Rapture in Death (7 page)

Eve rolled her bruised shoulder. The cabbie really hadn’t been swinging at her, she thought. He’d been trying to crack his opponent’s head open, and she’d just gotten in the way. Still, it wasn’t going to hurt her feelings that both of them would have their licenses suspended for three months.

She climbed into her car and, favoring her shoulder, put the vehicle on auto to Cop Central. Overhead, a tourist tram blatted out the standard spiel about the scales of justice.

Well, she mused, sometimes they balanced. If only for a short time. Her ‘link beeped.

“Dallas.”

“Dr. Morris.” The medical examiner had heavy-lidded hawk eyes in a vivid shade of green, a squared-off chin that was generously stubbled, and a slicked-back mane of charcoal hair. Eve liked him. Though she was often frustrated by his lack of stellar speed, she appreciated his thoroughness.

“Have you finished the report on Fitzhugh?”

“I have a problem.”

“I don’t need a problem, I need the report. Can you transmit it to my office ‘link? I’m on my way there.”

“No, Lieutenant, you’re on your way here. I have something I need to show you.”

“I don’t have time to come by the morgue.”

“Make time,” he suggested and ended the transmission.

Eve ground her teeth once. Scientists were so damned frustrating, she thought as she redirected her unit.

From the outside, the Lower Manhattan City Morgue resembled one of the beehive-structured office buildings that surrounded it. It blended, that had been the point of the redesign. Nobody liked to think of death, to have it spoil their appetite as they scooted out of work at lunchtime to grab a bite at a corner deli. Images of bodies tagged and bagged on refrigerated slabs tended to put you off your pasta salad.

Eve remembered the first time she’d stepped through the black steel doors in the rear of the building. She’d been a rookie in uniform shoulder to shoulder with two dozen other rookies in uniforms. Unlike several of her comrades, she’d seen death up close and personal before, but she’d never seen it displayed, dissected, analyzed.

There was a gallery above one of the autopsy labs and there students, rookies, and journalists or novelists with the proper credentials could witness firsthand the intricate workings of forensic pathology.

Individual monitors in each seat offered close-up views to those with the stomach for it.

Most of them didn’t come back for a return trip. Many who left were carried out.

Eve had walked out on her own steam, and she’d been back, countless times since, but she never looked forward to the visits.

Her target this time wasn’t what was referred to as The Theater, but Lab C, where Morris conducted most of his work. Eve passed down the white tiled corridor with its pea green floors. She could smell death there. No matter what was used to eradicate it, the sulky stink of it slid through cracks, around doorways, and it tainted the air with the grinning reminder of mortality.

Medical science had eradicated plagues, a host of diseases and conditions, extending life expectancy to an average of one hundred fifty years. Cosmetic technology had insured that a human being could live attractively for his century and a half.

You could die without wrinkles, without age spots, without aches and pains and disintegrating bones. But you were still going to die sooner or later.

For many who came here, that day was sooner.

She stopped in front of the door at Lab C, held her badge up to the security camera, and gave her name and ID number to the speaker. Her palm print was analyzed and cleared. The door slid open.

It was a small room, windowless and depressing, lined with equipment, beeping with computers. Some of the tools ranged neat as a surgeon’s tray on the counters were barbaric enough to make the weak shudder. Saws, lasers, the glinting blades of scalpels, hoses.

In the center of the room was a table with gutters on the side to catch fluids and run them into sterilized, airtight containers for further analysis. On the table was Fitzhugh, his naked body bearing the scars of the recent insult of a standard Y cut.

Morris was sitting on a rolling stool in front of a monitor, face pushed close to the screen. He wore a white lab coat that fluttered to the floor. It was one of his few affectations, the coat that flapped and swirled like a highwayman’s cape whenever he walked down the corridors. His slicked-back hair was snugged into a long ponytail.

Eve knew, since he’d called her in directly rather than passing her off to one of his techs, that it was something unusual.

“Dr. Morris?”

“Hmm. Lieutenant,” he began without turning around. “Never seen anything like it. Not in thirty years of exploring the dead.” He swung around with a flutter of his lab coat. Beneath it he wore stovepipe pants and a T-shirt in loud, clashing colors. “You’re looking well, Lieutenant.”

He gave her one of his quick, charming smiles, and her lips curved up in response. “You’re looking pretty good, yourself. You lost the beard.”

He reached up, rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin. He’d sported a precise goatee until recently. “Didn’t suit me. But Christ, I hate to shave. How was the honeymoon?”

Automatically, she tucked her hands in her pockets. “It was good. I’ve got a pretty full plate right now, Morris. What do you have to show me you couldn’t show me on screen?”

“Some things take personal attention.” He rode his stool over to the autopsy table until he pulled up with a slight squeal of wheels at Fitzhugh’s head. “What do you see?”

She glanced down. “A dead guy.”

Morris nodded, as if pleased. “What we would call a normal, everyday dead guy who expired due to excessive blood loss, possibly self-inflicted.”

“Possibly?” She leaped on the word.

“From the surface, suicide is the logical conclusion. There were no drugs in his system, very little alcohol, he shows no offensive nor defensive wounds or bruising, the blood settlement was consistent with his position in the tub, he did not drown, the angle of the wrist wounds…”

He bumped closer, picked up one of Fitzhugh’s limp, beautifully manicured hands where on the wrist the carved wounds resembled some intricate, ancient language. “They are also very consistent with self-infliction: a right-handed man, reclining slightly.” He demonstrated, holding an imaginary blade. “Very quick, very precise slashes to the wrist, severing the artery.”

Though she’d already studied the wounds herself, and photographs of them, she stepped closer, looked again. “Why couldn’t someone have come up from behind him, leaned over, slashed down at that same angle?”

“It’s not beyond the realm of possibility, but if that were the case, I’d expect to see some defensive wounds. If someone snuck into your bath and sliced your wrist, you’d be inclined to become annoyed, quarrelsome.” He beamed a smile. “I don’t think you’d just settle back in the tub and bleed to death.”

“So you’re going with self-termination.”

“Not so fast. I was prepared to.” He tugged on his bottom lip, let it snap back into place. “I ran the standard brain analysis required with any self-termination or suspected self-termination. That’s the puzzle here. The real puzzle.”

He scooted his stool over to his workstation, gestured over his shoulder for her to follow. “This is his brain,” he said, tapping a finger on the organ floating in clear liquid and attached to wire thin cables that fed into the mainframe of his computer. “Abby Normal.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Morris chuckled, shook his head. “Obviously you don’t make time to watch enough classic videos. That’s from a takeoff on the Frankenstein myth. What I’m saying is, this brain is abnormal.”

“He had brain damage?”

“Damage — well, it seems an extreme word for what I’ve found. Here, on the screen.” He swiveled around, tapped some keys. A close-up view of Fitzhugh’s brain flashed on. “Again, on the surface, completely as expected. But we show the cross section.” He tapped again, and the brain was sliced neatly in half. “So much went on in this small mass,” Morris murmured. ‘“Thoughts, ideas, music, desires, poetry, anger, hate. People speak of the heart, Lieutenant, but it’s the brain that holds all the magic and mystery of the human species. It elevates us, separates us, defines us as individuals. And the secrets of it — well, it’s doubtful we’ll ever know them all. See here.”

Eve leaned closer, trying to see what he indicated with the tap of a finger on the screen. “It looks like a brain to me. Unattractive but necessary.”

“Not to worry, I nearly missed it myself. For this imaging,” he went on while the monitor whirled with color and shapes, “the tissue appears in blues, pale to dark, the bone white. Blood vessels are red. As you can see, there are no clots or tumors that would indicate neurological disorders in the making. Enhance quadrant B, sections thirty-five to forty, thirty percent.”

The screen jumped and a section of the image enlarged. Losing patience, Eve started to shrug, then leaned in. “What is that? It looks like… What? A smudge?”

“It does, doesn’t it?” He beamed again, staring at the screen where a faint shadow no bigger than a flyspeck marred the brain. “Almost like a fingerprint, a child’s oily finger. But when you enhance again” — he did so with a few brief commands, popping the image closer — “it’s more of a tiny burn.”

“How would you get a burn inside your brain?”

“Exactly.” Obviously fascinated, Morris swiveled toward the brain in question. “I’ve never seen anything like that tiny pinprick mark. It wasn’t caused by a hemorrhage, a small stroke, or an aneurism. I’ve run all the standard brain imaging programs and can find no known neurological cause for it.”

“But it’s there.”

“Indeed, it is. It could be nothing, no more than a faint abnormality that caused the occasional vague headache or dizziness. It certainly wouldn’t be fatal. But it is curious. I’ve sent for all of Fitzhugh’s medical records to see if there were any tests run or any data on this burn.”

“Could it cause depression, anxiety?”

“I don’t know. It flaws the left frontal lobe of the right cerebral hemisphere. Current medical opinion is that certain aspects, such as personality, are localized in this specific cerebral area. So it does appear in the section of the brain that we now believe receives and deploys suggestions and ideas.”

He moved his shoulders. “However, I can’t document that this flaw contributed to death. The fact is, Dallas, at the moment, I’m baffled but fascinated. I won’t be releasing your case until I find some answers.”

A burn in the brain, Eve mused as she uncoded the locks on Fitzhugh’s condo. She’d come alone, wanting the emptiness, the silence, to give her own brain time to work. Until she had cleared the scene, Foxx would have other living quarters.

She retraced her steps upstairs, studied the grisly bath again.

A burn in the brain, she thought again. Drugs seemed the most logical answer. If they hadn’t showed on tox, it could be it was a new type of drug, one that had yet to be registered.

She walked into the relaxation room. There was nothing there but the expensive toys of a wealthy man who enjoyed his leisure time.

Couldn’t sleep, she mused. Came in to relax, had a brandy. Stretched out in the chair, watched some screen. Her lips pursed as she picked up the VR goggles beside the chair. Took a quick trip. Didn’t want to use the chamber for it, just kicked back.

Curious, she slipped on the goggles, ordered the last scene played. She was popped into a swaying white boat on a cool green river. Birds soared overhead, a fish bulleted up, flashed silver, and dove again. On the banks of the river were wildflowers and tall, shielding trees. She felt herself floating, let her hand dip into the water to trail a quiet wake. It was nearly sunset, and the sky was going pink and purple in the west. She could hear the low hum of bees, the cheerful chirp of crickets. The boat rocked like a cradle.

Stifling a yawn, she pulled the goggles off again. A harmless, sedative scene, she decided and set the goggles down. Nothing that would have induced a sudden urge to slash one’s wrists. But the water might have prompted the urge for a hot bath, so he’d taken one. And if Foxx had crept in, had been quiet enough, quick enough, he could have done it.

It was all she had, Eve decided, and took out her communicator to order a second interview with Arthur Foxx.

CHAPTER SIX

Eve studied the reports on the knock-on-doors from uniforms. Most of them were what she’d expected. Fitzhugh and Foxx were quiet, kept to themselves, yet friendly with their neighbors in the building. But she latched on to the statement of the droid on doorman duty that placed Foxx at leaving the building at twenty-two thirty and returning at twenty-three hundred hours.

“He didn’t mention he went out, did he, Peabody? Not a word about a little jaunt in the evening on his own.”

“No, he didn’t mention it.”

“Have we got the security discs logged yet from the lobby and elevator cameras?”

“I loaded them in. They’re under Fitzhugh ten-fifty-one on your unit.”

“Let’s take a look.” Eve booted her machine, leaned back in her chair.

Peabody scanned the monitor over her shoulder and resisted mentioning that both of them were now officially off duty. It was exciting, after all, working side by side with the top homicide detective at Cop Central. Dallas would sneer at that, Peabody thought, but it was true. She’d been following the career of Eve Dallas for years, and there was no one she admired or wished more to emulate.

The biggest shock of Peabody’s life was that somehow, over the course of a few short months, they had come to be friends as well.

“Stop.” Eve sat up straight as the transmission froze. She studied the classy blonde entering the building at twenty-two fifteen. “Well, well, there’s our Leanore, slipping by.”

“She had the time fairly close. Ten fifteen.”

“Yeah, she’s on the mark.” Eve ran her tongue around her teeth. “What do you think, Peabody? Business or pleasure?”

“Well, she’s dressed for business.” Peabody cocked her head and allowed a faint trail of envy to curl up her spine at Leanore’s spiffy three-piece suit. “She’s carrying a briefcase.”

“A briefcase — and a bottle of wine. Enhance quadrant D, thirty to thirty-five. An expensive bottle of wine,” Eve murmured when the screen popped and displayed the label clearly. “Roarke’s got some of that little number in the wine cellar. I think it goes for about two hundred.”

“A bottle? Wow.”

“A glass,” Eve corrected, amused when Peabody goggled. “Something doesn’t fit. Resume normal size and speed, shift to elevator camera. Hmm. Yeah, yeah, she’s primping,” Eve murmured, watching as Leanore took a gold compact out of her embossed briefcase, powdered her nose, freshened her lipstick as the elevator climbed. “And lookie there, just flipped open the top three buttons of her blouse.”

“Getting ready for a man,” Peabody said, and shrugged when Eve slanted a look at her. “I’d guess.”

“I’d guess, too.” Together, they watched Leanore stride down the foyer on the thirty-eighth floor and buzz herself into Fitzhugh’s apartment. Eve increased the time delay until Foxx strode out fifteen minutes later. “Doesn’t look happy, does he?”

“No.” Peabody narrowed her eyes. “I’d say he looks ticked off.” She lifted her brows when Foxx kicked bad temperedly at the elevator door. “Very ticked off.”

They waited for the drama to resume. Leanore left twenty-two minutes later, color high on her cheeks, eyes glittering. She jabbed a finger at the elevator, hitched her briefcase on her shoulder. A short time after, Foxx returned carrying a small parcel.

“She didn’t stay twenty or thirty minutes, but more than forty-five. What went on inside that apartment that night?” Eve wondered. “And just what did Foxx bring back with him? Contact the law offices. I want Leanore in here for questioning. I’ve got Foxx at nine-thirty. Get her in here at the same time. We’ll team play them.”

“You want me to interrogate?”

Eve disengaged her machine, rolled her shoulders. “It’s a good place to start. We’ll meet here at eight-thirty. No, come by my home office at eight. That’ll give us more time.” She glanced at her ‘link as it beeped, considered ignoring it, then gave in.

“Dallas.”

“Hey!” Mavis’s bright face filled the screen. “I was hoping I’d catch you before you left. How’s it going?”

“Well enough. I’m just about to log out. What’s up?”

“Good timing. Great timing. Mag. Listen, I’m at Jess’s studio. We’re going to do a session. Leonardo’s here. We’re going to make it a party, so come on by.”

“Hey, listen, Mavis, I’ve put in a full day. I just want to — “

“Come on.” There were nerves as well as enthusiasm. “We’re going to get food in, and Jess’s got the most rocking brew here. It’ll debrain you in seconds. He thinks if we can lay something decent down tonight, we could run with it. I’d really like you around. You know, moral support shit. Can’t you just stop by for a while?”

“I guess I could.” Damn it. No backbone. “I’ll let Roarke know I’ll be late. But I can’t stay.”

“Hey, I gave Roarke a buzz already.”

“You — what?”

“I ‘linked him just a bit ago. Hey, you know, Dallas, I’ve never been by that meg-cool office of his. He had like the UN or something in there, all these off country guys. Wild. Anyway, they put me through to the inner sanctum because I was a pal of yours, and I talked to him. So,” Mavis chirped on over Eve’s heaved sigh, “I told him what was up and coming, and he said he’d stop around after the meeting or summit or whatever he was into.”

“Looks like it’s all settled.” Eve watched her fantasy involving a whirlpool, a glass of wine, and a fat slab of steak go up in smoke.

“Too tops. Hey, is that Peabody? Hey, Peabody, you come, too. We’ll party. See you soon, right?”

“Mavis.” Eve caught her seconds before she disengaged. “Where the hell are you?”

“Oh, didn’t I say? The studio’s at Eight Avenue B, street level. Just beat on the door. Somebody’ll let you in. Gotta go,” she shouted as something that might have been music boomed. “They’re tuning up. Catch ya.”

Eve blew out a breath, scooped her hair out of her eyes, and glanced over her shoulder. “Well, Peabody, want to go to a recording session, get your ears fried, eat bad food, and get drunk on bad brew?”

Peabody didn’t have to think twice. “As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, I’d love to.”

It took a lot of banging on a gray steel door that looked as though it had been on the wrong end of a battering ram somewhere along the line. The rain from that morning had turned into steam that smelled unpleasantly of street oil and the recycling units that never seemed to be in full repair in that part of town.

With more resignation than energy, Eve watched two chemi-heads make deals under the dirty light of a street-lamp. Neither of them so much as blinked at Peabody’s uniform. Eve turned when one of the powder junkies took a hit less than five feet away.

“Damn it, that’s just too arrogant. Bust him.”

Resigned, Peabody headed over. The chemi-head focused, swore and, swallowing the paper his powder had been cupped in, swung around to run. He skidded on the wet pavement and banged face first into the lamppost. By the time Peabody reached him, he was flat on his back and bleeding profusely from the nose.

“He’s out cold,” she called to Eve.

“Idiot. Call it in. Get a cruiser over here to haul him into the tank. You want the collar?”

Peabody considered, then shook her head. “Not worth it. The beat cop can take it.” She pulled out her communicator, gave the location as she walked back to Eve. “The dealer’s still across the street,” she commented. “He’s got air blades, but I could try to chase him down.”

“I sense a lack of enthusiasm.” Eve narrowed her eyes, scanned the dealer hulking across the street, air blades steaming. “Hey, asshole,” she called out. “You see this uniform here?” She jerked a thumb at Peabody. “Take your business someplace else, or I’ll tell her to bump her weapon up to level three and watch you piss your pants.”

“Cunt,” he shouted back and whizzed off on his blades.

“You’ve got a real way with community relations, Dallas.”

“Yeah, it’s a gift.” Eve turned back, prepared to beat on the door again, and found herself facing a female of massive proportions. She was easily six five, with shoulders wide as a highway. They rose out of a sleeveless leather vest and rippled with muscles and tattoos. Beneath, she wore a unisuit, snug as skin and the color of a healing bruise. She sported a copper nose ring and close-cropped hair fashioned into tight, glossy black curls.

“Fucking drug pushers,” she said in a voice like a cannon boom. “Stink up the neighborhood. You Mavis’s cop?”

“That’s right, and I brought my cop with me.”

The woman sized Peabody up out of milky blue eyes. “Solid. Mavis says you’re right. I’m Big Mary.”

Eve angled her head. “Yes, you are.”

It took about ten seconds, then Big Mary’s moon-sized face creased in a knife-edged grin. “Come on in. Jess is just heating up.” By way of welcome, she took Eve’s arm and lifted her up and into the short hallway. “Come on, Dallas’s cop.”

“Peabody.” With a cautious glance, Peabody kept warily out of Big Mary’s reach.

“Pea body. Yeah, you ain’t much bigger than a pea.” Roaring at her own joke, Big Mary carted Eve into a padded elevator, waited for the door to close. They were cocooned together, tight as fish in a pan as Mary directed the unit to take them up one level. “Jess, he says to take you up to control. You got money?”

It was hard to maintain dignity of any kind when Eve’s nose was pressed in Mary’s armpit. “What for?”

“We got food coming. You gotta plunk in your share for the eats.”

“All right. Is Roarke here yet?”

“Ain’t seen no Roarke. Mavis says you can’t miss him ‘cause he is fine and prime.”

The padded door opened, and Eve let out the breath she’d been holding. Even as she sucked in air, her ears were assaulted. Mavis’s high, wild voice was screeching to the accompaniment of blistering noise.

“She’s got a groove going.”

Only deep affection for Mavis prevented Eve from leaping back into the soundproofing. “Apparently.”

“I’ll get your drinks. Jess, he brought the brew.”

Mary hulked off, leaving Eve and Peabody in a glass-walled control booth that curved in a semicircle a half level above a studio where Mavis was singing her heart and lungs out. With a grin, Eve moved closer to the glass, the better to see.

Mavis had scooped up her hair so that it spewed in a purple fountain out of a multicolored band. She was wearing modified overalls, the black leather straps running up the center of her bare breasts. The rest of the material was a shimmering kaleidoscope that started at the midriff and ended barely south of the crotch. She danced to the beat on a fashionable pair of slides that left the feet bare and propped them onto four-inch stilts.

Eve had no doubt that Mavis’s lover had designed the costume for her. She spotted Leonardo in a corner of the studio, glowing like a sunbeam at Mavis and wearing a body-skimming jumpsuit that made him look like an elegant grizzly.

“What a pair,” she murmured and hooked her thumbs in the back pockets of her battered jeans. She turned her head to speak to Peabody, but noted her companion’s attention was riveted to the left, and the look on Peabody’s face, Eve noted with some curiosity, managed to combine shock, admiration, and lust.

Following Peabody’s distracted gaze, Eve had her first view of Jess Barrow. He was beautiful. A painting in motion with a long, shining mane of hair the color of polished oak. His eyes were nearly silver, thickly lashed, intensely focused, as he worked the controls of an elaborate console. His complexion was flawless, tanned to bronze set off by rounded cheekbones and a strong chin. His mouth was full and firm, and his hands, as they flew over the controls, were as finely sculptured as marble.

“Roll up your tongue, Peabody,” Eve suggested, “before you step on it.”

“God. Holy God. He’s better in person. Don’t you just want to bite him?”

“Not particularly, but you go ahead.”

Catching herself, Peabody flushed to the roots of her hair. She shifted on her sturdy legs. This was, she reminded herself, her superior. “I admire his talent.”

“Peabody, you’re admiring his chest. It’s a pretty good one, so I can’t hold it against you.”

“I wish he would,” she murmured, then cleared her throat as Big Mary stomped back with two dark brown bottles. “Jess gets this brew from his family down South. It’s fine.”

Since it was also unmarked and unlabeled, Eve prepared to sacrifice a few layers of stomach lining. She was pleasantly surprised when the liquid slid mellowly down her throat. “It is fine. Thanks.”

“You add to the kitty, you can have more. I’m supposed to go down to wait for Roarke. I hear he’s got money to roll in. How come you’re not wearing some flash, you linked up with a rich man?”

Eve decided not to mention the baby-fist-sized diamond resting between her breasts under her shirt. “My underwear’s solid gold. It chafes some, but it makes me feel secure.”

After another brief processing delay, Mary hooted with laughter, slapped Eve on the back hard enough to bop her head into the glass, then headed off in her rock-breaking stride.

“We ought to sign her up,” Eve muttered. “She wouldn’t need a weapon or body armor.”

The music built to an ear-scorching crescendo, then cut off as if severed with a knife. Below, Mavis let out a squeal and launched herself into Leonardo’s open arms.

“That was a nice take, sugar.” Jess’s voice flowed out like top cream and drifted lazily with a Southern drawl. “You take ten and rest that golden throat for me.”

Mavis’s idea of resting her throat was to let out another scream, then wave desperately at Eve. “Dallas, you’re here. Wasn’t that mag? I’m coming up, don’t go anywhere.” She scrambled through a door on her trendy stilts.

“So this is Dallas.” Jess pushed away from his console. His body was trim and showed off to advantage in jeans as battered as Eve’s and a simple cotton shirt that would retail for a beat cop’s monthly paycheck. He wore a diamond stud in his ear that glinted as he crossed the booth and a braided gold chain around his wrist that slid fluidly as he held out one of those beautiful hands. “Mavis is brimming over with stories about her cop.”

“Mavis brims over habitually. It’s part of her charm.”

“That it is. I’m Jess, and I’m delighted to meet you at last.” With his hand still cupped over Eve’s, he turned that slow, heart-thudding smile onto Peabody. “And it seems we have two cops for the price of one.”