“Moving.” At the doors, Peabody glanced back. “You totally smoked the sax at Nadine’s, Morris.”
He smiled at her. “Happier times.” When the
doors closed, he sighed and looked down at the body. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”
Peabody trotted to catch up. “You didn’t seem surprised about Dead Duff.”
“Because I wasn’t. She had to be dead or in the wind, and dead was the better bet. Junkies are unreliable, so you use one to kill, you’d get rid of her before she gets picked up for something and blabs to try to get out of it. Or blabs the next time she’s high, or blabs to try to broker a high.”
“You figure she was dead, essentially, the minute she opened the door of Pickering’s apartment.”
“Yeah.” Eve slid behind the wheel. “She was mostly an easy lay. Just one more junkie who’d trade sex for a flop or a fix. Her usefulness here was the connection to Pickering.”
Eve pushed into crosstown traffic. “And that usefulness ended when she opened the door. Turned her into a liability. Shaky tactics again.”
“Why— Wait.” Peabody narrowed her eyes, let it work through. “Because a better one would be to kill her right there in the apartment, same way as Pickering. Then it looks like they got high together, and went too far.”
“Got it in one. Whoever ordered it didn’t count on somebody looking out and seeing the three Duff let in, but even then, if they’d done them both, it could read as a party where two partied too hard. You leave more illegals sitting around, right with the bodies, maybe some booze. Strip them down some so it looks like they were at least planning to have some sex along with the high.”
“It’s a good plan. Good thing you’re on our side.”
“First mistake was jabbing him with a tranq, second was letting Duff slip out so you had to kill her later. We need to know more about Marcus Jones. Here’s what we’ve got so far.”
She filled Peabody in as she drove.
“I’m not sorry I missed the trip to the underground. What stands out is Jones having enough money to go into a real estate partnership. Sure, the area where he has property is mostly dumps, but you still have to have enough to lay down.”
“Yeah, and I can’t give him more than fifty-fifty on arranging these hits. Figuring out real estate will generate income, getting enough to lay down for it, working a partnership, and so on. It takes calculation and some brains. And some forward thinking. These hits?”
“Sloppy,” Peabody finished.
Eve wound her way to the windy, pitted litter trap where the road above echoed and vibrated with traffic. As she got out she flashed her badge to one of the four uniforms securing the scene.
Two droids, two live, she thought. Smart as, if she had it right, they stood pretty much on the border between Banger and Dragon territories.
“Officer Grogan, Lieutenant.”
She got her field kit out of the trunk, then ducked under the police barricade. “What do you know, Officer?”
“Nancy Nuts found her. That’s Nancy Tobias, sir. Around here, she’s Nancy Nuts. Sidewalk sleeper, scavenges for junk, sets out a hat now and then, does a song and dance for booze money. My partner and I just came on, and she rolls her basket up to us, says there’s a dead girl down here, and how is she supposed to get herself an audience if there’s a dead girl? We had her show us. Vic’s messed up pretty bad, and no ID on her. We got her thumb on the pad, hit your BOLO.”
“Where’s Nancy?”
“We got her to sit down outside on the street, bought her an egg pocket. They won’t let her in the café there. She’s pretty ripe, so you can’t blame them. The droid’s got her.”
“Peabody, why don’t you go talk to her. Find out if she saw anything besides the DB, where she slept last night. You know what to do.”
She started toward the body with Grogan. “This would be the crossroads, more or less, between Banger and Dragon turf. Is that right?”
“About. This is neutral territory because it’s not worth spit. They use it sometimes when they stage a challenge. Assholes fighting for a leadership position, or the champion of one gang taking on the champion of another. She’s not the first DB we’ve found here.”
Eve looked down at the body. It might have been, in some distant past, Dinnie Duff had some pretty to her. The ID shot Eve had studied had shown considerable wear and tear for a woman of twenty-four, but some remnants of that distant past.
Her killer or killers had beaten even that out of her.
Her face was a mass of black-and-purple bruises, dried blood, gashes, swelling. As she wore no coat, no shirt, more bruising—black along the ribs—bloomed on the bone-thin torso.
One of her bare feet cocked crookedly, and had likely been stomped on. Her tights, covered with bleeding hearts, bagged around her ankles while a short strip of skirt fluttered over her abdomen and left the violent bruising on her thighs, her genitals, exposed.