaded dog. I have loaded dog breath.” Rising, Eve yanked open drawers. “I must have something around here.”

“Try this.” Peabody offered a little box, flipping the lid to the tiny pink balls.

“Why are they pink?”

“Bubble gum flavor. It’s good. And they work.”

With little choice, Eve popped two. Pink or not, they were pretty good. “If I’m not back in ten, I need you to do the notifications.”

“Oh please, be back.”

“That’s up to Whitney.”

Swinging through, she noted Jenkinson and his tie among the missing, and imagined he and his partner, Reineke, caught one. Baxter had shifted to his comp, intensely, she noted. His shades hooked in his front pocket where she assumed he put them, intending to stick them back on the minute the tie walked back in.

It was a joke that would last the entire shift.

She stepped out, spotted Detective Carmichael at Vending.

“Hey, Loo, just getting our current bag of scum a cold one. Sanchez’s working him in Interview A.”

“What did the bag of scum do?”

“Tossed a junkie down a flight of stairs, then stomped him to death for trying to scam him with play money. I mean actual play money, like from a game. Bag of scum deals mostly to funky-junkies.”

And the Funk played hell with eyes. “Play money probably seemed fine to him.”

“Yeah, well, he won’t be passing Go.”

“Go where?”

“You know. Go.” Carmichael circled her hands in the air. “Monopoly. The game.”

“Dead makes a full stop.”

“You got that. Bag of scum’s claiming the junkie fell, and he’s claiming the reason he ran like a freaking gazelle when we tracked him is how he was late for an appointment. And how all the bags of Funk and zoner we spotted—and managed to even scoop up a few before bystanders swarmed—weren’t his. And he’s being arrogant about it, which makes you want to bitch-slap him a few times.”

“I didn’t hear that part.”

Carmichael smiled. “Sanchez keeps me in line. He’s a peaceful sort.”

“Stomped him? How are the bag of scum’s shoes?”

The smile widened. “He didn’t even bother to change his boots, or get the vic’s blood off them. We’re getting them analyzed, but he left a goddamn boot print on the vic’s chest. Clear as a footprint in wet sand. And we have two wits who were looking out their peeps when he shoved the guy because the bag of scum was yelling his ass off at the junkie.”

“Sounds like you’ve got him. Why are you getting him a cold one?”

“Mostly because Sanchez wanted me to cool off. Asshole said all I needed was a good f**k with a big dick, gave me the crotch grab, and said he had one waiting for me.”

“There’s more than one way to bitch-slap, Carmichael. Interview A’s on my way.” She started to walk. “What’s his name?”

“Street name’s Fang. Real’s Alvar Ramondo.”

With a nod, Eve gestured to the door. “Just open it, start to go in. Don’t close it.”

Carmichael obliged.

“So I’ll see you after … Hey.” Eve poked her head in the door, pointed at the bulky man—mid-twenties, mixed-race, leaning Latino, sporting complicated and elaborate tat sleeves. “Hey, you didn’t say you had Al in here.”

Before Sanchez could speak, Eve sent him the briefest glance. He settled back.

“How’s it going, Al? Not so good, I guess, from the look of it.”

“Who’s this bitch?” Fang demanded. “You bringing another bitch in? No problem. I can handle both of you.” He smiled, proving he didn’t spend a lot of his profits on dental hygiene, grabbed his crotch, rocked his hips.