Desperation in Death--An Eve Dallas Novel Page 4

  “We need to know what happened!”

  Grief, immense and unimaginable, ripped through every word.

  “We’re going to do everything we can to find out. Do you want me to arrange transportation and accommodations for you, Mr. Cabot?”

  “No, I— We’ll drive in. We’ll drive in. If—if—if you could give me the name of a hotel near Mina. I think we should stay near Mina. I don’t know where she is.”

  He covered his face with his hands.

  “I still don’t know where my baby is.”

  “Mr. Cabot, we’re going to book rooms for you at the Hanover Hotel. It’s very near Mina. Is your son coming with you?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “We’re going to arrange two bedrooms, with a family area. Will that work?”

  “Yes, thank you, yes.”

  She shot a finger at Peabody as she gave Oliver Cabot the address. “They have a parking garage. I can arrange for someone to meet you there and take you to Mina. It’s only a few blocks.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “Just contact me when you arrive. Again, we’re very sorry for your loss.”

  “I think you mean that. Lieutenant, can you tell me fairly, are you good at what you do?”

  “I’m good at what I do.”

  “I hope you mean that, too. Thank you. We’ll leave here within the hour.”

  When Eve ended the call, Peabody sighed. “That was almost as rough as a notification. He tried so hard not to lose it.”

  “Did you get the rooms?”

  “Two-bedroom suite. I went with the concierge level. They’re going to want quiet.”

  “Okay. Let’s go be good at what we do.”

  * * *

  Eve knew Morris was good at what he did, and hoped, as she and Peabody walked down the white tunnel of the morgue, he could tell them more about Mina Cabot.

  The air smelled of chemical lemons and death sneaking under it, with an overlay of bad coffee. Their footsteps echoed off the glossy white tiles.

  Behind the doors of Morris’s autopsy suite, music played. Something Eve found almost obsessively cheerful with a lot of guitars and young female voices harmonizing.

  With a clear protective cape over his sky-blue suit, Morris closed his Y-cut on Mina with meticulous stitches. He’d done a trio of braids today in his long black hair and joined them together with a thick band that matched his precisely knotted—she supposed it was mauve—tie.

  He looked up, paused. “It’s hateful, always, when it’s a child, so I’m giving her music girls her age generally enjoy. Cut volume by half,” he ordered, and the voices went to murmurs.

  “Her parents, maybe her younger brother, are coming in. About three hours, I’d say.”

  “She’ll be ready for them. Such a sweet face.” He touched the back of his sealed hand to Mina’s cheek. “Peabody, get us all something cold, would you? The killing blow had some force behind it, enough the tip of the sharp end went through her and pierced through her back between her shoulder blades. A slightly upward trajectory.”

  “From below.”

  “Face on, slightly below the entry point.”

  “She had splinters in both palms.”

  Morris took the ginger ale Peabody knew he usually preferred, cracked the tube. “The lab will analyze the weapon, but the edges were rough. She grabbed it, picked up the splinters as her hands slid over it.”

  Eve nodded, paced, visualized. “Most likely? She was the product. She had value. She had the weapon first to fight someone off or defend herself. The killer gets it away from her, she fights—bruised knuckles—tries to get it back—splinters. And in the struggle, it ends up in her.”

  “With some force,” Morris added.

  “Somebody’s pissed enough, or distracted enough trying to control her, it rams into her.”

  “It hit her heart—a blessing, I suppose, as she wouldn’t have suffered.”

  “But she didn’t fall—after the blow,” Eve said. “I didn’t find any injury to indicate she fell. And I’m looking at her bare knees now—so she didn’t go down on them, either, so the killer didn’t just let her drop. But there’s a bruise on her hip. From a blow, maybe a kick?”

  “A kick, likely from the slightly rounded toe of a shoe. Postmortem, but very close to TOD. No other injuries,” Morris confirmed, “other than the killing wound and her knuckles. A product, you said. Of value.”

  “Abduction, not runaway. Everything points to abduction. No ransom demand, and the family would have scraped together a decent amount. She was worth more than that to somebody else, somebody who kept her in French manicures.”

  “Yes, I noted that. They also kept her healthy. Body, hair, skin. No signs of illegals abuse. And she’s a virgin. No sexual penetration, no rape, no signs of sexual assault.”

  Didn’t take her for personal use then, Eve concluded.

  “Virgins are usually worth more. What did she eat last?”

  “Now, there’s something interesting. She had a green salad with carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, chickpeas, a portion of grilled white fish and brown rice, sautéed spinach—very healthy—and a mixed berry tart.”

  “Dessert?”

  “A healthy, rounded meal—no alcohol in her system. Herbal tea, unsweetened. However, there are traces of vomit in her esophagus and in the back of her throat. Some scrapes on the back of her throat.”

  Morris lifted two fingers, mimed sticking them into his mouth.

  “She stuck her fingers down her throat.” Eve moved closer to the body. “Puked up some dinner, faked being sick. She had a plan.”

  “Since I see no signs she binged and purged on a regular or habitual basis, I agree.”

  “Distract whoever’s holding her long enough to make a break for it. She got outside, but he caught up with her.”

  “I’ll mention her underwear.”

  “Her underwear?”

  “Her clothes are, certainly, conservative, but age appropriate. Under them, the bra and panties? More mature, sexier. I sent them to Harvo.”

  And the Queen of Hair and Fiber would tell Eve everything there was to know about them.

  “She also has the clothes, and a sample of Mina’s hair. You’ll have the tox report shortly, but as I said, there’s no signs of illegals use or alcohol use—not habitual.

  “She was healthy, had good muscle tone, excellent dental hygiene—some minor straightening there about two years ago. No broken bones in her short life. What, I wonder, might she have done if allowed to live the rest of it?”

  “Can’t know, but we’re damn well going to find out who took the rest of it from her. Did you measure her—height? Peabody said the pants she was wearing—and they’re going to turn out to be the ones she wore at the snatch—were a little short. Her ID said five-four.”

  “She added a half inch since then. How long ago was she taken?”

  “Last November.”

  “Not surprising she’d gain that half inch.”

  “Okay. Good eye, Peabody. Would she have added elsewhere?”

  “Developed more? Very likely at her age, yes. She was just beginning to bloom.”

  “Appreciate it. The father’s going to let me know when they get in. They’re going to stay at the Hanover. I’ll give you a heads-up.”

  “We’ll take care of them. And her. I’m going to wish you good hunting, both of you.” He looked down at Mina again. “Such a sweet face.”

  As they left, Eve heard him order the music up again.

  “Let’s hit the lab. We may be able to give Dickhead a shove on the tox and the blood.”

  “Got a bribe ready?”

  Since she knew how it worked, Eve rolled her shoulders instead of her eyes. “It’s baseball season. I can toss out a couple of box seats. We hit him first,” she continued as they headed down the tunnel. “He got so damn pissy when we went straight to Harvo before, and I want the blood and tox reports.”

  “And the underwear,” Peabody added. “What Morris said fits in with the porn theory, especially since she hadn’t been raped or had sex.”

  “There are lots of ways to rape without penetrating.”

  Understanding her lieutenant had firsthand knowledge, Peabody fell silent.

  Through the buzz of activity and sea of white coats in the lab, Eve spotted the dome of Dick Berenski’s—chief lab tech’s—head.

  It moved right, paused, moved left as he used his rolling chair to cover his work counter. Maybe she’d have preferred to go straight to Harvo, but antagonizing Berenski—he’d earned the name Dickhead—wouldn’t get her the reports.

  He might have sensed her, as his gaze flicked up, then narrowed on her as she and Peabody moved through the maze toward his workstation.

  He’d shaved the molting caterpillar off his top lip so at least she didn’t have to test her willpower by not looking at it. His spidery fingers continued to work as he curled that naked top lip.

  “You know how long ago we got those samples? How many cases are ahead of yours?”

  “The victim’s parents are on their way into New York. I’m checking in with you before we see if Harvo’s got anything on hair and fiber. The victim’s clothes are an angle we need to pursue.”

  “Harvo’s got a load of her own. You’re not the only cops who want results yester-fucking-day.”

  “Right now, to my knowledge, we’re the only cops who have a thirteen-year-old victim who was abducted walking home from school, brought to New York, and held for over seven months before she got a jagged plank of wood through her chest.”

  She started to bring up the box seats, but wanted to vent a little first.

  “Right now our theory is a kiddie porn operation, and I’m going to ask Harvo to prioritize the sex unde
rwear she had on, as we might be able to track that back to the sonofabitch who snatched her so some other sonofabitch can pay to jerk off looking at her in the goddamn sex gear.

  “And,” she added, fired up now, “since you made it clear you’re king of the lab, we’re notifying you of same.”

  “Jesus please us, take it down a notch.” He hunched his thin shoulders and scowled. “I got your tox results right here.” He jabbed a finger at one of his screens. “Clean. No alcohol, no drugs, legal or otherwise. I bumped you up. Vic’s a kid, vic goes to the front of the line.”

  Not a complete Dickhead, she thought. This time.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nada. No way to tell if somebody dosed her previous—say, forty-eight hours before TOD—with something that dissipates. But her tox is clean. So’s the blood samples you sent in that aren’t the vic’s.”

  Eve’s antenna quivered. “Which weren’t hers?”

  “I did the blood myself. My people are jammed.” He rolled down the other end of the counter, nodded at another screen.

  “The sample from the shirtsleeve, the pants—both right side—don’t match the vic’s. Wrong blood type.”

  “I need DNA.”

  He sent her a sour look. “Are you looking at the screen, Dallas?”

  “If I knew what the hell’s jumbling around on there, I’d be sitting in your chair.”

  “I’m running the DNA. You shoulda paid more attention in science class.”

  “I have people like you for that. How long before you ID the blood?”

  “I just started the run, for fuck’s sake. Takes time, doesn’t it? Even if the DNA’s flagged for prior bad acts and whatever. I’m damn good, but I’m not a magician.”

  Then his machine dinged.

  DNA sample identified.

  “Well, kick my ass and call me Sally! There you go.”

  “Dorian Gregg,” Eve read. “Age thirteen—a few weeks younger than the vic. Freehold, New Jersey, mother Jewell Gregg, professional mother status. Father unknown.”

  “She’s got a sheet, Dallas.”

  Eve nodded, studying the thumbnail photo on-screen. “That’s why she popped so quick.”

  “Shoplifting.” Peabody scanned her PPC. “Age ten. Truancy—got nailed twice there. Runaway—twice there, too, ages nine and eleven. She’s got an assigned caseworker.”

  “Kids killing kids,” Berenski muttered.

  “I don’t think so. She was there,” Eve said. “Same age as the victim, and look at her. That’s a really pretty girl. This one likes really pretty girls. Morris said that wood spear went into her with some force. Maybe another kid could manage it, maybe. But she’s five-six and a buck ten. That’s slender.”

  “They got away together,” Peabody concluded.

  “That reads more probable to me. Maybe, in the heat of battle, one kid could ram that weapon into another, but no way this kid then manages to get the body to another location. Not alone anyway.

  “Thanks for the quick work,” Eve told Berenski. “Send me the reports, and copy Mira. Peabody, send Mira what we’ve got and let her know I need a consult. If not late this afternoon, tomorrow morning.”

  “You figure some doucheball’s snatching little girls and using them for porn shit?” Berenski curled his lip again, but in disgust. “You get anything else on it, front of the line.”

  “Appreciated. Let’s see if Harvo has anything.”

  “Tell her I said it’s priority,” Berenski called out.

  Peabody trotted behind Eve’s long strides. “You didn’t have to use the box seats.”

  “So they’ll be handy next time. It’s going to be more than one.”

  “More than one kid.”

  “It already is more than one kid as I see it.” Eve worked her way through the counters and cubbies. “More than one running this, or grabbing girls. Pennsylvania, New Jersey. Close enough to New York, but different locations. You have to see to want, you have to study to get. And Mina wasn’t restrained.”

  “Not like Mary Kate Covino and the others. Not like with Dawber.”

  “Exactly. They’ve got a way to keep them contained. Maybe Mina managed to avoid the drugs if they use drugs. Cheeked them or dumped food. Two different types of girls—body type, coloring. Need to think.”

  She checked the time. “We need to talk to Dorian Gregg’s mother and her caseworker, then speak with Mina’s family.”

  Harvo sat in her fishbowl, keyboarding something while one of her strange tools hummed merrily along.

  She’d kept the purple hair, at least on the top and a thick, eyelash-skimming fringe, but had gone pale pink on the rest.

  Rather than a lab coat she wore a pink T-shirt and purple baggies, purple sneaks with pink laces.

  She spotted Eve and Peabody.

  “Yo, detecting duo. Figured you’d do the drop by. I’d’ve leapfrogged you on this one, but the chief beat me to it.”

  “So he said. It’s appreciated.”

  Harvo shrugged. “I have to try not to think too much when it’s a kid. It gets inside you. Hair, no issue. Natural color, healthy. It got soaked with rainwater, but I found some traces of argan oil and linseed extract.”

  “In her hair?”

  “Frizz fighter, right?” Peabody said.

  Harvo did an air check mark with a purple-tipped finger. “You got it in one. A hydrating leave-in spray to kick the frizzies. I’m running the compound for brand ID.” She jerked a thumb at the humming machine.

  “Nailed the pants, but can’t take credit. They had a label. Wool blend, navy, size five, regular. Morsett Uniform Suppliers. They have their main branch in Philadelphia.”

  “That fits.”

  “They’d been professionally hemmed—a good inch, so I’d say the regular length was too long—but short, too, you know, short. The shirt? A hundred percent cotton, broadcloth, and that’ll cost ya.”

  “How much?”

  “Well, considering the stitching, the buttons, the cut? I’m going to say a solid two-fifty. No label, which is a little odd, right? No evidence a label was removed. It’s a size medium, I can give you that, and I can tell you it had some tailoring for fit—taken in some at the torso, shortened about a half inch. Damn good job, too.”

  “Like it was made for her?” Eve asked.

  “Tailored to fit, abso-poso. And no manufacturer or brand label’s either a glitch or deliberate. I can run a search, but you’re gonna end up with multitudes for a white, short-sleeved, cuffed cotton broadcloth shirt. It’s a staple, right? You’d have zillions more in a blend, but higher-end, still multitudes.”

  “Run it,” Eve decided. “Stick with outlets in the city to start. We could get lucky.”

  “Here to serve. Now, the undies? Who puts sexy virgin undies on a kid that age? Pervs, sick fucks.” Harvo put up both hands, closed her eyes, took a breath. “Have to stop thinking. No labels.”

  “No labels in the underwear?”

  “Nada. You’ve got a silk georgette, white push-up bra with white lace trim, size thirty-two-A, and matching thong, size five. I’m giving you US sizes.”

  “Okay.”

  “These are high-end, the material, the design, the craftsmanship. I’m going to be able to narrow them easier than the shirt on a search. Best guess, the bra’s going to go for seven, eight hundred, even up to a grand.”

  “Dollars? Dollars?” Eve repeated. “For a tit lifter?”

  “A silk tit lifter with exceptional architecture and construction. The thong’s an easy three hundred.”

  Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “Three hundred for something designed not to cover your ass. People are just screwed up.”

  “I’ve got a black thong and a baby-pink one so I have a choice on my tonight’s-the-night undies,” Harvo commented. “But thirty bucks for a thong’s top of my limit.”

  Eve just nodded. “I’m going to file that data away, somewhere I never think of it again.”

  “Hold on.” Harvo pushed her stool over to the machine. “Hair product’s Gretta Giselle’s Hydrating Frizz Barrier Spray. Retails for two-fifty—and yeah, dollars—for a sixteen-ounce bottle. Higher-end retail stores, salons, and like that.”