And he had on a tie. A tie. The closest she could come to describing the color was what you might get if you electrocuted grass.
"Jesus Christ, Feeney. What're you wearing?" The look he sent her was that of a man bearing up under a hideous emotional weight. "Wife said I needed to start wearing color. Bought this getup then hung over me, nagged my ears off until I put it on."
"You look… you look like a manager for street LCs." "Tell me. Look at these pants." He shot out a leg so Eve was treated to the sight of that skinny limb wrapped in modified skin-pants in the same electric shade as the tie.
"God. I'm sorry." "Boys out there think I look iced. What're you going to do?" "I don't honestly know." "Tell me you've got a case for me, something that's going to take me out in the field where I can get bloody." He lifted his fists, a boxer's pose. "Wife can't bitch if these glad rags get ruined on the job." "I've got a case, but I've got no fieldwork in the E area.
Wish I could help you out. Can't you at least take that noose off?" He tugged at the tie. "You don't know the wife like I do.
She'll call. She'll be doing a damn spot-check on me all through shift to make sure I'm suited up. It's got a jacket, Dallas." "You poor bastard." "Ah well." He let out a heavy sigh. "What're you doing in my world?" "The case. Sexual homicide with mutilation." "Central Park. Heard you caught that one. We're doing the standard on the "links and comps. You need more?" "Not exactly. Can I close this?" She gestured toward his door, got the nod. When she'd shut it, she went over to sit on the corner of his desk. "What's your stand on consulting with psychics on the job?" He pulled his nose. "Not much call for it in my division.
When I worked Homicide, we'd get calls now and then from people claiming they had visions, or information from the spirit world. You know that." "Yeah, still do. We waste time and manpower following them up, then go along and investigate with our measly five senses." "Got some genuines out there." He pushed away from the desk to program for coffee. "Most departments these days have a sensitive attached as civilian consultant. More than a few carry badges, too." "Yeah, well. We were partnered up for a long time." He handed her a mug of coffee. "Those were the days." "We never used a sensitive." "No? Well, you use what you use when the tool fits." "I've got one claims she saw the Central Park murder in a dream." Feeney sipped contemplatively. "You check her out?" "Yeah, and she jibes. Licensed and registered. Got a reference from Louise Dimatto." "Doc's not an asshole." "No, she's not. If you were me, would you bring her in?" He lifted a shoulder. "You know the answer to that." She frowned into her coffee. "You use what you use. Yeah, I know. I guess I just wanted to hear it from somebody who's got his feet planted. Thanks." She set the nearly untouched coffee down. She was getting spoiled, she thought. She was finding it easier and easier to walk away from the stuff if it wasn't real coffee. Thanks." "No sweat. Let me know if you need somebody to dig in, get his hands, and personal attire, dirty." "Will do. Ah, you know somebody could spill coffee on that getup. Wouldn't be your fault." He sent her a pitying look. "She'd know. Ain't nobody more psychic than a wife."
She rounded up Peabody. If she was going to consult with a psychic, she was going to run the possibility by her commander first.
Whitney listened as she gave her oral to back up the data she'd already sent to his attention. He didn't interrupt, but sat quiet at his desk, a big man with dark skin and close-cropped silvering hair. Years of riding a desk hadn't wiped the cop out of him. It reached right down to the bone.
The only change in his wide, sober face was a quick lift of eyebrows when she mentioned Celina Sanchez. When her report was complete, he nodded, then eased back.
"Psychic consultant. Not your usual style, Lieutenant." "No, sir." "The media liaison is handling the public information front for now. We'll continue to omit the exact nature of the mutilation, as well as the description of the murder weapon. If you decide to consult a sensitive, that data will also be omitted." "She's firm on that, Commander. If I consult with her, I wouldn't feel comfortable giving her name to the liaison, or anyone beyond the active investigative team." "Understood. The name of your sensitive sounds familiar to me. I may have met her at some time or other. Socially.
I'll check with my wife, who has a better memory for that sort of thing." "Yes, sir. Do you want me to wait to speak with Ms Sanchez again until you've done so?" "No. This is your call. Detective, your opinion on this matter?" Peabody's spine snapped straight. "Mine, sir? Ah… I might be more open to extrasensory gifts, Commander. We have sensitives in my family." "Would you be one of them?" She relaxed enough to smile. "No, sir. I just have the basic five. I believe, as Lieutenant Dallas believes, that Celina Sanchez is worth at least a follow-up interview." "Then talk to her. If and when the eyes leak to the media, we'll see this case blasted on and through every media outlet.
We need to close it before the circus comes to town."
Celina lived in a section of SoHo that ran to high-end art, trendy restaurants, and tiny one-room boutiques. It was the land of young, well-heeled, well-dressed urbanites who liked to hold intimate, catered brunches on Sunday mornings, voted Liberal Party, and attended esoteric plays they only pretended to understand, much less enjoy.
Street artists were welcome, and coffeehouses were abundant.
Celina's two-story loft had once been part of a three-story sweatshop that had produced massive amounts of cheap, designer knockoff clothing. It, like other similar buildings in the sector, had been revitalized, rehabbed, and reclaimed by those who could afford the real estate.
From the street, Eve noted the windows were as wide as shuttle ports, and a long, narrow terrace with an ornate iron railing had been added to the third floor.
"You sure you don't want to call for an appointment?" Peabody asked.
"She ought to know we're coming." Peabody approached the sidewalk-level front entrance beside Eve. "That's sarcasm, sir." "Peabody, you know me too well." Eve rang the buzzer for Celina's loft. Moments later, Celina's voice drifted through the intercom.
"Yes?" "Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody." There was another sound. It might have been a sigh. "Please come up. I'll release the door and the elevator. Just ask for two." The little security light over the door went from red to green. Locks snicked open. Eve stepped inside the entryway, scanned and observed three first-level apartments. To her left, an elevator door opened. They stepped in, requested two.
When the door opened again, Celina stood on the other side of an ironwork gate. Her hair was up today, in some twisty coil that was secured by what looked like a couple of fancy chopsticks.
She wore skin-pants that were cropped a few inches above the ankle and a snug tank that left her midriff bare. She wore no shoes, no facial enhancements, no jewelry.
She opened the gate, stepped back. "I was afraid you'd come. We might as well sit down." She gestured behind her to a wide space furnished with a generous S-shaped sofa the color of good red wine. There was an oversized table on each curve, and on one stood a long, shallow bowl filled with what appeared to be rocks.
Beside it, a tall pillar candle rose out of a hammered cup.
The floor was the original wood, by Eve's guess, and had been sanded, sealed whatever people did with old, original wood to turn it into a glossy, honey-toned sea. Brightly patterned rugs were scattered over it, as brightly patterned art was scattered over the pale green walls.
Through archways, she spotted the kitchen, a party-sized dining area. There were open-tread, metal steps, painted a deeper green than the walls and boasting a railing that was fashioned to resemble a slim, slithering snake.