Calculated in Death (3 page)

She pulled out, made the turn for downtown. “I want Uniform Carmichael to pick a team for a canvass. He’ll meet Officer Turney at the scene at oh-seven-thirty, so get on that. Contact Sergeant Gonzales at the one-three-six, tell him I requested Turney for the duty.”

“You want the first on scene?”

“I want Turney. She’s got good instincts. There’s a little Peabody in there.”

“Yeah?” Peabody puffed up, then immediately pouted. “Is she—”

“Don’t even
think
about asking if she’s got a smaller ass, prettier face, tougher chops or whatever you’re thinking. Just get it done.”

“I wasn’t thinking about her ass,” Peabody muttered. “But now I am.”

“I want EDD on the electronics, and as soon as we get the insurance information I want a sweep on the items she was wearing—wedding ring, wrist unit. The coat. We’ll talk to the husband later, see if he remembers the earrings, and the scarf Yung claims she’d have worn. He couldn’t take any more on this first pass. Start a run on the work places. Look for anything that links them, and links either or both to Whitestone’s company. There’s got to be something there. If this was a random kill, I’m a monkey’s cousin.”

“Uncle.”

“What?”

“It’s a monkey’s uncle, and before you ask, no, I don’t know why because, really, on the evolutionary train, cousin’s about right.”

“What the hell do I care?”

“I’m just saying.”

Eve spared Peabody a glance as she turned to cut across town. The blocks went smooth and fast—too early for pedestrians to swarm the sidewalks and crosswalks, too late for the Rapid Cabs packed with club hoppers and partygoers.

She avoided Times Square where the hoppers and goers never gave in or up, then zipped by a maxibus filled with sleepy commuters either coming on or going off shift.

“Somebody grabbed her, and had to make the grab close to her office. Or they waited in a cab then just cruised up for the grab. They took her to that empty apartment because they knew it was empty. Either they had the codes or they’re damn good at B&E. Knocked her around a little.”

“You think a righty, and a backhand.”

“Yeah, it reads that way to me. A backhand across the cheekbone’s going to hurt a lot, knock her down, scare the living shit out of her. Too much bruising for just a slap, not enough for a solid punch.”

She brought the victim’s face back into her head. “Probably more than one hit. We’ll see if Morris tells us she was stunned or tranq’d, but I’m betting no. They wanted to make it look like a mugging. If they’d stunned or drugged her, they’d open themselves to a closer look. Manhandle her into a vehicle, take her to the apartment where they’d have privacy.”

“For what? Say this is payback on Yung, it’s a pretty circular route. Yeah, they’re close, but you’d go closer—Yung herself, her husband, one of her kids or grandkids. She’s got two daughters, in case you wondered. One grandkid from each.”

“It’s not payback.” Eve had circled that through her mind, poked holes through it. Eliminated it. “They’d have messed her up a lot more, made a statement for payback. And yeah, gone closer than a sister-in-law. Maybe to pressure the husband for something, but if you can grab her, you can probably grab him. And it’s more pressure if she’s alive. Information maybe. On a client. She’d know a lot of money secrets, tax shit, account data. They knew she was working late, so they’ve been watching her or they have a route inside—or they
are
inside her firm.”

She pulled up at Central. “I’m going to see Morris. As soon as her offices open, we’ll talk to her supervisor, her coworkers. I want her client list, her current files. Same for the husband.”

“Follow the money.”

“It’s always an interesting route. Beat it.”

“Beating it.”

Eve drove away, glanced at the time, then used her in-dash ’link to contact Roarke. Maybe it was dawn, but she knew damn well he’d been up at least a solid hour, and had probably already bought a minor solar system.

“Lieutenant.”

And there he was, filling her dash screen, those staggering blue eyes alert in a face created on a day God had felt particularly generous. As that mane of silky black hair was tied back, she recognized work mode.

“I figured I should let you know I won’t be back.”

“I assumed as much.” His native Ireland cruised through the words, like music. “Eat something.”

“I think I’ll wait until after this trip to the morgue. Their Vending seriously blows.”

“It’s bad. I can see it.”

“Murder’s never good, but this one wasn’t particularly messy. But . . . mother of two, with a husband I broke into pieces at notification. Well-heeled Upper East Side family, both of them with careers in finance, living in a penthouse condo. But without the flash, you know? Homey, pictures of the kids everywhere. And she was Judge Yung’s sister-in-law.”

“Judge Yung?”

“Criminal. One of the best I know.” She could let the pity come, just a little with him. “You couldn’t swim through the love and grief in that place. It just kept flooding the air.”

“It’s difficult being the one who has no choice but to open the gates to the flood.”

“It’s part of the job, but like Peabody said, sometimes it’s worse than others. This was worse. Yung’s going to make it as easy as possible for me, search warrants, full disclosure, full access.”

“And yet.”

“And yet the mother of two who helped build what looks like a really happy home is still dead. So, anyway. What do you know about Brewer, Kyle, and Martini?”

“Ah . . . Corporate accounting primarily, or serving those who have as much money as a corporation.”

“Not yours?”

“No, but I’d take a good look at them if I decided to make a change in that area. They have a steady, straightforward reputation. Victim or husband?”

“Victim. Husband’s a lawyer with Grimes, Dickenson, Harley, and Schmidt. He’s Dickenson. Estate law and financial junk’s his deal.”

“I don’t know them, but I can see what I can find out.”

“Shouldn’t be hard. Their offices are in your headquarters building.”

“That does make it simple.”

“If you have time. It never hurts to have somebody who knows that money crap on board. One more. The WIN Group—investments, money managers, like that.”

“Nothing rings, but again, it’s easy enough to get information. How do they play in?”

“Bradley Whitestone—the
W
—found the body outside his being-renovated apartment early this morning when he brought a woman by he obviously hoped to bang. We met her, she says, at some gala. Alva Moonie.”

“Of the New York Moonies—old money, old pedigree. Shipping, as in building ships and using them to transport cargo and people on cruises. I don’t know her personally, but can tell you she was known as a wild child who lived for parties, extensive travel, shopping, drink, drugs, sex until a few years ago.”

“She looked like money,” Eve recalled. “She didn’t look wild.”

“I believe she designs or helps design the decor on the cruise ships, and does some nonprofit work these days. Is she a suspect?”

“About as far down the list as you can get at this point, but you never know.”

“You do,” he corrected. “Or you find out. How did she die, your mother of two?”

“Somebody broke her neck. Unless Morris tells me different,” she added as she pulled up to the morgue. “I’m going to go talk to him. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Eat something,” he repeated.

“Yeah, yeah.” But she grinned at him before she broke transmission.

Sometimes you got lucky, she thought remembering Daniel Yung’s words. She’d hit the mega-jackpot with Roarke, a man who understood her and loved her anyway.

And sometimes, she thought as she walked into the long white tunnel of the morgue, luck ran out as it had for Marta and Denzel Dickenson.

Too early for change-of-shift she decided as her footsteps echoed. People were either dealing with the death toll the city hauled in during the night, or doing paperwork in offices, or things she didn’t particularly want to think about with body parts in labs.

She paused at Vending, rejected even the idea of what passed for coffee at this particular establishment. She ordered a tube of Pepsi instead, and chugged some caffeine into her system as she headed for Morris’s area.

If he hadn’t been notified and come in, she’d contact him with Yung’s request.

But she heard the music—weeping sax, tearful bass, as she pushed through the double doors.

He had Marta Dickenson on the slab, had opened her with a Y-cut and delicately lifted out her heart to weigh it.

He glanced over at Eve, his dark eyes large behind his microgoggles.

“Our day began when hers ended.”

“She was putting in overtime at the office. Her day didn’t end very well.”

“She has children. I checked for rape, no sign of sexual assault, but signs she’s borne at least one child.”

“Two.”

He nodded as he worked. He wore chocolate brown under his protective cape, a perfectly cut suit with a cream-colored shirt. He’d braided his hair, left it in one, long, complicated black tail down his back.

“I was going to pull you in if you weren’t on her.”

“I took the night shift this week. Restless.” But he glanced up again. “Any particular reason you’d want me on her?”

“She’s Judge Yung’s sister-in-law.”

“Genny?”

Eve’s eyebrows winged up. “You’re on a first-name basis with Yung?”

“We share an appreciation for the same types of music. This is her brother’s wife? Denzel’s wife. I met them once, when Genny had a musical evening at her home. I didn’t recognize her, but Genny always spoke so warmly of her.”

“The judge is clearing the road, seeing that we have full access and in a speedy fashion.”

“You don’t suspect the husband?”

“No, but you’ve got to look. COD’s the broken neck?”

“Yes. Someone very strong and very skilled. It wasn’t from a fall. The report said she was found at the bottom of a stairway.”

“A short one, and no, not a fall. She didn’t fall. They put her there when they were done, tried to make it look like a mugging. It wasn’t.”

“She has some minor injuries. Facial bruise, the injured lip, both from a blow—a hand, not a fist—slight bruising around her mouth, bruising on her right wrist, slight bruising on both knees and her left elbow, the abrasion on the heel of her right hand.”

“Knees and hand. Like she skidded on some kind of rug or carpet?” Eve held up her hand, shoved the heel of it forward.

“That would be my conclusion. I found fibers in the hand abrasion, and sent them to the lab.”

“Blue fibers?”

“Yes, as your notes stated you found on her pants. You’d marked for Harpo, so I sent her the ones I removed.”

“Good.”

“I’ve barely started on her, and don’t have much.”

“Any stun marks? Any tox?”

“Very light marks from a stunner, just above her left shoulder blade.”

“I’d figured no on that,” Eve murmured, hooking her thumbs in her front pockets as she walked closer to the body. “If you want it to look like a mugging, leaving stun marks is seriously stupid. Your average mugger’s not going to have access to a stunner. They use stickers. Shoulder blade,” she continued. “He took her down from behind.”

“Yes, and I’d say a very low stun, just enough to incapacitate her, daze her for a moment or two. I’ll go over her very carefully. I’ve sent off a blood sample for tox screening. I can flag it.”

“Wouldn’t hurt.” Eve walked around the body, taking her own study. “Grab her when she comes out of the office building—not inside unless they could shut down security, and why do that, why leave bread crumbs? Slap a hand over her mouth, shove or toss her in a van, that’s quick. Stunning her—maybe the killer’s another woman, or small, worried she’d fight back, get away.”

“The slight lacerations on her knees and hand read like a fall on a carpet. In the apartment?”

“No rugs or carpeting there. Tarps—beige. No blue. But tossing her into a vehicle with carpeting on the interior floor, yeah. And she’s dazed from the stun and doesn’t catch herself, skids over it. She could’ve gotten the bruises on her knees, the fibers on her pants from the transpo. They didn’t walk her eight blocks to the murder scene, so he or they had transportation.”

“Harpo should be able to identify the carpet type, the manufacturer, the dye lot.”

“Or lose her crown, yeah. One person could do it,” Eve mused as she walked around the slab. “Stun her, push her in the back of a van or a car, but she’d come out of a light stun pretty quick. You have to keep her quiet and contained, drive, get her out, over, unlock the door. It’s likelier two people, one to drive, one to deal with her.”

“Big hands,” Morris said. “I don’t think whoever manhandled her was small. The pattern of the bruising indicates large hands.”

“Okay. Okay.” The need to stun Dickenson made less sense now, but facts were facts. “So, just taking no chances. Maybe the mugging gambit was last-minute. Either way, they took her to an empty apartment, lower level, direct access, no sign of break-in. They want her scared, scared enough to be cooperative, to give them what they want, tell them everything she knows. Backhand.” Eve swung her own through the air. “She goes down—face bruises, elbow knocks the floor. When they’re done, and it doesn’t take very long, one of them snaps her neck. Manually?”

“Yes, almost certainly, and left to right. From the angle, the bruising, the break, my conclusion is left to right, from behind.”

“Behind again. He’s right-handed. Strong, trained. It’s not that easy to snap a neck. Prepared, controlled enough not to mess her up too much, but not especially professional. Military maybe or para, used to kills on the field where you don’t have to clean things up before the cops get there. I found a little blood on a paint tarp bunched up on the floor. Apartment’s being rehabbed. It’s going to be her blood.”

“I found no defensive wounds.” Gently, Morris lifted the victim’s hand. “Nothing under her nails, in her teeth. So yes, I’d say it will be her blood.”

“It all went according to plan, except for the blood they missed, and the fact the owner hoped for some nookie and brought his date over so we found her quicker. But I wonder if they got what they were after. Did she have it? Did she know it?”