“Other than Tubbs won’t make it home for Christmas? Poor idiot got himself hyped, probably figured Rudolph was hovering outside with the rest of the reindeer and the sled. He jumped, in clear view of more than a dozen witnesses. Death by Extreme Stupidity.”
When Eve said nothing, only continued to look out the open window, Peabody stopped bagging pills she found on the floor. “You’ve got another take?”
“Nobody pushed him, but he had help getting extremely stupid.” Absently, she rubbed her hip that still ached a bit now and then from a healing wound. “There’s going to be something in his tox screen other than happy pills or something to give him his three-hour woody.”
“Nothing in the statements to indicate that anyone had anything against the guy. He was just a schmoe. And he’s the one who brought the illegals in.”
“That’s right.”
“You want to go after the pusher?”
“Illegals killed him. The guy who sold them held the weapon.” She caught herself rubbing her hip, stopped, and turned around. “What did you get from the witnesses regarding this guy’s illegals habit?”
“He didn’t really have one. Just played around a little now and then at parties.” Peabody paused a moment. “And one of the ways pushers increase their business is to spice the deal here and there. Okay. I’ll see if Illegals has anything on this Zero, then we’ll go have a talk with him.”
* * *
She let Peabody run the show and spent her time getting the data on the next of kin. Tubbs had no spouse or cohab, but he had a mother in Brooklyn. Jacobs had a wife and a kid. As it was unlikely any investigation would be necessary into either victim’s life, she contacted a departmental grief counselor. Informing next of kin was always tough, but the holidays added layers.
Back on the sidewalk, she stood looking at the police barricades, the throngs behind them, the ugly smears left behind on the pavement. It had been stupid, and plain bad luck, and had too many elements of farce to be overlooked.
But two men who’d been alive that morning were now in bags on their way to the morgue.
“Hey, lady! Hey, lady! Hey, lady !”
On the third call, Eve glanced around and spotted the kid who’d scooted under the police line. He carried a battered suitcase nearly as big as he was.
“You talking to me? Do I look like a lady?”
“Got good stuff.” As she watched, more impressed than surprised, he flipped the latch on the case. A three-legged stand popped out of the bottom, and the case folded out and became a table loaded with mufflers and scarves. “Good stuff. Hundred percent cashmere.”
The kid had skin the color of good black coffee, and eyes of impossible green. There was an airboard hanging on a strap at his back, and the board was painted in hot reds, yellows, and oranges to simulate flames.
Even as he grinned at her, his nimble ringers were pulling up various scarves. “Nice color for you, lady.”
“Jesus, kid, I’m a cop.”
“Cops know good stuff.”
She waved off a uniform hot-footing it in their direction. “I’ve got a couple of dead guys to deal with here.”
“They gone now.”
“Did you see the leaper?”
“Nah.” He shook his head in obvious disgust. “Missed it, but I heard. Get a good crowd when somebody goes and jumps out the window, so I pulled up and came over. Doing good business. How ‘bout this red one here. Look fine with that bad-ass coat.”
She had to appreciate his balls, but kept her face stern. “I wear a badass coat because I am a bad-ass, and if these are cashmere, I’ll eat the whole trunk of them.”
“Label says cashmere; that’s what counts.” He smiled again, winningly. “You’d look fine in this red one. Make you a good deal.”
She shook her head, but there was a checked one, black and green, that caught her eye. She knew someone who’d wear it. Probably. “How much?” She picked up the checked scarf, found it softer than she’d have guessed.
“Seventy-five. Cheap as dirt.”
She dropped it again, and gave him a look he’d understand. “I’ve got plenty of dirt.”
“Sixty-five.”
“Fifty, flat.” She pulled out credits, made the exchange. “Now get behind the line before I run you in for being short.”
“Take the red one, too. Come on, lady. Half price. Good deal.”
“No. And if I find out you’ve got your fingers in any pockets, I’ll find you. Beat it.”
He only smiled again, flipped the latch, and folded up. “No sweat, no big. Merry Christmas and all that shit.”
“Back at you.” She turned, spotted Peabody heading her way, and with some haste stuffed the scarf in her pocket.
“You bought something. You shopped!”
“I didn’t shop. I purchased what is likely stolen merchandise, or gray-market goods. It’s potential evidence.”
“My ass.” Peabody got her fingers on the tip of the scarf, rubbed. “It’s nice. How much? Maybe I wanted one. I haven’t finished Christmas shopping yet. Where’d he go?”
“Peabody.”
“Damn it. Okay, okay. Illegals has a sheet on Gant, Martin, aka Zero. I wrangled around with a Detective Piers, but our two dead guys outweigh his ongoing investigation. We’ll go bring him in for Interview.”
As they started toward their vehicle, Peabody looked over her shoulder. “Did he have any red ones?”
* * *
The club was open for business, as clubs in this sector tended to be, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Zero’s was a slick step up from a joint, with a circular revolving bar, privacy cubes, a lot of silver and black that would appeal to the young professional crowd. At the moment the music was tame and recorded, with wall screens filled with a homely male face, fortunately half-hidden by a lot of lank purple hair. He sang morosely of the futility of life.
Eve could have told him that for Tubbs Lawrence and Leo Jacobs the alternative probably seemed a lot more futile.
The bouncer was big as a maxibus, and his tunic jacket proved that black wasn’t necessarily slimming. He made them as cops the minute they stepped in. Eve saw the flicker in his eyes, the important rolling back of his shoulders.
The floor didn’t actually vibrate when he crossed the room, but she wouldn’t have called him light on his feet.
He gave them both a hard look out of nut-brown eyes, and showed his teeth.
“You got a problem ?”
Peabody was a little late with the answer, habitually waiting for Eve to take the lead. “Depends. We’d like to talk to your boss.”
“Zero’s busy.”
“Gosh, then I guess we’ll have to wait.” Peabody took a long look around. “While we’re waiting we might as well take a look at your licenses.” Now she showed her teeth as well. “I like busywork. Maybe we’ll chat up some of your clientele. Community relations, and all that.”
As she spoke, she pulled out her badge. “Meanwhile you can tell him Detective Peabody, and my partner, Lieutenant Dallas, are waiting.”
Peabody strolled over to a table where a man in a business suit and a woman—who looked unlikely to be his wife due to the amount of breast spilling out of her pink spangled top—were huddled. “Good afternoon, sir!” She greeted him with an enthusiastic smile, and all the blood drained out of his face. “And what brings you into this fine establishment this afternoon?”
He got quickly to his feet, mumbled about having an appointment. As he rabbited, the woman rose. As she was about six inches taller than Peabody, she pushed those impressive breasts in Peabody’s face.
“I’m doing business here! I’m doing business here!”
Still smiling, Peabody took out a memo book. “Name, please?”
“What the fuck!”
“Ms. What-the-Fuck, I’d like to see your license.”
“Bull!”
“No, really. Just a spotcheck.”
“Bull.” She spun herself and those breasts toward the bouncer. “This cop ran off my John.”
“I’m sorry, I’d like to see your companion license. If everything’s in order, I’ll let you get back to work.”