Forgotten in Death(59)

Nadine rubbed her eyes just the way Eve always wanted to when she had to put stuff on them.

“Did he kill her?”

“No. It’s looking like a Russian gangster and the gambling plumber who were embezzling took care of that. But I want the ex-husband, too. That’s where you come in. A favor, Nadine.”

“Who was she?” Nadine demanded.

Before Eve answered, she heard a rustling, then saw Jake Kincade, rock star and Nadine’s bedmate, prop his chin on Nadine’s shoulder.

He had purple streaks through his midnight waves, and a sleep crease in his left cheek.

He sent Eve a sleepy smile.

“Hey, Dallas.”

“Hey. Ah, sorry to wake you up or interrupt.”

“Avenue A had a gig out here,” Nadine said, “so…”

“And it looks like your workday’s starting early, Lois.” Jake kissed Nadine’s shoulder. “I’ll order breakfast.”

When he rolled out of bed, Eve had a very clear view of his excellent naked ass backlit by Seattle.

“Huh. Nice,” Eve decided as he moved out of frame.

“This feels like a dream. Hold on.” The ’link went screen down on the bed. When Nadine snatched it up again, she wore a plushy hotel robe. “What do you need?”

“First, I need you to contact people you can trust, reporters who’ll hold on this until I give you the go, and you give it to them. I want it hitting all over hell and back at the same time.”

“Seriously, Dallas, who the hell was she?”

“Nadine, she wasn’t anybody important. This isn’t a big story. He’s a cop, and he beat, raped, broke his wife until she got away from him. And he’s still a cop, and I need—I want,” she corrected, “him to pay. So it’s a favor. I want you to help me see that he pays.”

“Let me get my notebook.”

“Thanks. I mean it. It’s not necessary. I’m going to send you everything you need, and you’ll know what to do with it. I may not be able to give you the green for a couple days, but—”

“I’ll be ready. And I know people I can trust to hold the story. Just give me his name, so I can get myself some background. In Oklahoma? Moses, Oklahoma?”

“Yeah. Garrett Wicker. I’m on my way in. I’ll send you what I can when I get to Central. I owe you.”

“Hell.” On a yawn, Nadine dragged her fingers through her sleep-tousled hair. “It’s the middle of the damn night, practically, but I’m going to get breakfast in bed, and I’m going to get laid by a rock star. We can call this a wash.”

Relieved, grateful, Eve shoved her way downtown.





12





After a quick stop, she made her way to Morris’s double doors. He stood, the protective cape over a suit of molten blue, a pale pink shirt, and a tie that merged both in minute checks.

In one hand, he held a scalpel in preparation, Eve concluded, for making his Y-cut in the young female on his slab.

His music today had a soft voice singing over harp strings.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be in yet,” Eve said.

“Death doesn’t end our day, it starts it. It ended hers at the tender age of twenty-three.”

Eve stepped forward. The dead’s hair was a tangle of gold with emerald streaks. The body itself was thin to the edge of bony—which made a sharp contrast to the overenthusiastic boob job with the tat of a blue butterfly spreading its wings over the heart.

Eve noted the navel, nose, and eyebrow piercings, the multiple ear piercings.

Under the pale gold tan—no tan lines—the skin read gray.

Blue-and-green polish covered the fingernails in diagonal stripes. On the toes, green on the left foot, blue on the right, with the second toe of each sporting an artfully painted flower.

“Rich,” Eve concluded. “Either born that way or she found a generous daddy. The piercings, the tat, the nails, those aren’t low-rent or home jobs. Those cost.”

She considered.

“Where was she found? What was she wearing?”

“On the floor of her dressing room in her Riverside Drive penthouse—family money. A party dress—just the dress—at about two this morning.”

“Going, coming, or at a party?”

“At. Hosting. One of the party guests stumbled over her, and according to his statement thought she was passed out or sleeping.”

“Probably because he was as wasted as she was before she OD’d. I’m betting there were lots of illegals and plenty of high-dollar booze at the party.”

“You’d win that bet.”

“She’s been using a long time. Looks like she had an eating disorder on top of it. Her arms are toothpicks, and the faint, circular bruising says ingesting and/or inhaling wasn’t doing the job for her anymore. She needed the syringe.”

“On the visual, and from the statements, I agree. I’ll need to confirm.”

She looked at him then. “Why are you on a rich junky’s OD? Who is she?”

“The only child of Judge Erin Fester and her former husband, the attorney general of New York. Judge Fester asked for me.”

“Fester’s solid, and the media will crawl all over this. She knew you’d be respectful and discreet.”