Golden in Death(2)

“Where’s the spouse?”

“We got him upstairs. My partner’s with him. He’s a mess.”

“Okay. Stand by.” Eve turned to her partner.

“Peabody, I’ll take the body. Find the security feed, take a look.”

“Got that.” In her pink cowboy boots, Peabody stepped carefully as Eve opened her field kit, crouched down.

She’d already sealed up, turned on her recorder, and now took out her Identi-pad to verify the victim’s ID.

“Victim is identified as Kent Abner of this address, age sixty-seven. Contusions and lacerations on the forehead, left temple, also on left knee. They look consistent with a fall. Got some burns on the thumbs, both hands. The body’s in rigor. The eyes are red, swollen.”

Carefully, she opened the victim’s mouth. “So’s the tongue. Looks like … bits of foam and saliva, vomit. Blood and mucus, dried now, from the nose.”

She took out her gauges. “TOD, nine-forty-three. Peabody! Run the feed back to this morning. Check when the spouse left, if anyone came in after that.”

“I’ve got a male—tweed jacket—mid-sixties, about six-three, one-eighty, carrying the briefcase on the floor in there, coming in a couple minutes after four. Uses a swipe and code. And he’s letting the MTs in at sixteen-ten. Two uniforms arrive at sixteen-sixteen.”

Peabody, her dark hair in a short, bouncy tail, peeked around a door. “I’ll run it back.”

Eve continued with the body. “No defensive or offensive wounds. Head and knee—possible blow, but more consistent with a fall. He’s a well-built man, looks strong. He would’ve fought back if fighting back was an option. Did he eat something, drink something…?”

“Same male—has to be the spouse—walking out at oh-seven-twenty. No activity prior. And … we’ve got a female in a Global Post and Packages uniform. She’s ringing it at oh-nine-thirty-six. Vic answers—friendly, like they know each other. He takes the package in; she leaves.”

Eve rose, walked to the counter. “Standard delivery box? Say, ten inches square?”

“That’s the one. I’m zipping through—nothing after the delivery and before the spouse comes back.”

Peabody stepped out.

“Box cutter’s right here. He’s dead seven minutes after he takes the package. He brings it in here,” Eve said. “Opens it. Takes out this other box—cheap fake wood, little lock and key. Opens that. We’ve got broken bits of colored material and shards—shiny gold color maybe on the outside, white interior—on the floor. Maybe hard plastic. Something in the box. Open that and …

“Fuck.” She stepped back. “Call the hazmat unit.”

“Oh, shit.”

“The spouse isn’t dead, or the MTs, or the first on scene. Whatever it was must be dissipated enough, but call them in, let them know we have an unknown toxic substance.”

Eve eased around, read the return address on the box.

“All That Glitters.” She ran it. “Bogus name and address on the shipping box.”

“They’re on their way,” Peabody reported, “and advise us to evacuate the premises.”

“Too late for that. Seven minutes, Peabody. Subtract the couple minutes to walk back here, get the box cutter, open everything. He was basically dead when he opened the box over seven hours ago.” And still, she thought. “Get Uniform Carmichael and Officer Shelby over to Global Post and Packages, find out where this package was dropped off for shipping, who signed it in, if there’s any security feed. Then contact the morgue team, and tell them we may have a hot one.”

“Dallas, you touched him—”

“I was sealed,” Eve reminded her. “His spouse, the MTs touched him, too. Whatever killed him, it’s done its work. It’s finished.”

She stood a moment, a tall, lanky woman with a choppy cap of brown hair, brown cop’s eyes, wearing a bronze leather jacket, good brown boots.

Basic precautions, she told herself.

“I’m going to scrub up, just to cover protocol. When I have, we’ll talk to the spouse. We’re going to want whatever he was wearing when he touched the vic bagged for the hazmat team.”

She grabbed her field kit, started off to find a powder room or bathroom. “Contact the shipping company first. We need to talk to the delivery person.”

Going to be late, she thought as she used the scrub in her kit in a stylish powder room with maroon walls.

According to the Marriage Rules—self-written and -enforced—she needed to let her own spouse know. Roarke understood the job’s screwy hours, but you had to follow the rules.

Peabody stepped up to the door. “Carmichael and Shelby are on their way to GP&P, and I have the name of the delivery person for this route. Lydia Merchant. She clocked out at her usual time, but I have contact info on her.”

“Let’s run her in the meantime. Seems long odds she’d make the delivery if she decided to poison a customer, but people can be stupid.”

Eve waited for the special team, tolerated the scan to make certain she hadn’t contracted some toxicity from the body—wanted to balk when the lead tech insisted on drawing some blood to test on the spot. But figured not only better safe than sorry, but quicker to deal with it and move on.