Immortal in Death (8 page)

“Okay, what’s this shit about Mavis whacking some fancy-faced model?”

“Feeney.” Eve could have kissed every rumpled inch of him. He sat at her desk, his ubiquitous bag of sugared nuts in his lap, and a scowl on his wrinkled face. “Word travels.”

“It was the first thing I heard when I made my stop at the eatery. One of our top cop’s pals gets collared, it makes a buzz.”

“She hasn’t been collared. She’s a witness. For now.”

“Media’s picked it up already. They don’t have Mavis’s name yet, but they’ve got the victim’s face splashed all over the screen. The wife dragged me out of the shower to hear about it. Pandora was a BFD.”

“Big fucking deal, alive or dead.” Weary, Eve eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. “Want a rundown of Mavis’s statement?”

“What do you think I’m here for, the ambience?”

She gave it to him in the cop shorthand they both understood, and left him frowning. “Damn, Dallas, it doesn’t look good for her. You saw them going at it yourself.”

“Alive and in person. Why the hell she got it into her mind to confront Pandora again…” Rising, she paced the room. “It makes it worse. I’m hoping the lab comes back with something, anything. But I can’t count on it. What’s your caseload like, Feeney?”

“Don’t ask.” He waved that away. “What do you need?”

“I need a run on her credit account. The first place she remembers going into is ZigZag. If we can place her there, or at one of the other joints at time of death, she’s clear.”

“I can handle that for you, but… We got somebody hanging around the murder scene, bopping Mavis on the head. Chances are there won’t be much of a time lag.”

“I know. I’ve got to cover all the bases. I’m going to track down the people Mavis recognized at the victim’s house, get statements. I’ve got to find a table dancer with a big dick and a tattoo.”

“The fun never ends.”

She nearly smiled. “I need to find people who can testify she was really ripped. Even with a dose of Sober Up, she couldn’t have been clean enough to have taken out Pandora if she’d been drinking her way downtown.”

“She claims Pandora was using.”

“Something else I have to check out. Then there’s the elusive Leonardo. Where the fuck was he? And where is he now?”

Leonardo was sprawled in the middle of Mavis’s living room floor, where he had fallen hours before in a drunken stupor brought on by a full bottle of synthetic whiskey and a boatload of self-pity.

He was surfacing groggily and feared he’d lost half of his face sometime during the miserable night. When he lifted a cautious hand to it, he was relieved to find his entire face in the usual place, only numbed from being mashed into Mavis’s floor.

He couldn’t remember much. It was one of the reasons he rarely drank and never permitted himself to overindulge. He was prone to blackouts and blank spaces whenever he chugged down a few too many.

He thought he remembered staggering into Mavis’s apartment building, using the key code she’d given him when they realized they were not just lovers but in love.

But she hadn’t been there. He was almost sure of that. He had a vague picture of himself lurching across town, glugging from the bottle he’d bought — stolen? Hell. Blearily he tried to sit up and pry his pasty eyes open. All he knew for certain was that he’d had the damn bottle in his hand and the whiskey in his gut.

He must have passed out. Which disgusted him. How could he expect to make Mavis see reason if he came weaving into her apartment, babbling drunk?

He could only be grateful she hadn’t been there.

Now, of course, he had a raging hangover that made him want to curl into a ball and weep for mercy. But she might come back, and he didn’t want her to see him in such a mortifying state. He made himself get up, hunted down some painkillers before programming her AutoChef for coffee, strong and black.

Then he noticed the blood.

It was dried, streaking down his arm, onto his hand. There was a gash on his forearm, long, fairly deep, that had crusted over. Blood, he thought again, stomach jittery as he noted that it stained his shirt, his pants.

Breathing shallowly, he backed away from the counter, staring down at himself. Had he been in a fight? Had he hurt anyone?

Nausea rose in his throat as his mind skipped over huge voids and blurry memories.

Oh sweet Jesus, had he killed someone?

Eve was staring grimly at the medical examiner’s preliminary report as she heard a quick, sharp rap on the door of her office. It opened before she acknowledged it.

“Lieutenant Dallas?” The man had the look of a sun-bleached cowboy, from his shit-eating grin to his worn-heeled boots. “Goddamn, it’s good to see the legend in the flesh. Seen your picture, but you’re a long sight prettier.”

“I’m all a-flutter.” Eyes narrowing, she leaned back. He was plenty pretty himself, with wheat-colored hair curling around a tan, lived-in face that creased appealingly around bottle-green eyes. A long, straight nose, the quick wink of a sly dimple at the corner of a grinning mouth. And a body that, well, looked like it could ride the range just fine. “Who the hell are you?”

“Casto, Jake T.” He tugged a shield from the snug front pocket of his faded Levi’s. “Illegals. Heard you were tracking me.”

Eve scanned the badge. “Did you? Did you hear why I might have been tracking you, Lieutenant Casto, Jake T. ?”

“Our mutual weasel.” He stepped all the way in and planted a hip companionably on her desk. That brought him close enough for her to catch the scent of his skin. Soap and leather. “Goddamn shame about old Boomer. Harmless little prick.”

“If you knew Boomer was mine, what’s taken you so long to come see me?”

“I’ve been tied up on something else. And to tell the truth, I didn’t think there was much to say or do. Then I heard Feeney from HDD was poking around.” Those eyes smiled again, with just a touch of sarcasm. “Feeney’s pretty much yours, too, isn’t he?”

“Feeney’s his own. What were you working Boomer on?”

“Usual.” Casto picked up an amethyst egg from her desk, admired the inclusions, passed it from hand to hand. “Information on illegals. Small shit. Boomer liked to think he was big time, but it was always little bits and pieces.”

“Little bits and pieces can build the big picture.”

“That’s why I used him, honey. He was pretty reliable for a bust here and there. Couple of times I tagged a middle level dealer on his data.” He grinned again. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

“Yeah. So who beat him into putty?”

The grin faded. Casto set the egg back down and shook his head. “Can’t say as I have a clue. Boomer wasn’t your lovable sort, but I don’t know anybody who hated him enough, or was pissed enough, to whack him that way.”

Eve studied her man. He looked solid, and there had been a tone in his voice when he’d spoken of Boomer that reminded her of her own cautious affection. Still, she believed in holding her cards close. “Was he working on anything in particular? Something different? Something bigger?”

Casto’s sandy brow lifted. “Such as?”

“I’m asking you. Illegals aren’t my game.”

“There wasn’t anything I knew of. Last I talked to him, hell, maybe two weeks before he went floating, he talked about sniffing out something outrageous. You know how he talked, Eve.”

“Yeah, I know how he talked.” It was time to lay one of her cards down. “I also know I copped some unidentified substance hidden in his apartment. It’s in the lab now, and they’re analyzing. So far, all they tell me is it’s a new blend, and it’s more potent than anything currently on the street.”

“New blend.” Casto’s brow creased. “Why the hell didn’t he tip me to that? If he tried to play both sides…” Casto hissed a breath between his teeth. “You think he got whacked over it?”

“That’s my best theory.”

“Yeah. Dumb shit. Probably tried to shake down the maker or the distributor. Listen, I’ll talk to the lab, and I’ll see if there’s any buzz on the street about something new coming in.”

“Appreciate it.”

“It’ll be a pleasure working with you.” He shifted, let his gaze linger on her mouth for a beat, with a kind of talent that missed insulting by miles and bull’s-eyed on flattering. “Maybe you’d like to catch a bite to eat, discuss strategy. Or whatever comes to mind.”

“No, thanks.”

“Is that no because you’re not hungry, or because you’re getting married?”

“Both.”

“Well, then.” He rose, and being human, she had to appreciate the way the denim snugged over long, lanky legs. “If you change your mind about either, you know where to find me now. I’ll be in touch.” He sauntered toward the door, paused, and turned. “You know, Eve, you’ve got eyes like good, aged whiskey. Sure brings out a powerful thirst in a man.”

She frowned at the door he closed behind him, annoyed at the fact that her pulse was a little quick, a little unsteady. Shaking it off, she dragged both hands through her hair and looked back at the report on her screen.

She hadn’t needed to be told how Pandora had died, but it was interesting to see that the ME believed the first three head blows had been fatal. Anything after that had just been indulgence on the killer’s part.

She’d put up a fight before the head blows, Eve noted. Lacerations and abrasions on other parts of the body were concordant with a struggle.

The time of death was listed at oh two fifty, and stomach contents indicated the victim had enjoyed an elegant last meal, at about twenty-one hundred, of lobster, escarole, Bavarian cream, and vintage champagne.

There had also been heavy traces of chemicals in her bloodstream which had yet to be analyzed.

So, Mavis had probably been right. It looked as though Pandora was jazzed on something, possibly on the illegals list. In the grand scheme of things, that might or might not make a difference.

But the traces of skin under the victim’s nails were going to make a difference. Eve was terrifyingly sure when the lab finished its work, it was going to prove to be Mavis’s skin. Just as the strands of hair the sweepers had bagged near the body were going to be Mavis’s hair. And most damning, she was afraid, the prints on the murder weapon could be Mavis’s.

As a setup, Eve thought and let her eyes close, it was perfect. Mavis comes in, wrong time, wrong place, and the killer sees a tailor-made scapegoat.

Had he or she known the history between Mavis and the victim, or had that just been one more stroke of luck?

In any case, he knocks Mavis out, plants some evidence, even adds the master stroke of scraping the dead woman’s nails over Mavis’s face. Easy enough to press her fingers onto the weapon, then slip out and away with the satisfaction of a job well done.

It wouldn’t take a genius, she mused. But it would take a cold, practical mind. And how did that jibe with the rage and the insanity of the attack on Pandora?

She would have to make it jibe, Eve told herself. And she would have to find a way to clear Mavis and find the kind of killer who could batter a woman’s face into nothing, then tidy up after himself.

Even as she started to rise, her door burst open. Wild-eyed, Leonardo lurched inside.

“I killed her. I killed Pandora. God help me.”

With that, his wild eyes rolled back and all two hundred and sixty pounds of him thudded to the floor in a dead faint.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ.” Rather than try to catch him, Eve nipped back out of the way of his falling body. It was like watching a redwood go down. Now he was stretched, feet on her threshold, his head nearly brushing the opposite wall. She crouched down, put her back into it and managed to roll him over. She tried a couple of sharp, light slaps, then waited. Muttering to herself, she put her back into that as well as rapped his cheeks hard.

He moaned, and his bloodshot eyes fluttered open. “What — where — “

“Shut up, Leonardo.” Eve snapped out the order as she rose, went to the doorway, and kicked his feet inside. With the door firmly shut, she looked down at him. “I’m going to read you your rights.”

“My rights?” He looked dazed, but managed to heave himself up until he was sitting on the floor instead of lying on it.

“You listen up.” She gave him the standard revised Miranda, then held up a hand before he could speak. “You understand your rights and your options?”

“Yeah.” Weary, he rubbed his hands over his face. “I know what’s going on.”

“You wish to make a statement?”

“I’ve already told you — “

Eyes flat, she held up a hand again. “Yes or no. Just yes or no.”

“Yes, yes, I want to make a statement.”

“Get up off the floor. I’m going to record this.” She turned to her desk. She could have hauled him down to Interview. Probably should have, but it could wait. “You understand whatever you say now is going on record?”

“Yes.” He got to his feet, then dropped into a chair that groaned under his weight. “Dallas — “

She shook her head to cut him off. After engaging her recorder, she noted the necessary information, then gave him his Miranda again for the record. “Leonardo, you understand these rights and options, and at this time have waived counsel and are prepared to make a statement?”