Vendetta in Death (In Death #49) - J. D. Robb Page 0,21

up when you realized he’d done the same to someone else.”

“I…” She had to stop, had to swallow. “Thanks. I mean it. Now, you’re going to go around all this with Jasmine, even though she’s in Chicago. Take it easy with her, will you? She’s always going to be a little tender because a part of her is always going to at least half believe she caused it. And to add insult, he passed her over for a promotion right after. Just another little sting, right?”

“We’ll keep that in mind.” Eve walked to the door, stopped. “Are you still in the support group?”

“Me? Not really. Once Frankie and I got serious—once I realized I actually could have good feelings for a man—I sort of let it slide. Jasmine’s got one in Chicago. I think she’s a lifer.”

“Does it have a name? The group?”

“Women For Women. I thought it would be as stupid as it sounds, but it actually helped. I might just hit the next meeting.” She smiled a little. “Just a quick booster maybe.”

They left her staring into space and squeezing the red ball.

“She struck me as telling it straight,” Peabody said as they rode down.

“Yeah, but we verify. I’m going to dump you at Central on my way to the morgue.”

“I love when that happens.”

“You verify Lester’s statement with the boyfriend. You contact Jasmine Quirk, run her through it, verify her statement. Set up a meet with the vic’s spouse, get any updates from EDD on the electronics. Write up the report, copy to me, Whitney, Mira. Get what we need for a search and seize on all the vic’s residences and offices.”

“Worldwide.”

“That’s affirmative. See what you can find on this support group.”

“The support group?”

“Remember Mr. Mira’s cousin? A conspiracy of female vics turned revenge killers. It’s not impossible we have something similar here, so let’s take a look at the group. Contact the vic’s transpo service, a driver, from Po’s files. No way he risked a cab getting Lester from the office to his residence, so if he headed out to a club last night to hunt, he probably didn’t take public transpo.”

“I’m starting to think the morgue and a dead, mutilated body’s easier.”

“Make lieutenant, then you can call the shots.” Eve whipped to the corner. “Out.”

“At least this way I can grab a street dog before I go in.” Peabody climbed out, beelined for the cart as Eve bullied her way back into traffic.

She ran through questions in her head along the drive.

Could one person, working alone, have lured McEnroy, incapacitated him, transported him to an as yet unknown location, tortured, mutilated, and killed him, then transported the body back to the dump site?

Not impossible, but it seemed more likely a partnership of some sort.

Alternately, had McEnroy left his residence to go to that as yet unknown location voluntarily, most probably expecting sex? And there the killer incapacitated him, and the rest, before transporting the body to the dump site? If so, a stronger case for working alone, but still …

* * *

Even as she walked down the white tunnel of the morgue, she ran other scenarios. The one point that stuck in any and all: The murder, the method, the victim had all been meticulously planned.

When she swung through the double doors of the chief medical examiner’s theater, she found Morris sitting on a stool at one of his counters, munching on soy chips as he studied a comp screen.

He still wore the clear protective cape over a stylish suit of steely blue with a sharp-collared shirt of the same exact tone. He’d chosen a tie the color of warm apricots, twined his long black braid with a cord to mirror it.

He swiveled on the stool, smiled. “A fine day it is for the living. Where’s our Peabody?”

“Central. Verifying and so on.” She walked to the steel slab where McEnroy still lay spread open by Morris’s Y-cut. “Bad end for him.”

“Bad, long, painful.”

“Did you get tox back yet?”

“Just now.” Rising, Morris walked first to his cold box, took out a couple tubes of Pepsi. He tossed one to Eve, cracked his own.

“Thanks.”

“We’re here to serve. The unfortunate Mr. McEnroy had traces of Rohypnol mixed with a very dry martini. More traces of a drug, street name Black Out. Both of those chemicals, or the results of them, would have worn off before the torture began.”

“Roofied him—that’s the lure—then knocked him out in order to get him where he/she/they wanted him. The roofie? The killer would