[In Death 08] - Conspiracy in Death Page 2

  “You got your homicide, Bowers.”

  Eve eased back, let the curtain fall. She felt her blood rise and her fist clench when she saw the self-satisfied smirk on the uniform’s face.

  “Okay, Bowers, we don’t like each other. Just one of those things. But you’d be smart to remember I can make it a hell of a lot harder on you than you can on me.” She took a step closer, bumping the toe of her boots to the toe of Bowers’s shoes. Just to be sure her point was taken. “So be smart, Bowers, and wipe that fucking sneer off your face and keep out of my way.”

  The sneer dropped away, but Bowers’s eyes shot out little bullet points of animosity. “It’s against departmental code for a superior officer to use offensive language to a uniform.”

  “No kidding? Well, you be sure to put that in your report, Bowers. And you have that report done, in triplicate, and on my desk by oh ten hundred. Stand back,” she added, very quietly now.

  It took ten humming seconds with their eyes warring before Bowers dropped her gaze and shifted aside.

  Dismissing her, Eve turned her back and pulled out her communicator. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I’ve got a homicide.”

  Now why, Eve wondered, as she hunkered inside the crate to examine the body, would someone steal a so obviously used-up heart? She remembered that for a period after the Urban Wars, stolen organs had been a prize commodity on the black market. Very often, dealers hadn’t been patient enough to wait until a donor was actually dead to make the transfer, but that had been decades ago, before man-made organs had been fully perfected.

  Organ donating and brokering were still popular. And she thought there was something about organ building as well, though she paid little attention to medical news and reports.

  She distrusted doctors.

  Some of the very rich didn’t care for the idea of a manufactured implant, she assumed. A human heart or kidney from a young accident victim could command top prices, but it had to be in prime condition. Nothing about Snooks was prime.

  She wrinkled her nose against the stench, but leaned closer. When a woman detested hospitals and health centers as much as she did, the faintly sick smell of antiseptic sent the nostrils quivering.

  She caught it here, just a trace, then frowning, sat back on her heels.

  Her prelim exam told her the victim had died at 0:2:10, given the outside temperature through the night. She’d need the blood work and tox reports to know if there’d been drugs in his system, but she could already see that he’d been a brew guzzler.

  The typical brown refillable bottle used to transport home brew was tucked in the corner, nearly empty. She found a small, almost pitiful stash of illegals. One thin, hand-rolled joint of Zoner, a couple of pink capsules that were probably Jags, and a small, filthy bag of white powder she assumed after a sniff was Grin laced with a whiff of Zeus.

  There were telltale spiderwebs of broken blood vessels over his dented face, obvious signs of malnutrition, and the scabs of what was likely some unattractive skin disease. The man had been a guzzler, smoked, ate garbage, and had been nearly ready to die in his sleep.

  Why kill him?

  “Sir?” Eve didn’t glance back as Peabody drew back the curtain. “ME’s on scene.”

  “Why take his heart?” Eve muttered. “Why surgically remove it? If it was a straight murder, wouldn’t they have roughed him up, kicked him around? If they were into mutilation, why didn’t they mutilate? This is textbook work.”

  Peabody scanned the body, grimaced. “I haven’t seen any heart ops, but I’ll take your word on that.”

  “Look at the wound,” Eve said impatiently. “He should have bled out, shouldn’t he? A fist-sized hole in the chest, for Christ’s sake. But they—whatever it is—clamped, closed off, the bleeders, just like they would in surgery. This one didn’t want the mess, didn’t see the point in it. No, he’s proud of his work,” she added, crab walking back through the opening, then standing to take a deep gulp of the much fresher air outside.

  “He’s skilled. Had to have had some training. And I don’t think one person could have managed this alone. You send the scoopers out to canvass for witnesses?”

  “Yeah.” Peabody scanned the deserted street, the broken windows, the huddle of boxes and crates deep in the alleyway across the street. “Good luck to them.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Morris.” Eve lifted a brow as she noted she’d hooked the top medical examiner for an on-scene. “I didn’t expect to get the cream on a sidewalk sleeper.”

  Pleased, he smiled, and his lively eyes danced. He wore his hair slicked back and braided with a siren red ski cap snugged over it. His long, matching coat flapped madly in the breeze. Morris, Eve knew, was quite the snazzy dresser.

  “I was available, and your sleeper sounded quite interesting. No heart?”

  “Well, I didn’t find one.”

  He chuckled and approached the crate. “Let’s have a look-see.”

  She shivered, envying him his long, obviously warm coat. She had one—Roarke had given her a beauty for Christmas—but she resisted wearing it on the job. No way in hell was she going to get blood and assorted body fluids all over that fabulous bronze-colored cashmere.

  And she thought as she crouched down yet again, she was pretty sure her new gloves were cozily tucked in the pockets of that terrific coat. Which was why her hands were currently freezing.

  She stuffed them in the pockets of her leather jacket, hunched her shoulders against the bite of the wind, and watched Morris do his job.

  “Beautiful work,” Morris breathed. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  “He had training, right?”

  “Oh yes.” Affixing microgoggles over his eyes, Morris peered into the open chest. “Yes indeed, he did. This is hardly his first surgery. Top of the line tools as well. No homemade scalpel, no clumsy rib spreaders. Our killer is one mag surgeon. Damn if I don’t envy his hands.”

  “Some cults like to use body parts in their ceremonies,” Eve said half to herself. “But they generally hack and mutilate when they kill. And they like rituals, ambiance. We’ve got none of that here.”

  “Doesn’t look like a religious thing. It looks like a medical one.”

  “Yeah.” That corroborated her thoughts. “One person pull this off?”

  “Doubt it.” Morris pulled out his bottom lip, let it snap back. “To perform a procedure this slick under these difficult conditions he’d need a very skilled assistant.”

  “Any idea why they’d take his heart if it wasn’t to worship the demon of the week?”

  “Not a clue,” Morris said cheerfully and gestured for her to back up. When they were outside again, he blew out a breath. “I’m surprised the old man didn’t die of asphyxiation in all that stink. But from a visual exam, my guess would be that heart would have very few miles left on it. Got your prints and DNA sample for IDing?”

  “Already sealed and ready for the lab.”

  “Then we’ll bag him, take him in.”

  Eve nodded. “You curious enough to bump him up to the top of your stack of bodies?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” He smiled, gestured to his team. “You should wear a hat, Dallas. It’s fucking freezing out here.”

  She sneered, but she’d have given a month’s pay for a hot cup of coffee. Leaving Morris to his work, she turned to meet Bowers and Trueheart.

  Bowers clenched her teeth. She was cold, hungry, and she bitterly resented the chummy consult she’d witnessed between Eve and the chief medical examiner.

  Probably fucking him, Bowers thought. She knew Eve Dallas, knew her type. Damn right she did. A woman like her only moved up the ranks because she spread her legs while she made the climb. The only reason Bowers hadn’t moved up herself was because she refused to do it on her back.

  That’s the way the game’s played, that’s how. And her heart began to pound in her chest, the blood to thunder in her head. But she’d get her own, one day.

  Whore, b
itch. The words echoed in her brain, nearly trembled off her tongue. But she sucked them in. She was, she reminded herself, still in control.

  The hate Eve read in Bowers’s pale eyes was a puzzle. It was much too vicious, she decided, to be the result of a simple and deserved dressing down by a superior officer. It gave her an odd urge to brace for attack, to slide a hand down to her weapon. Instead, she lifted her eyebrows, waited a beat. “Your report, Officer?”

  “Nobody saw anything, nobody knows anything,” Bowers snapped. “That’s the way it is with these people. They stay in their holes.”

  Though Eve had her eyes on Bowers, she caught the slight movement from the rookie. Following instinct, she dug in her pocket and pulled out some loose credits. “Get me some coffee, Officer Bowers.”

  Disdain turned so quickly to insulted shock, Eve had to work hard to hold off a grin. “Get you coffee?”

  “That’s right. I want coffee.” She grabbed Bowers’s hand, dumped the credits into it. “So does my aide. You know the neighborhood. Run over to the nearest 24/7 and get me some coffee.”

  “Trueheart’s lowest rank.”

  “Was I talking to Trueheart, Peabody?” Eve said pleasantly.

  “No, Lieutenant. I believe you were addressing Officer Bowers.” As Peabody didn’t like the woman’s looks, either, she smiled. “I take cream and sugar. The lieutenant goes for black. I believe there’s a 24/7 one block over. Shouldn’t take you long.”

  Bowers stood another moment, then turned on her heel and stalked off. Her muttered “Bitch” came clearly on the cold wind.

  “Golly, Peabody, Bowers just called you a bitch.”

  “I really think she meant you, sir.”

  “Yeah.” Eve’s grin was fierce. “You’re probably right. So, Trueheart, spill it.”

  “Sir?” His already pale face whitened even more at being directly addressed.

  “What do you think? What do you know?”

  “I don’t—”

  When he glanced nervously at Bowers’s stiff and retreating back, Eve stepped into his line of vision. Her eyes were cool and commanding. “Forget her. You’re dealing with me now. I want your report on the canvass.”

  “I . . .” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “No one in the immediate area admits to having witnessed any disturbance in the vicinity or any visitors to the victim’s crib during the time in question.”

  “And?”

  “It’s just that—I was going to tell Bowers,” he continued in a rush, “but she cut me off.”

  “Tell me,” Eve suggested.

  “It’s about the Gimp? He had his crib on this side, just down from Snooks, as long as I’ve had the beat. It’s only a couple of months, but—”

  “You patrol this area yesterday?” Eve interrupted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And there was a crib by Snooks’s?”

  “Yes, sir, like always. Now he’s got it on the other side of the street, way at the end of the alley.”

  “Did you question him?”

  “No, sir. He’s zoned. We couldn’t roust him, and Bowers said it wasn’t worth the trouble, anyway, because he’s a stone drunk.”

  Eve studied him thoughtfully. His color was back, pumped into his cheeks from nerves and the slap of the wind. But he had good eyes, she decided. Clear and sharp. “How long have you been out of the academy, Trueheart?”

  “Three months, sir.”

  “Then you can be forgiven for not being able to recognize an asshole in uniform.” She cocked her head when a flash of humor trembled on his mouth. “But I have a feeling you’ll learn. Call for a wagon and have your pal the Gimp taken down to the tank at Central. I want to talk to him when he’s sobered up. He knows you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you stay with him, and bring him up when he’s coherent. I want you to stand in on the interview.”

  “You want me to—” Trueheart’s eyes went huge and bright. “I’m assigned to Lite—Bowers is my trainer.”

  “Is that how you want it, Officer?”

  He hesitated, blew out a quiet breath. “No, sir, Lieutenant, it’s not.”

  “Then why aren’t you following my orders?” She turned away to harass the crime scene team and left him grinning after her.

  “That was really sweet,” Peabody said when they were back in their vehicle with cups of hot, horrible coffee.

  “Don’t start, Peabody.”

  “Come on, Dallas. You gave the guy a nice break.”

  “He gave us a potential witness and it was another way to burn that idiot Bowers’s ass.” She smiled thinly. “Next chance you get, Peabody, do a run on her. I like to know everything I can about people who want to rip the skin off my face.”

  “I’ll take care of it when we’re back at Central. You want hard copy?”

  “Yeah. Run Trueheart, too, just for form.”

  “Wouldn’t mind running him.” Peabody wiggled her eyebrows. “He’s very cute.”

  Eve slanted her a look. “You’re pathetic, and you’re too old for him.”

  “I can’t have more than a couple, maybe three years on him,” Peabody said with a hint of insult. “And some guys prefer a more experienced woman.”

  “I thought you were still tight with Charles.”

  “We date,” Peabody lifted her shoulders, still uncomfortable discussing this particular man with Eve. “But we’re not exclusive.”

  Tough to be exclusive with a licensed companion, Eve thought but held her tongue. Snapping out her opinion of Peabody developing a relationship with Charles Monroe had come much too close to breaking the bond between them a few weeks before.

  “You’re okay with that?” she said instead.

  “That’s the way we both want it. We like each other, Dallas. We have a good time together. I wish you—” She broke off, firmly shut her mouth.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You’re thinking pretty damn loud.”

  Eve set her teeth. They were not, she promised herself, going back there. “What I’m thinking,” she said evenly, “is about getting some breakfast before we start on the paperwork.”

  Deliberately, Peabody rolled the stiffness out of her shoulders. “That works for me. Especially if you’re buying.”

  “I bought last time.”

  “I don’t think so, but I can check my records.” More cheerful, Peabody pulled out her electronic memo book and made Eve laugh.

  chapter two

  The best that could be said about the slop served at Cop Central’s Eatery was that it filled the hole serious hunger could dig. Between bites of what was supposed to be a spinach omelette, Peabody accessed data on her palm PC.

  “Ellen Bowers,” she reported. “No middle initial. Graduated from the academy, New York branch, in ’46.”

  “I was there in ’46,” Eve mused. “She’d have been right ahead of me. I don’t remember her.”

  “I can’t get her academy records without authorization.”

  “Don’t bother with that.” Scowling, Eve hacked at the cardboard disguised as a pancake on her plate. “She’s been on the force a dozen years and she’s scooping stiffs downtown? Wonder who else she pissed off.”

  “Assigned to the one sixty-two for the last two years, spent another couple at the four-seven. Before that, assigned to Traffic. Man, she’s bounced all over, Dallas. Did time in Cop Central in Records, another stint at the two-eight—that’s Park Patrol, mostly on-foot stuff.”

  Since even the small lake of syrup Eve had used to drown the pancake didn’t soften it, she gave up and switched to gut-burning coffee. “Sounds like our friend’s had trouble finding her niche or the department’s been shuffling her.”

  “Authorization’s required to access transfer documents and/or personal progress reports.”

  Eve considered, then shook her head. “No, it feels sticky, and we’re probably done with her, in any case.”

  “I’ve got that she’s single. Never married,
no kids. She’s thirty-five, parents live in Queens, three sibs. Two brothers and one sister. And, we have my personal take,” Peabody added as she set the PPC aside. “I hope we’re done with her, because she’d really, really like to hurt you.”

  Eve only smiled. “That’s gotta be frustrating for her, doesn’t it? Do you have a personal take on why?”

  “Not a clue except you’re you and she’s not.” Uneasy, Peabody moved her shoulders. “I’d pay attention, though. She looked like the kind who’d come at you from behind.”

  “We’re not likely to run into each other on a regular basis.” Eve filed the matter, dismissed it. “Eat up. I want to go see if this sleeper of Trueheart’s knows anything.”

  She decided to use an interview room, knowing the stark formality of that often loosened tongues. One look at the Gimp warned her that while he might be coherent now, thanks to a hefty dose of Sober-Up, his skinny body still jittered and his nervous eyes jumped.

  A quick spin through the decontamination tank had likely chased off any parasites and had laid a thin layer of faux citrus over the stink of him.

  An addict, Eve thought, with an assortment of vices that had certainly fried a good portion of his brain cells.

  She brought him water, knowing most brew hounds suffered from dry mouth after decon. “How old are you, Gimp?”

  “Dunno, maybe fifty.”

  He looked to be a very ill-preserved eighty, but she thought he was probably close to the mark. “You got another name?”

  He shrugged. They’d taken away his clothes and disposed of them. The gray smock and drawstring pants hung on him and were nearly the same color as his skin. “Dunno. I’m Gimp.”

  “Okay. You know Officer Trueheart here, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Suddenly, the beaten face glowed with a smile as pure as a baby’s. “Hi! You slipped me some credits, said I should get some soup.”

  Trueheart flushed painfully, shifted on his regulation shoes. “I guess you bought brew with it.”

  “Dunno.” The smile faded as his busy eyes landed on Eve again. “Who are you? How come I have to be here? I didn’t do nothing. Somebody’s gonna take my stuff if I don’t watch out.”