"Well gee, she didn't have to go and hurt my feelings." "You were a little rough on her," Peabody commented. "You didn't believe her?" "I didn't say that. My verdict on her is reserved until we check her out. Run her." "Sir, she can't be licensed if she's got a sheet." "She can't be licensed if she's been convicted," Eve corrected, and headed out. "Run her. Thoroughly. And track down Louise Dimatto. I want to see what she has to say." "Good thinking. Which, of course, goes without saying," Peabody added when Eve sent her a cool look. "If she checks out, will you use her?" "I'd use a two-headed talking monkey if it helped nail this guy. But right now, let's just do our tedious cop business in our tedious cop way."
The morgue was her first stop. She could count on Chief Medical Examiner Morris to do the job, give her the data she needed, without a lot of bureaucratic bullshit attached.
She found him in autopsy, with his protective gear over a steel blue three-piece suit. On closer look, she saw the vest was decorated with abstract line drawings of naked women.
Morris wasn't considered a fashion plate without cause.
His long, dark hair was drawn back in a glossy braid that hung neatly between his shoulder blades. He still carried his vacation tan. At the moment, his sealed hands were smeared with blood and bodily fluids. He hummed a jaunty tune under his breath as he worked.
He glanced over when Eve and Peabody entered, and behind his goggles, his long, dark eyes smiled.
"You nearly cost me twenty." "How'd I do that?" "I bet Foster you'd be in before eleven. You cut it close." "I got hung up by a psychic. What's your stand on that kind of thing?" "I believe we're all born with innate gifts, skills, potentials, and some of those gifts are not easily explained. I also believe ninety percent of those who claim to see are dirty rotten liars." "I'd up the last part a couple of percentage points, but that's about my take, too." She looked down at the body now.
"What do you see?" "A very unlucky young woman who, depending on your personal philosophies, no longer sees anything, or now sees everything. Severe trauma," he began. "Premortem. He wailed on her, Dallas. Sexual assault with none of his fluids left behind. He'd sealed up for the rape. Strangulation, cause of death. The ribbon's your murder weapon. Mutilation was postmortem. Clean cuts. Somebody's been practicing." "How clean? Surgically?" "If he's a doctor a cutter he didn't graduate top of his class. I'd say he used a laser scalpel and with good skill, but not exceptional skill. Several little jags." He gestured to a second pair of microgoggles. "Want to see?"
Saying nothing, Eve fit on the goggles, leaned over the body with Morris.
"See here? Here?" He nodded to the screen where the wounds were magnified so Peabody could study them as well. "Not precise. Little tremors in the hand, I'd say. And I found fluid. He nicked the left eyeball a bit, though we'll have Dickhead confirm that in the lab." "Okay." "I haven't found any trace of him on her. Grass, dirt, a few strands of hair, none of it human. You'll want Dickhead on that. Some could be canine, but that's a guess since she was a dog owner. All the blood's hers." "That's too damn bad. Fibers?" "A few, under her nails, on her person. She didn't go down easy. They're off to the lab, but I'd make them as cloth, most are likely from her own clothes. Some are probably from his shirt as there's some sealant on them, too." Eve straightened, pulled off the goggles. "You see anything like this before?" "From my lofty height, Dallas, you see every damn thing.
But this precisely, no. You?" "Not all the elements together." But her gut told her she'd see them again.
She's clean, Dallas. Sanchez. No arrests, no criminal." Peabody studied the readout as Eve drove uptown. "You want to hear the deal?" "The highlights." "DOB, February 3, 2026, Madison, Wisconsin. Brrr. Both parents living, in Cancun. That's more like it! No sibs. Private schools all the way. No marriage. One cohab, three-year stint that ended about fourteen months ago. No children.
Registered and licensed as sensitive. Self-employed." "How long's she had the license?"
"Fifteen years. Totally clean on it. A few civil suits brought against her, all judgment in favor of defendant. That's pretty normal for working psychics. People get pissed that something didn't work out the way they wanted, and they sue." "People sue the clouds if it rains on their picnic." "She does a lot of corporate work. Parties, conventions.
Private consults. Makes a damn good living at it. About seven, eight times that of your lowly homicide detective. Resided current Soho address for twelve years. Also has a residence in Oyster Bay. Nice. Sounds legit to me." "Uh-huh. You track down Louise?" "She's at the shelter today." "Oh." Eve had been hoping for the Canal Street Clinic.
She'd yet to make a personal appearance at the women's shelter Roarke had founded. "We take the vic's residence first. If we clear enough time, we'll go by, talk to Louise." "I've been wanting to see Dachas for myself," Peabody commented. "Charles says Louise is really juiced about it." "You talk to Charles?" "Sure, now and then." As Charles, a professional and licensed companion, was Louise's guy, and had been Peabody's guy, minus sexual fun, it just struck Eve as weird.
But the ins and outs of relationships always struck her as weird. Her own included.
"Any luck with the ribbon?" "If you call the fact that more than thirty retail outlets carry it in the borough of Manhattan alone luck, then yeah. Got the manufacturers, the distributors. It's a pretty common item, Dallas, in craft stores, party stores. Some of the better department stores carry it in their gift wrap department. It's going to be tough to find his source." "If it was easy, everybody would be cops."
– -**--
It was far from easy to question Deann Vanderlea again. The woman looked exhausted, ill, and weighed down with worry and grief.
Tm sorry we have to intrude." "It's all right. Luther, my husband, he's been delayed. Air traffic. I'd do better if he were here. I couldn't do much worse." She gestured toward chairs in the living area. The lounging robe had been replaced with slouchy black pants and a white, oversized shirt, but her hair was still tousled, her feet still bare.
"I haven't slept, and I'm holding on by the fingernails at this point. Do you have any news? Did you find the man who did this?" "No. The investigation is ongoing, and we're using all resources." "It was too much to hope for." She looked around, distractedly.