comps, back again. âIf youâre going there to do the guy, why just tranq him? Why not load him up so he ODs? Okay, you donât slit his throat or beat him to death with a bat because maybe youâre squeamish, or you prefer more passive methods. But why the elaborate and demeaning when a lethal dose of barbs or poison or any number of substances wouldâve done the job?â
âIt was too personal for that.â
She nodded, appreciating a like mind, and her grin was fierce. âSee? Incredibly stupid we arenât. As soon as you get the tox back, Morris.â
âAs soon as.â
W hen she strode into the Homicide bullpen at Cop Central, Eve saw Peabody sucking down something from a mug the size of the Indian Ocean while she worked at her desk. It reminded Eve that she was probably about a quart low on coffee. She signaled her partner, jerked a thumb toward her office, and turning, nearly plowed into one of her detectives.
âMake a hole, Baxter.â
âNeed a sec.â
âThen fall in line.â She moved through to her office with its single, stingy window, battered desk, and sagging visitorâs chair. And hit the AutoChef for coffee.
Taking the first slug, she studied Baxter over the rim. He was slick, savvy, and smart enough to wait to have his say until sheâd kicked in some caffeine. âWhatâs your deal?â
âCase I caught about a couple months ago, itâs stalled.â
âRefresh me.â
âGuy gets his throat slashed and his works sliced off in a rent-by-the-hour flop down on Avenue D.â
âYeah.â She flipped through the files in her head. âCame in with a woman nobody remembers, and nobody remembers seeing said woman leaving.â
âMaid service, and I use the term loosely, found him the next morning. Custer, Ned, age thirty-eight, worked in building maintenance for an office building downtown. Guy left a wife and two kids.â
âCherchez la femme,â Eve said, thinking of Peabodyâs comment that morning.
âIâve been cherchez ing the damn femme. Got zip. Nobody remembers herânot clearly. We dug, found the barâusing that term loosely, too, where they hooked up, but other than her being a redhead with a sense she was a pro, nobody can paint her picture. Guy was a player. A little pushing with his friends and associates got that much. He screwed around regular, cruised bars and clubs once or twice a week to scoreâusually paying for it. The kid and I,â he continued, speaking of his aide, Officer Troy Trueheart, âweâve put in hours trolling dumps, dives, and dens of iniquity. Weâre stalled, Dallas. Itâs going stone-cold.â
âWhat about the wife? Did she know he was dipping strange?â
âYeah.â Baxter blew out a breath. âIt didnât take more than a poke to get her to cop to it. And to admit they fought about it. He tuned her up now and then, too. She copped to that, and neighbors verified.â
âMaybe she shouldâve cut his dick off.â
âYeah, yeah, women always go for the jewels. She didnât though. When he didnât come home by midnight, she tried his âlink, left messages until nearly three. TOD was about one-thirty, and weâve got her tagging him from her home unit at one-fifteen, again at one-forty. Pissed off, crying, and nowhere near Avenue D. Sheâs better off, seems to me. But I hate to lose one.â
âHit the flop again, push the street LCs who use it, or work the bars in the neighborhood. How about transpo?â
âNo cabs letting off fares on that block, and nothing popped on the underground surveillance. We figured they hoofed it, and thatâs how we zeroed in on the bar.â
âMake the rounds again, get meaner. Any chance he was into something nastier than banging strange?â
âNothingâs popped. Blue-collar asshole, pissing it away on