“Maybe you don’t see taking a little extra off the top as disloyal. Others may disagree. In fact, some in your crew might wonder how it is you can buy property with a disgraced lawyer and his skirt—then charge rent.”
She could smell the nerves on him now, the way she could smell what passed as sausage on his plate.
“Owning shit’s no crime. Seems to me you’re saying all this was to spark off a war, and how I got business interests that could get squeezed by a war. Makes no sense for me to get it going.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Property values go down, you buy it up cheaper. All kind of angles here, Slice.”
“Screw your angles.” He flicked his eyes, filled with rage now, up to hers. “I got nothing more to say.”
“Then think about this while you’re finishing your breakfast. If you didn’t order these hits, somebody in your crew went around you and ordered them. Who wants a war?” she repeated, and slid out of the booth.
“Something to think about,” she added, leaving him to his runny eggs and orange grits.
“You don’t think he ordered either hit,” Peabody said as they walked back to the car.
“Fifty-fifty’s down to sixty-forty against. Both kills were sloppy. I don’t think he’d be that sloppy. He’s a killer, and if he had reason, he’d have taken both of them out.”
Once again, she got behind the wheel, studied the HQ. “Then there’s that forty. Maybe the sloppy had purpose. Maybe he’s got an eye to buy up more, scare people into selling or moving. You fight your way up to top ranks because you want power. You go into business because you want to make money. Right now, he’s got both going.”
She started to pull out when her ’link signaled. She took it on her wrist unit as she drove. “Dallas.”
“Strong. I just got in—had an op closing up—and got your message. Lyle Pickering.”
“In the morgue. So is his onetime skirt, Dinne Duff. What do you know?”
“I know we need to talk. I can come to you.”
Something in Strong’s tone had Eve deciding to skip the
trip to Casa del Sol to talk to Pickering’s boss and coworkers. “I’m heading into Central. Give me thirty.”
“I’ll see you in your office in thirty.”
“I’ll want Peabody, so the lounge might be better.”
“Your office, sir. Please.”
“Okay then. In thirty. Something there,” Eve mused. “For now, Peabody, check in with EDD on Pickering’s ’link. He had to have a sponsor. Let’s see if we can pin that down, and have him or her come in to Central. Seems to me a recovering addict might tell another recovering addict more than he does his family. Add the family to the list, too. We need to have conversations. They come to us or we go to them, whichever works.”
While Peabody worked, Eve mulled. She turned over what she knew with what she believed. Juggled it all again, turned it over again.
By the time she pulled into the garage at Central, she figured she had about fifteen of her thirty left to set up her board, her book.
“Okay, EDD ID’d the sponsor from the frequency of transmissions and the content of same as Matthew Fenster. Forty-one, he’s employed at the Clean House rehabilitation center and also helps run their halfway house—where Pickering did his stint after making parole.”
“That makes it an even closer connection.”
“He’s got one marriage—divorced. One offspring. Bumps for possession, for fraud. Lost his position at a financial investment firm due to that fraud. Went into a white-collar prison nine years ago—when his son was two. Did three years—during which time his wife divorced him. Completed mandatory rehab, did a voluntary stint when he got out at Clean House, lived in their halfway house. Looks like he took some courses on counseling. He joined the staff three years ago.”
She scrolled more as they headed to the elevator. “His earnings took a dive. Before he got axed and locked up, he earned high six figures, not including some nice bonuses. Currently, well, I make more. He has a resident’s apartment in CH, included in his salary. No bumps since his release.”
“Contact him while I set things up, see if he’ll come in. If he balks, we’ll pay him a visit at work.”
Eve pushed out of the elevator, headed for the glides after one stop due to the crazy eyes of a woman in restraints between two uniforms.
She didn’t want any distractions.
When she turned into her bullpen, she regretted leaving the sunshades in her car. They might have prevented her eyes bleeding from a glance at Jenkinson’s latest tie, featuring jagged blue sperm squiggles over a field the color of chili peppers. If you infused them with plutonium.