“I bet he was. Peabody.”
Understanding, Peabody pulled photos of Blair and Carter Bissel out of her file bag. “Mr. Sibresky, are either of these the man you know as Angelo?”
“Nah. Hotdogger had a big, stupid mustache, lots of eyebrows, hair all slicked back and hanging to his butt like some kinda fag-ass vid star. Scar on his face, too.” He tapped a finger on his left cheek. “Nasty one, went from the corner of his eye nearly to his mouth. Teeth bucked out, too. Guy was pretty damn ugly.”
“Sibresky, I’m going to ruin your day,” Eve told him. “You’ll need to get dressed, and come down to Central. I need you to look at pictures and work with a police artist.”
“Ah, come on, lady.”
“That’s Lieutenant Lady. Go get your pants on.”
Chapter 16
She wasn’t surprised to find herself standing over Joseph Powell’s body, but she was furious. She had to control the fury, coat it thickly before it clouded judgment.
He’d lived alone, and that had been one of the many breaks for his killer. He’d been scrawny, with little meat on his bird bones and a crop of hair cut short around the ears and trained, somehow or other, to stand up straight from his head in a six-inch crown dyed lightning-blue.
From the looks of his place, he’d liked music and cheese-flavored soy chips. He was still wearing his headphones, and an open bag of the chips was in bed with him.
There were no privacy screens on the single bedroom window, but a shade, blue as his hair, had been drawn. It blocked out the sun well enough, turned the room to gloom, and let all the traffic sounds-air and street-rumble against the glass like a storm rolling in.
He’d toked a little Zoner along with his chips. She could see the remnants of paper and ash in the dish shaped like a stupendously endowed naked woman on the table beside the bed.
Another break for the killer. He’d been zoned out, music pounding in his head, and couldn’t have weighed more than one-thirty. It was unlikely he’d even felt the jolt from the laser pressed to his carotid artery.
Small blessings.
Across from the bed, tacked up for the view she was sure, was a life-sized poster of Mavis Freestone, exploding into a midair leap, arms extended, grin wide and full of fun. She wore little more than the grin and strategically placed glitter.
MAVIS!
TOTALLY JUICED!
The sight of it, hanging on the dingy beige wall, laughing down at the dead made Eve incredibly sad and sick.
Because Morris was there, and she knew he needed to take some control, she stayed back and let him handle the initial exam.
“One jolt,” he said. “Full contact. Burn marks from the weapon are clearly evident. No other visible trauma. No signs of struggle or defensive wounds. His neurological system would have been immediately compromised. Death instantaneous.”
“I need positive ID, Morris. If you want I can-”
He whipped around. “I know the drill. I know what the fuck has to be done here, and don’t need you…” He lifted both hands. His breath shuddered in, then out. “And that was so uncalled for. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I know this is rough on you.”
“Close to home. This hits very, very close to home. Someone came into this room and killed this… boy as carelessly as you might swat a fly. He did that without knowing him, without having any feelings about him. Did this only to remove a small barrier so he could walk into my house. This really meant nothing more to him than putting on his shoes so he wouldn’t stub his toe. Victim is positively identified as Powell, Joseph. I’m going to take just a minute, Dallas, to pull myself together so I can do him, and you, some good.”
She waited until he left the room. “Peabody, I need you to work this. Do the on-scene, call the sweepers, start the knock-on-doors. I have to get to the Tower.”
“I need to be there.”
“They ordered me, not you.”
Peabody’s jaw tightened. “I’m your partner, and if your ass is getting fitted for a sling, mine is, too.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, however strange the visual, but I need my partner to pull the weight here. He needs you,” she said, looking down at Powell. “You have to start the process for him, and you need to help Morris. And if they’re fitting my ass for a sling, Peabody, I need you to keep pushing this investigation through, to keep the team solid. I’m not protecting you. I’m counting on you.”
“Okay. I’ll handle it.” She stepped up, stood with Eve over Joseph Powell. “I’ll take care of him.”
She nodded. “Do you see what happened here? Tell me.”
“He let himself in the door. He knows how to bypass security, and there’s not much here to bypass. No cams, no doorman. He picked Powell instead of Sibresky because Powell lived alone, and as orderly, probably handled more of the paperwork. It was business here, and he went straight for it. Powell’s in bed, zoned or asleep, probably both. He just leaned down, pressed the weapon to his throat, zapped him. Um…”
She took a quick scan of the room. “There’s no pass or ID sitting around. He might’ve taken it, altered it for his own use. We’ll check on that. Then he just walked out again. We’ll get time of death, but it was probably middle of the day yesterday.”
“Start with that. I’ll head back to the house as soon as I can. Morris may want to notify next of kin himself. If not-”
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about this end, Dallas.”
“Then I won’t.”
She started out, paused in front of the poster of Mavis. “Don’t ever tell her,” she said, and left the scene.
Inside the lab, Reva worked side by side with Tokimoto. They rarely spoke, and when they did it was in an abbreviated computerese only the true data jock could translate. But for the most part, there were no words between them. One thought, the other anticipated.
But Reva couldn’t anticipate how badly he wanted to speak, how the part of his mind not focused on the work formed and re-formed the words and phrases.
She was in trouble, he reminded himself. She was just widowed, and widowed by a man she’d learned was using her. She was vulnerable, and emotionally fragile. It was… ghoulish-wasn’t it?-to even consider approaching her on any personal level at such a time.
But when she leaned back on a quiet sound of exhaustion, the words simply popped out.
“You’re pushing too hard. You need to take a break. Twenty minutes. A walk in the fresh air.”
“We’re close. I know it.”
“Then twenty minutes will make little difference. Your eyes are bloodshot.”
She worked up a twisted smile. “Thanks for pointing that out.”
“You have lovely eyes. You’re abusing them.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She shut them on a sigh. “You don’t even know what color they are other than red.”
“They’re gray. Like smoke. Or fog on a moonless night.”
She opened one eye, peered at him. “Where’d that come from?”
“I have no idea.” Though he was flustered, he decided to push on. “Perhaps my brain is as bloodshot as your eyes. I think we should take a walk.”
“Why not?” She studied him as she got to her feet. “Sure. Why not?”
Across the room, Roarke watched them step out. “About damn time,” he muttered.
“You got something?” Feeney asked, and nearly pounced on him.
“No. Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
“You’re a little off today, aren’t you, boy?”
“I’m on right enough.” He reached for his coffee mug, found it empty, and had to struggle against the urge to just heave it against the glass wall.
“Why don’t I fill that up for you.” Feeney nipped it handily out of Roarke’s hand. “I was about to do my own.”