Connections in Death (In Death, #48)- J. D. Robb Page 0,6
his own product. The LC recognized him from around the streets, and that she’d seen him arguing with a local junkie about an hour before when she came out of the flop she uses next door for more involved services. But she doesn’t know the junkie’s name. Anyway, we got pulled in.”
He glanced back as Detective Carmichael came out of the break room with two steaming mugs of cop coffee. “Ah yeah, my life for you.” Santiago snagged one, gulped some down. “When we got there, a couple of other LCs got in on it. They’re shooting the shit, and one of them pops up a name. He says he’s pretty sure the first LC means Dobber. Loser type, according to the wit, who moved in—the same damn building as the doorway—a couple months before.”
Santiago signaled for Carmichael to take over.
“So we leave the beat droids—we called in another—with the DB and the wit, head in to check out this Dobber. He’s in his flop, flying high on the happy poppers he took off the dealer after he stabbed him in the throat. Asshole’s still got the sticker, LT.”
“Jabbed at her with it,” Santiago added. “So we add that to the charges even though he fell on his face.”
“Tripped over his own feet. Blood on the sticker matches the vic. Asshole confessed in under ten in interview, claiming he had to kill the guy because he was overcharging. It was a matter of principle.”
“So it’s wrapped.”
“And tight,” Carmichael agreed. “Mope’s got a sheet as long as your legs. Just got out after doing a nickel for assault. Add all that, he’s in for life this time around.”
“Good work.”
“LCs did most of it. You’re in early. Something up?”
“Paperwork.” Eve started to step back, get to it, then frowned at Santiago. “I thought you played ball, not the . . .” She wiggled her fingers over imaginary keys.
“Both. I wanted baseball—practically lived for it. So the ’rents said, No problem, play all you want. As long as you keep your grades up, stay out of trouble, and take a year of piano lessons from your aunt. My aunt’s a pain in the ass, so striking the deal showed I wanted ball. Turned out I liked the music, too, so I stuck with it.”
“Now you’re a cop.”
“A base-running, keyboard-smoking cop who got to jam with Avenue freaking A.”
“And you sing,” she said to Carmichael.
“I kill when I can get to open mic night. And now I’ve sung duets with Mavis and Jake. Big night, right, partner?”
Santiago rapped his mug to hers. “Hey, we should start a cop band. Call it The Badge.”
Eve retreated.
In her quiet office she programmed coffee from her AutoChef, then settled down at her desk. Because cop work wasn’t only about locking up assholes who killed over happy poppers, she dug into schedules, requisitions, reports, budgets. The budget part required more coffee, but she felt she’d made solid headway before she heard Peabody’s clomping stride heading toward her door.
“Santiago said you came in early.”
“Paperwork.”
“I’m going to finish up the report on the double we closed Friday. Man, I’m glad we wrapped that before Nadine’s party. What a night.”
Rather than the glittery, boob-hoisting number she’d worn for “what a night,” Peabody now stood in sturdy trousers and a sensible jacket, with her dark hair in the weird little flip she’d taken to wearing rather than all swirled around.
“I hardly got to talk to you,” Peabody added.
“You were busy shaking your ass most of the night.”
“The more you shake your ass, the looser your pants. Plus, fun!”
Eve’s communicator signaled. She saw Dispatch on the readout. “Fun’s over.”
* * *
Within twenty minutes, Eve stood with Peabody over the body crumpled on the second floor landing of a multi-tenant building. From the looks of it, the building had once been a warehouse, now converted to apartments. Working class primarily in Eve’s estimation, decently maintained, poorly secured.
Neighbors identified the dead guy as Stuart Adler, apartment 305. With the uniforms keeping those neighbors back, Eve crouched down to confirm ID with her pad.
“Victim is confirmed as Adler, Stuart, age thirty-eight, of this address. Single. Divorced, no offspring. Got some bumps here for drunk and disorderly, public drunkenness. Two rounds of mandatory rehab, and since it’s not yet nine A.M. and I can smell the booze on him, that didn’t stick.”
His eyes, pale blue and shot with blood, stared up at her as she examined the body. “Neck’s broken. From the head wound, the blood spatter, it