The note lay on the bed beside her, just at her fingertips, with a single line written in dramatic, loopy script on cheap, reconstituted pink paper.
There is no light, there is no life without him.
The empty pill bottle sat on the nightstand, beside a glass of tepid water and a single pink rosebud, shed of all thorns.
Eve studied the room and decided the rose fit with the frilly pink-and-white curtains, the framed posters of fantasy landscapes and meadows. The room was tidy, if overly female, but for a scatter of used tissues lying like snow over the floor by the bed, the remains of a melted pint of Sinful Chocolate frozen dessert, and a half bottle of white wine.
“What does it look like?” Eve asked Peabody.
“It looks like she had herself a major pity party. Wine and ice cream for comfort, lots of tears. Probably used the wine to help herself gear up for the pills. She was young, stupid, and theatrical. The combo led her to self-termination over a sleazeball.”
“Yeah, that’s what it looks like. Where’d she get the pills?”
With a sealed hand, Peabody picked up the bottle to examine the unmarked green plastic. “It’s not a prescription bottle. Black market.”
“She strike you as the type who’d have black market connections?”
“No.” And the question had Peabody frowning, studying scene and body more closely. “No, but you get fringe dealers working colleges and art circles. She moved in both.”
“True enough, true enough. Could be. She’d have had to move fast, but from our brief meeting earlier, I’d peg her as the impulsive type. Still . . .”
Eve walked around the room, into the little bath, out into the stingy living area with its mini kitchen. There were lots of knick-knacks, more art reproductions, romantic themes, on the walls. There were no dishes in the little bowl of the sink, no articles of clothing tossed around. No tissues scattered anywhere but the bedroom.
And, she noted, running a sealed finger over a table, not a speck of dust.
“Place
is really clean. Funny that somebody so mired in grief they’d self-terminate would tidy up like this.”
“Could’ve always been tidy.”
“Could’ve been,” Eve agreed.
“Or she might’ve buffed the place up, just the way she buffed herself up before she did it. One of my great-aunts is obsessed about making the bed as soon as she’s out of it every morning, because if she keels over and dies, she doesn’t want anybody thinking she’s a careless housekeeper. Some people are weird that way.”
“Okay, so she gets the pills, buys herself a pink rosebud. Then she comes home, cleans the house, spruces herself up. Sits on the bed crying, eating ice cream, drinking wine. Writes the note, then pops the pills, lies down and dies. Could’ve gone down just that way.”
Peabody puffed air into her cheeks. “But you don’t think so, and I feel like I’m missing something really obvious.”
“The only thing obvious is a twenty-one-year-old girl’s dead. And from first look, it appears to be a straight, grief-induced self-termination.”
“Just like Bissel and Kade appeared to be a straight, passion-motivated double homicide.”
“Well now, Peabody.” Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “You don’t say?”
“Okay, I’m picking up the trail, but if this, like the double homicide, is an HSO or terrorist hit, what’s the motive?”
“She knew Bissel. She was his lover.”
“Yeah, but she was a kid, a toss-away. If she knew anything relevant to Bissel’s work, or the Code Red, anything hot, I’ll eat my shiny new detective’s badge.”
“I tend to agree, but maybe someone else didn’t. Or maybe it was just housecleaning. The fact is that there’s a connection between her and Bissel, and because there is we’re not treating this like a straight self-termination. We’ll start with the body, then I want this place picked apart. What’s the name of the woman who found her?”
“Deena Hornbock, across-the-hall neighbor.”
“Do a run. I want to know everything about her before I interview her. Have the uniform keep her in her apartment and under control.”
“Check.”