Immortal in Death (20 page)

Work was the answer, or so she hoped. Work she understood. She pulled up in front of the Down and Dirty Club in the East End and got out of the car.

“Hey there, white girl.”

“How’s it passing, Crack?”

“Oh, without much hassle.” He grinned at her, a giant of a black man with a face seamed with tattoos. His rocket launcher chest was partially covered with a feathered vest that hung past his knees and added flair to the loincloth of neon pink he sported. “Gonna be another hot one this day.”

“Got time to go inside and cool me off with a drink?”

“Might be, for you, sweet butt. You taking Crack’s advice and turning in your badge to shake your talent in the Down and Dirty?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

He laughed, patting his gleaming belly. “Don’t know why it is I got a liking for you. You come on in, wet your whistle, and tell Crack what’s rocking down.”

She’d been in worse clubs, and would be eternally grateful she’d been in better. The stale smells from the night hung still: incense, bad perfumes, liquor, smoke from dubious leaves, unwashed bodies, and casual sex.

It was too early for even the most dedicated partier. Chairs were overturned onto tables, and she could see where someone had made a careless pass with a mop over the sticky floor. Substances she didn’t care to identify had been left behind.

Still, the bottles behind the main bar gleamed in the colored lights. On the stage to the right, a dancer draped in pink net practiced a routine to the blare of simulated brass.

A jerk of Crack’s huge head had the domestic droid and the dancer wandering off. “What’s your pleasure, white girl?”

“Coffee, black.”

Crack lumbered behind the bar, still grinning. “Gotcha. How ‘bout a drop or two of my special reserve in that coffee?”

Eve lifted a shoulder. When in Rome. “Sure.”

She watched him program the coffee, then uncode a cabinet where he took out a bottle fit for a Genie. And, leaning on the cloudy bar, smelling the smells, she relaxed a little. She knew why she had a liking for Crack, a nighthawk she barely knew but understood. He was part of a world she’d wandered in most of her life.

“Now, whatcha doing in this nasty place, honey pot? Being a cop?”

“Afraid so.” She sampled the coffee, sucked in her breath. “Jesus, some reserve.”

“Only for my favorite people. It skims under the legal limit.” He winked. “Just. What you want Crack to do for you?”

“Did you know Boomer? Carter Johannsen. Small-time player. Data hound.”

“I know Boomer. He’s meat now.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Somebody slaughtered him. You ever do business with him, Crack?”

“He come in now and then.” Crack preferred his reserve straight up. He sipped, then smacked his tattooed lips in appreciation. “Sometimes he flush, sometimes not. He liked to watch the show and talk the shit. Not much harm in old Boomer. Heard he got his face erased.”

“That’s right. Who’d want to do that?”.

“He pissed somebody off bad, I’d say. Boomer, he had big ears. If he popped a few, he had a big mouth, too.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Hell, now, hard to remember. Few weeks, anyway. Seems to me he came through one night with a pocket full of credits. Bought himself a bottle, a few tabs, and a privacy room. Lucille went with him. No, not Lucille, shit. Was Hetta. All you white girls look alike,” he said with a wink.

“Did he tell anyone how he came to have full pockets?”

“Mighta told Hetta, he was blissed out enough. Seems she picked up some more tabs for him. He wanted to stay happy. She said something about how old Boomer was going to be an entrepreneur or some horseshit like. We had ourselves a laugh over it, then he come out and got up onstage naked. We had a bigger laugh. Dude had the most pitiful cock you ever seen.”

“So he was celebrating a deal.”

“That’d be my take. We got busy. I had to crack a few heads, toss out some bodies. I remember how I was out on the street, and he come rushing out. I grabbed hold, just fooling. He didn’t look happy no more, he looked piss-your-pants scared.”

“He say anything?”

“Just shook himself loose and took off running. Last time I saw him, as I recollect.”

“Who spooked him? Who’d he talk to?”

“Can’t tell you that, sweet face.”

“Did you see any of these people here that night?” Eve took photos out of her bag, spread them out. Pandora, Jerry, Justin, Redford, and because it was necessary, Mavis and Leonardo.

“Hey, I know these two. Fancy-face models.” His wide fingers traced lovingly over Pandora and Jerry. “The redhead, she come in now and then, trolling for partners, looking to score. Could be she was here that night, but can’t say for certain sure. These others aren’t on our guest list, so to speak. Least I can’t make ‘em.”

“Did you ever see the redhead with Boomer?”

“He wasn’t her pick. She liked them big, stupid, and young. Boomer was just stupid.”

“What do you hear about a new blend on the streets, Crack?”

His big face went blank, closed off. “Don’t hear nothing.”

Friendly only went so far, she knew. Silently, Eve took out credits, laid them on the bar. “Hearing improved?”

He studied the credits, then looked back at her face. Recognizing the tactic as negotiations, she added to them. The credits slid across the bar and disappeared.

“Some rumblings recent, maybe, about some new shit. High powered, good long buzz, tough on the credit balance. Heard it called Immortality. None’s come passing this way, not yet. Most people ‘round here can’t afford designer. They’ll have to wait for the knockoff, and that takes a few months more.”

“Did Boomer talk about it?”

“Is that what he was into?” Speculation shifted into Crack’s eyes. “He never flapped to me about it. Like I said, I heard some rumblings pass through. It’s getting good advance hype, chemi-heads are jazzed over it, but I ain’t heard anybody had a taste. It’s good business,” he said with a smile. “You got a product, a new one, you get the clientele wired up, hungry. Then when it hits, they’ll pay. They’ll pay big.”

“Yeah, good business,” She leaned forward. “Don’t try a sample, Crack. It’s fatal.” When he started to blow that off, she put a hand on his beefy arm. “I mean literally. It’s poison, slow-acting poison. If there’s anyone you care about who uses, you warn them off this shit, or you won’t have them very long.”

He studied her face. “No jive here, white girl? This ain’t cop talk?”

“No jive, no cop talk. A regular user’s got about five years before it overloads the nervous system and takes him out. That’s straight, Crack. And whoever’s manufacturing it knows it.”

“Hell of a way to make a profit.”

“Isn’t it just. Now, where can I find Hetta?”

Crack blew out a breath, shook his head. “Nobody gonna believe it if I tell ‘em, anyhow. Not the ones already hungry.” He looked back at Eve, focused. “Hetta? Shit, I don’t know. Ain’t seen her in weeks. These girls come and go, work one joint, go on to the next.”

“Last name?”

“Moppett. Hetta Moppett, rented a room over on Ninth last I heard, around a hundred and twentieth. Anytime you want to take up where she left off, sugarpuss, just let me know.”

Hetta Moppett hadn’t paid her rent in three weeks, nor had she shown her skinny little ass. This, according to the building super, who also informed Eve that Ms. Moppett had forty-eight hours to come up with back rent or her property was forfeit.

Eve listened to his angry yammering as she hoofed it up the stairs in the miserable three-floor walk-up. She had his master code in hand, and was certain he’d already used it as she unlocked Hetta’s door.

It was a single room, narrow bed, dingy window, with a few attempts at homey with the frilly pink curtain and cheap shiny pink pillows. Eve did a quick toss, turned up an address log, a credit book with over three thousand in deposit, some framed photographs, and an expired driver’s license that listed Hetta’s last address in Jersey.

The closet was half full, and from the scarred suitcase on the top shelf, Eve judged it to be all Hetta had. She ran the ‘link, made a dupe of all the calls on disc, then copied the license.

If Hetta had gone on a trip, she’d taken no more with her than walking-around credits, the clothes on her back, and her club companion’s license.

Eve wasn’t betting on it.

She called the morgue from her car ‘link. “Run the Jane Does,” she ordered. “White, blond, twenty-eight, about a hundred and thirty pounds, five foot four. Transmitting copy of driver’s license holo.”

She was barely three blocks away, heading to Cop Central, when the answer came in.

“Lieutenant, we got a possible match. Need dental, DNA, or prints to verify. Our possible can’t be identified by hologram.”

“Because?” Eve asked, but she already knew.

“She doesn’t have enough face left.”

The prints matched. The primary assigned to the Jane Doe handed Hetta over to Eve without a backward glance. In her office, Eve stared down at the three files.

“Sloppy work,” she muttered. “Moppett’s prints were on file from her companion’s license. Carmichael could have ID’d her weeks ago.”

“I’d say Carmichael wasn’t much interested in a Jane Doe,” Peabody commented.

Eve reined in the anger, flicked a glance up at Peabody. “Then Carmichael’s in the wrong business, isn’t she? We’ve got links here, Peabody. From Hetta to Boomer, Boomer to Pandora. What probability did you get when you ran them, asked if they were killed by the same hand?”

“Ninety-six point one.”

“Okay.” Eve’s stomach jittered with relief. “I’m taking all of this to the PA, doing a tap dance. I may be able to talk them into dropping charges on Mavis. At least until we gather more evidence. If they don’t…” She looked Peabody dead in the eye. “I’m leaking it to Nadine Furst for broadcast. That’s a code violation, and I’m telling you because as long as you’re attached to me and this case, you can be held equally responsible. You’re risking a possible reprimand if you stay. I can have you reassigned before this goes down.”

“I would consider that action a reprimand, Lieutenant. An undeserved one.”

Eve said nothing for a moment. “Thanks. DeeDee.”

Peabody winced. “Don’t call me DeeDee.”

“Fine. Take everything we have over to EDD, hand deliver personally to Captain Feeney. I don’t want this data transmitted through channels, at least not until I talk to the PA, then try a little solo investigation.”

She saw the light go on in Peabody’s eyes and smiled. She could remember what it was like to be new and have your first shot. “Go over to the Down and Dirty Club where Hetta worked, tell Crack, he’s the big one. Believe me, you won’t miss him. Tell him you’re mine, tell him Hetta’s a corpse. See what you can get out of him, out of anybody. Who she hung with, what she might have said about Boomer that last night, who else she spent time with. You know the drill.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Peabody.” Eve slipped the files into her bag and rose. “Don’t go in uniform, you’ll scare the natives.”

The PA smashed Eve’s hopes in ten minutes flat. She continued to argue for another twenty, but it was all spinning wheels. Jonathan Heartly agreed that there was a likely connection in the three homicides. He was an agreeable man. He admired her investigative work, her deductive powers, and her organized presentation of same. He admired any cop who did the job in an exemplary fashion and kept his office’s conviction rate high.

But he, and the prosecutor’s office, were not prepared to drop the charges against Mavis Freestone. The physical evidence was too strong, and the case, at this point, too solid to warrant a backpedal.

He would, however, keep his door open. When and if Eve had another suspect, he would be more than willing to listen to her case.

“Puss head,” Eve muttered as she slammed into the Blue Squirrel. She spotted Nadine immediately, already in a booth and grimacing over the menu.

“Why the hell does it always have to be here, Dallas?” Nadine demanded the minute Eve dropped down across from her.

“I’m a creature of habit.” But the club wasn’t the same, she noted, not without Mavis standing onstage screeching out her incomprehensible lyrics in her latest, eye-popping costume. “Coffee, black,” Eve ordered.

“I’ll have the same. How bad can it be?”

“Just wait for it. Are you still smoking?”

Nadine glanced around, uneasy. “This isn’t a smoking booth.”

“Like they’re going to say something in a joint like this. Give me one, will you?”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I’m hoping to develop bad habits. You want the two bucks?”

“No.” Keeping an eye out, just in case anyone she knew was around, Nadine took out two cigarettes. “You look like you could use something a little stronger.”

“This’ll do.” She leaned over so that Nadine could light it, took one puff. Hacked. “Jesus. Let me try that again.” She drew in smoke, felt her head spin, her lungs revolt. Annoyed, she crushed it out. “That’s disgusting. Why do you do that?”