Connections in Death (In Death, #48)- J. D. Robb Page 0,59
I bet you put him in jail so she’ll be right again.”
Eve dug out a card. “If you hear him come back, contact me. Don’t speak to him, and like your mother said, don’t open the door.”
“I don’t speak to him anyway—and if my mom knew how he looked at me a couple of times, she’d . . .” She looked up from the card, clever blue eyes narrowing. “I know what Homicide is. I need to tag my mom. She’s at work. I don’t want her walking home by herself if that pervy jerk’s killed somebody.”
“Tag your mom. Otherwise, keep this quiet. Do you know when his mother usually gets home?”
“I think around seven or eight most nights. Except Fridays and Saturdays she works late and it’s more like eleven, I guess. She works at the Sky Mall at Trendy. She gives me discount vouchers sometimes. She’s nice. I need to tag my mom. She’ll be starting home soon.”
“What’s your name?”
“Carrie Dru.”
“Carrie, we have a warrant for Aimes’s arrest, and it includes entry into his residence. So we’re going inside.”
“Can you do that?”
Eve tapped her badge. “Yeah. You go inside, stay inside.”
Without another word, Carrie popped inside, closed the door. Eve heard locks click.
Engaging her recorder, Eve moved back to Aimes’s apartment door. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, mastering into suspect’s apartment.”
She drew her weapon, and did just that.
“Clear it. He may be lying low, or sleeping off a high.”
The living area, clean, neat without being crazy about, it held decent furniture without a lot of fuss, the standard entertainment screen, a scatter of photographs, including one she took to be the suspect as a toddler.
The kitchen off the living space—also clean—told her the kid next door had it right. Even lying low or high, if a teenage killer was in residence, there’d be dirty dishes.
The mother’s bedroom, neat and spare, faced one with a lock drilled into it, and a handwritten sign.
KEEP OUTTA MY SPACE!
“Not today, Barry.”
Eve mastered through.
The smell told her the mother obeyed the sign. It stunk of stale Zoner from the minute butts of same littering a small plate;of sweaty, who-needs-a-shower male; and of the remnants of a days-old burrito.
Dirty clothes littered the floor along with discarded, empty tubes of Cola Blast and a couple of foggy brown bottles of what she deduced had been cheap, homemade brew.
She doubted the sheets had been changed this year, and from the varying stains decorating them, she had to be grateful she wouldn’t be the one dealing with them.
Peabody made a soft, gagging sound. “I don’t know if it’s scientifically possible, but I swear there’s about six months’ worth of trapped boy-farts in this room.”
“Oh, it’s possible,” Eve said, breathing through her teeth. “It’s possible.”
With more reluctance than she’d have felt approaching a mangled corpse, Eve stepped to the narrow closet, nudged it fully open with an elbow.
And spotted a bright, shiny red bag hanging by its silver chain.
“Field kit, Peabody.”
“I got a mini can of sealant right here.” Peabody passed it to her, and Eve sealed her hands, passed it back so Peabody could do the same.
“Looks like most of his clothes are gone from in here—if he ever actually used the closet. But he leaves this.”
“He could be flopping somewhere else and doesn’t want anybody else to see it,” Peabody suggested. “Maybe even at Banger HQ.”
“Yeah, we could try there, see if Reo can expand the warrant for entry. We might get him, but we’d send up a flag to the other two, and whoever put out the hit. He might be there, but he’s in the wind if he’s lucky, dead if he’s not.”
She took the purse off the hook, opened it.
“And look here.”
Peabody looked inside, saw the pair of oversized hoop earrings in gaudy fake gold. “Jesus, Dallas, he didn’t even clean her blood off them.”
“They’re Duff’s, but we’ll send them to the lab, confirm. Unless you’ve got evidence bags in your pocket, we’re going to need a kit.”
“Loose pants,” Peabody said, and took off.
“Tell the uniforms to stand down, but hold,” Eve called out.
She took the earrings out, studied them. Not just blood, she noted, little bits of flesh, too.
Shiny things, she mused as she stepped out of the closet, scanning the room. Would this particular murderous magpie leave his shiny things behind if he ran?
Dirty clothes left, and a couple of shirts, on the ragged side, on the closet floor. No shoes.
Holding the purse carefully, she got down, looked under