Golden in Death(6)

“I was just taking out what I need for tonight,” she said, and dug in.

Her annoyed expression changed to alarm. Now she marched to the coffee table, dumped the contents of the shoulder bag.

Eve decided if the woman ever faced an apocalypse with that bag in tow, she’d survive just fine.

“It’s gone! Oh my God, my ’link’s not here.”

“Where is it, Brendi?”

“For God’s sake, Roscoe!”

“Don’t worry now. I’ll help you look for it.”

Brendina’s expression softened. “No, honey, it’s gone. Somebody must’ve taken it out of my bag.”

“When’s the last time you used it?” Eve asked.

“Just yesterday—we were all out shopping. My girls and I—my daughters-in-law, my daughter. Marion wanted new shoes for tonight, and she needed to pick up the wrist unit she got for Frank—she had it engraved. And— God, we were all over. Had a late lunch. I used it to call my sister, to tell her we were changing our lunch reservation to two-thirty because everything was taking so long. She was meeting us, and she gets cranky if she has to wait.”

“Where did you use it?”

“Ah…” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “On Chambers and Broadway—I’m nearly certain. We’d only just left the jewelry store, and it’s right there.”

“As far as you remember you didn’t use your ’link since that point?”

“No. I know I didn’t. We went shopping some more, met my sister for lunch. We had a long lunch, and Marion insisted Rachel—my sister—and I take a car home. She called for one and paid for it—insisted. I came home, took a nap. Long day. Roscoe and I had dinner, watched some screen. I didn’t go out today. I needed to clean the house, then get ready for tonight.

“I only keep one account on my ’link: my shopping and household account. But—”

“It’s all right, Brendi.” Roscoe put an arm around her. “I’ll help you. And it’s time you had a new ’link.”

Sighing, she leaned into him. “Let me use yours, Roscoe, so I can deal with all this. We really are going to be late.”

“Peabody, why don’t you leave the Coffmans our cards? You can have your son contact us.”

“Yes, fine, thank you. I really need to deal with this. You can talk to Joshua. He’s a police officer.”





2


Back in the car, Peabody strapped in. “Maybe the killer’s looking for an easy mark. An older woman, distracted with a lot of other women. Maybe follow them awhile. Crowded shopping area, bump and snatch.”

“Most likely,” Eve agreed. “And with her being older, he might think if she can’t put her hands on her ’link at some point, she’ll just think she misplaced it. Maybe she doesn’t change codes right off. He only needs a few hours. Use it, toss it, move on.”

She muscled her way back across town. “It’s not going to connect to the family. Not that having a cop and a rabbi in there exempts them, but it’s sloppy and stupid.”

“Are you going to read Sergeant Coffman in?”

“Might as well. If there is any connection, he can dig into that angle. We’ll talk to the delivery girl—who’s not going to be connected, either, unless somebody has a grudge there, saw this as getting her in trouble.”

“That would be stupid, too.”

“Exactly, but we’ll talk to her. She works that route. Maybe she knows someone in the neighborhood who wasn’t a fan of Kent Abner’s.”

Lydia Merchant lived five floors up in a post-Urban building over a bodega that smelled like mystery tacos. Nobody had their windows open to the spring evening, and most had riot bars.

Despite the five floors, one glance at the pair of green-doored elevators—one with a sign stating OUT OF ORDER, with a handwritten AGAIN! in angry block letters—had Eve shoving open the stairwell door.

Peabody hissed out, “Loose pants,” and climbed with her through various scents—somebody’s Chinese takeout, someone’s very rank body odor, someone’s heavy dose of cheap cologne (possibly Mr. BO), and, oddly, what might have been fresh roses.

On the fifth floor, Eve scanned the apartment door. Strong security here, in the way of locks: three police locks rather than electronics.

Cheaper, she thought, but pretty effective.

She buzzed.

Moments later, through the static on the intercom, somebody demanded, “Who is it?”

“NYPSD.”

“Yeah, right.”

“NYPSD,” Eve repeated, and held her badge up to the Judas hole.

“I’m calling in to check that before I open the door.”

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve; Peabody, Detective Delia, Cop Central.”

“Yeah, right again.”

Eve waited, waited. Actually heard a squeal from inside, then rising female voices before locks began to clunk. She heard the distinct metal slide of a riot bar before the door popped open.

The two women who stood gaping hit about the same age. One was tall, busty, blond, the other just hitting average height with a small build. A mixed-race brunette.

Both had big blue eyes.

“Holy shit,” they said in unison. “You look just like Marlo Durn did in the vid,” the blonde continued. “Or Marlo, I guess she looked like you. We saw it twice.”