Forgotten in Death(19)

When she spotted Peabody, Eve got behind the wheel. Peabody picked up the pace, then slid in.

“I’ve got everybody but the head plumber, an electrical engineer, two hardscapers, and the security chief. One of the hardscapers is on his honeymoon in Belize, has been for four days. I left a message for the other, who happens to be the groom’s sister. The others are on other job sites.”

“Good start. I need to talk to Feeney, so if we have any come in before that’s done, you take them. Keep it routine, just crossing the t’s. We need to evaluate everyone with access.”

“You need to talk to Feeney about any potential break in the security at the crime scene?”

“Yeah, that. If there was a breach, what for? Theft, sabotage? Access, it could still be either of those. But it’s most likely someone who knew the site, somebody who worked on the site, knew where to get the crowbar, the plastic. But I need to talk to him about the victim. I got stiffed on a regional run on her. National’s still in progress. And what Morris found tells me we need an e-man on it.”

She filled in Peabody, finishing up as she pulled into the garage at Central.

“It sounds like a hard life,” Peabody said as they crossed to the elevators. “And she gave people paper flowers and animals.”

“And kept her law-and-order book. I wonder what Mira has to say about those habits. Meanwhile, DeWinter will put Alva at the front of the line.”

When the elevator doors opened, the stench rolled out ahead of the occupant. Eve recognized the undercover Illegals detective despite the stringy hair, the scruffy stubble, and the filthy trench over equally filthy baggies.

“Jesus, Fruicki, did you bathe in piss?”

“Pretty much.” He grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Got a meet with a Zeus dealer. Somebody’s added an extra zing to the street sales. He’s my in. Do I look crazy enough for a fix?”

“You smell bad enough.”

“Yeah, but that gets me a private ride down.”

He shambled off, leaving the fetid odor lingering in the air. Eve eyed the elevator.

“No,” she said, turned on her heel, and aimed for the stairs.

“He really looked like a jonesing junkie,” Peabody commented as they clanged up.

“He smelled like a corpse covered in cat piss.”

She went up two levels, hung a left, and took an elevator from another bank.

It might have been packed with cops, but it smelled normal.

“I’m heading straight up to EDD. Get what you can going, and I’ll check in. If you don’t need me to take an interview, I’ll set up the boards and books. Just keep me in the loop.”

“Can and will.”

At the first opportunity, Eve slithered out of the elevator to take the glides to EDD. More noise, as voices echoed, but more air to breathe and fewer bodies pushed together.

Then she made the turn into the carnival that was EDD.

Colors clashed and smashed. Patterns streamed and soared. Bold, bright, bewildering. Neon baggies, skin pants, overalls in tones only known to nature in solar systems far away. Zigzags, spirals, lightning bolts, and starbursts.

E-geeks sat in cubes, at desks—always bouncing—or danced along from one point of the big bullpen to the other to the strange music playing in their heads.

She spotted Ian McNab, Peabody’s main dish, at his station, skinny hips ticktocking as he stood, tapping fingers on a screen, rainbow airboots shuffling, his head bopping so his long blond tail of hair swung with the movement.

Beyond the usual circus, she got the impression of speed and focus. So something was up.

She headed for the relative sanity of Feeney’s office.

He, too, stood, one old brown shoe tapping as he worked a screen. His silver-threaded ginger hair exploded—like a cloud of shock—around his basset hound of a face. His eyes, all cop, focused on the screen.

Unlike those in the bullpen, he wore a suit—the color of dung that had baked a few hours in the hard sun. The knot of his brown tie had gone crooked at the collar of his industrial-beige shirt.

She smelled cop coffee and sugar.

He grunted, stepped back a half step. And spotted her.

“Don’t have anything yet. I sent a couple of boys out as soon as I could spare them.”

“Okay. You’re working a hot one.”

He held up three fingers. “We’re nearly there with the first—got nearly thirty hours on it, and we’ve broken through. Second just came in last night. And the third, the big, hit this morning.”

He held up a finger, this time as a signal to wait, and stepped over to his AutoChef. “Want coffee?”

She accepted she’d been spoiled, but good coffee, Roarke’s blend, waited in her office. So she could wait, too.

“I’m good.”

“Spitzer Museum took a hit. It’s a small, exclusive joint, Upper East. Privately funded, heavily secured—got all the bells and whistles. And somebody melted right on through, looks like about midnight. Only took one. A painting by that French guy, that Monet guy. Water lilies. Curator said it was insured for a hundred and twenty million. Get that? For a picture of flowers.”

Feeney shook his head, slurped some coffee. “Anyway, I couldn’t send top tier on your case. We’re booking it here to find out how the living fuck they got through enough security it should’ve slammed shut on a housefly buzzing in.”