She took small pliers, a couple of evidence bags from her kit. As she pulled out the first tack, she heard the familiar clomp of her partner’s pink cowboy boots trotting up the sidewalk.
Peabody badged the beat droids, moved through the barricades. She took a look at the body, said, “Harsh.”
“It’s all that.”
Eve remembered a time, not so long before, when Peabody would have taken that look and gone green. A couple years as a murder cop brought out the sterner stuff.
“When I get this love note detached—there. Peabody, call the morgue team, the sweepers. Let’s get him bagged and tagged before people in this nice, quiet neighborhood start walking their dogs or taking a morning jog. Officer, help me turn him to finish the on-site.”
She found scores of burns, many that had seeped open during the torture, on the back, the buttocks, the hamstrings, the calves.
“Had to take some time,” she murmured. “Couldn’t do all this without taking time. And what do you suppose Lady Justice did with the cock and balls?”
Rising, Eve turned to her partner. Peabody wore her pink coat with a thin blue scarf with—jeez!—pink flowers scattered over it. She had her dark hair in a bouncy little tail.
“Wits inside. Hold the scene, Officer. What’s Feinstein’s apartment?”
“Six-oh-three, sir.”
With Peabody she started toward the entrance of a nicely rehabbed brownstone of about fifteen floors of dignity. No night man on the door, Eve noted, but good, solid security.
She badged her way through the beat droid on the door.
The lobby continued the dignity with navy and cream tiles for the floor, navy walls with cream trim, a discreet security desk—currently unmanned—a couple of curved padded benches, and fresh, springy-looking flowers in tall, slim vases.
Eve called for an elevator while she filled in Peabody.
“Wit’s coming home from a girl party, sees McEnroy on the sidewalk, runs in, gets Vance, her fiancé. He goes out, verifies, calls it in. Nine-one-one logged at four-thirty-eight, first on scene arrived in two minutes. Vic’s also a resident of this building—or has a residence here. He’s a Brit, owns, with partners, some sort of international, interplanetary headhunter firm. Married, two offspring.”
“Wife,” Peabody said.
; “Yeah.” She stepped into the elevator. “We’ll see if she’s in residence after we talk to the wits.”
“Didn’t keep his marriage vows,” Peabody said. “If she did it, she left a really big clue with that note.”
“Yeah, well, people do the weird when they’re pissed, and Lady Justice was seriously pissed. But … unless the wife’s a moron, she’s going to have a damn good alibi.”
Eve stepped off, started down the quiet corridor on long legs. She noted security cams. “Let’s get the security feed for the vic’s floor, for the elevators, the lobby, the exterior.”
She rang the bell at 603, flashed her badge for the uniform—young, male, fresh of face—who answered the door. “I’ve got this, Officer Rigby. Contact the building security or supervisor. We want the feed for the cams on the victim’s floor, the elevators, the lobby, and the exterior.”
“For what period of time, sir?”
“Forty-eight hours if they have it. Then start the knock-on-doors.”
“Yes, sir.”
She let him go, gave the couple huddled together on a long, shimmery green gel sofa a quick study.
The female—late twenties—had long, curly, coppery hair. Eyes nearly the same color showed signs of weeping and shock in a face pale and scrubbed clean of the enhancements she’d surely have worn for the night out.
She wore simple gray cotton pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and house skids as she clung to the buff, mixed-race male of about the same age.
He cast soulful brown eyes at Eve. “I hope this won’t take long. Tish needs to sleep.”
“I’m afraid to close my eyes. I know I’ll see …” She pressed her face into Vance’s broad shoulder.