She went out to hunt down Roarke.
And found him sitting behind the bar, a glass of sparkling water at his elbow, working on his PPC.
“No one left by the front or back doors during the time period,” he began. “Factoring fifteen minutes before Jake went out the back, and the uniforms arrived.”
“Forget that. He went out the window in the men’s john. We’ll run it back to when the bar opened, then try to find someone who didn’t leave by either door. I’ll pass it to EDD to try face recognition.”
“As I’m here, I’ll get a start on that. You’re sure about the window?”
“He left scuff marks on the wall, fibers caught in the window frame. He’s going to have a slight build. Height won’t matter, but he’s not a big guy. Couldn’t be to fit through that window.”
“Could be female.”
“I can’t discount that. I need to talk to McNab.”
She crossed the room, tapped his shoulder, then held up a finger to the teenage boy he was interviewing. “Hold a minute.”
“Man, I gotta get home.”
“Yeah, me, too.” She drew McNab a few steps away. “Have you let the interviewees use the johns?”
“Yeah, otherwise we’d have a hell of a mess in here.”
“Alone?”
“No way. We’re sending the girls in threes—three stalls—and the guys in fours—two urinals, two stalls. Each group goes with a uniform. Peabody’s group has a shot, then mine, then hers. Like that.”
“The uniform goes inside with them?”
“Yeah, sure.” When he turned his head, his forest of ear hoops glittered like stars. “Don’t want any shenanigans, right?”
“Exactly right. The suspect left by the window in the men’s john.”
“Well, shit! You can check with the uniforms, Dallas. Officer Grady for the guys, and Officer Loren for the girls. They’re instructed to go inside. They’re not rooks.”
“I’ll check, but the suspect left before we got here.”
“Well, shit twice.”
“Finish the interviews. Somebody might have seen something. He’d have slipped out during the last song before the break.”
“Got it.”
She checked with the two uniforms, and both stated they, as ordered, escorted each group to the assigned restroom, accompanied them inside, then escorted the group back to their interview waiting area.
Then she started a hunt for Harve.
She found him and a woman built like an Amazon in the bar kitchen. The woman, with a soiled apron over a spangly, skintight dress, scrubbed viciously at a prep counter.
The room smelled of grease, onions, and chemical lemons.
Harve stopped his studious mopping of the floor, leaned on the handle. “Get you something, Boss Cop?”
“I’d like you to switch the lights in the bar to whatever you had going during that last song before the band took their break.”
“Sure, sure, I can do that. Glo, this is Boss Cop Dallas.”
“I figured.” When she straightened, Eve judged her at a solid six feet—add another three with the sparkly heels she wore. She had skin like polished oak, eyes like green lasers, and what looked like a mile of corkscrew curls tied up on the top of her head.
“The other cops said the kitchen staff couldn’t clean in here till they processed. Whatever the hell that is that leaves an even bigger mess.”
“Did they finish? Clear you to clean?”
“We’re cleaning, aren’t we? You gonna arrest us for cleaning so the frigging health department can cite us for not?”
“No, ma’am, I—”
“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me!” She stabbed a green-tipped finger at Eve. “I’m not your ma’am.”
“Now, Glo.” Leaning his mop on the counter, Harve came around it to pat her. “Everybody’s just doing their job.”
“I’m doing mine right here, and don’t need some fancy badge coming in telling me how to do it. We’ve run this place for more than twenty years. You know how many times we had to have the cops in? I’ll tell you,” she snapped before Eve could respond. “Three.”
She jerked up three fingers in case Eve needed to count.
“Three times in more than twenty years. We run a decent club, and don’t put up with any bullshit. Somebody crosses a line, out they go. Nobody—”
She broke off, covered her face with her hands.
Given the length of her lashes, it surprised Eve they didn’t spider their way through her fingers.
“Oh Jesus, Harve. A kid died here. A kid.”
“I know, babe.” He put his arms around her, and though his head barely reached her shoulder, seemed to provide the rock for her to lean on.
“Just kids,” she said. “Just kids. We’ve been doing these kid nights for years. A kid tries to sneak in some booze, we take it, dump it. They get one warning. Screw up again, and out. Try to sneak in illegals, same deal. If it’s hard stuff? No warning, banned and that’s that.
“Now a girl’s dead, in our place, and you cops are saying it’s an overdose, and maybe even somebody did it to her. How the hell did that happen?”
“It’s my job to find out,” Eve told her. “Ms. Reiser.”
“Ah, fuck it. I’m Glo, and I’m going to half—only half—apologize.”
“I’ll half accept,” Eve countered, and got the faintest smile. “Glo, I’ve corroborated that your alcohol is and was securely stored away during this event. Your beer taps locked and secured. I have no reason at this time to conclude that either you or your partner are responsible for the circumstances that resulted in Jenna Harbough’s death.”
“She died here.”
Because she understood, Eve nodded at the simple statement. “Let’s find out how and why. My detectives are nearly through the interview process, and the last should be released momentarily. I’d like to see how the club area looked during that final song.”
“I’ll get the lights for you. We’ll get through this, Glo.”
“Yeah, we will. Sure we will. You want the music, too? We’ve got the boys on the house loop. I can cue up the song. It’s not tonight’s live version, but it’ll be close.”
“That would be helpful. Before we do that, let me check, see that the interviews are complete.”
When she went out, McNab had only a handful left.
“Peabody took another six or so a few minutes ago,” Roarke told her.
“Any luck with that?”
“Not so far, and it’s going to be problematic.”
At his gesture, she walked over, looked at the screen.
“A lot of groups, and a lot—primarily boys—with their heads down, hair flopping over, hands in pockets.”
“Trying to look frosty. Bet you did that back when.”
He smiled. “If your head’s down, you might miss a pocket ripe for the picking. In the game, it’s more important to look invisible, or at least innocent, rather than frosty.”
“Right.” He’d have looked frosty anyway, she decided. “I’m going to check with the sweepers—they should be about done. When the last kid’s out, I need to do a run-through.”
As the sweepers packed up, she got a report.
No sign of the syringe inside the club, in the recycler, in the alley. They’d analyze the puke and work on the scuff mark. The Queen of Hair and Fiber would take the bits of fabric retrieved from the window frame.
No other evidence collected.
When she came back, McNab and Peabody sat at a table drinking fizzies. Roarke, with his sparkling water, joined them.
She walked back to the kitchen.
“I could use those lights, the music, too.”
She went out to the table.
“They’re going to cue up a recording of the song they were playing when Jenna said she got jabbed. And set up the lights, so I can see how it looked. You can both write your reports in the morning. Peabody, yours after we talk to Morris. Morgue, eight sharp.”
“Nothing like starting the day at the morgue.”
“How it goes,” McNab said. “When somebody kills you to death, a murder cop gets no rest.”
“Ha,” Eve said, and walked out on the dance floor.
Lightning white-and-blue streams crisscrossed the stage. In the club, the lights dimmed to blue as the music blasted out with a manic guitar riff.
She’d seen Avenue A play, so envisioned the setup. Drums back some and centered, the three guitars in front. One left, one right, another center.
Keyboard thing a bit to the side, and the one playing that switched off now and then, grabbed some other instrument.
All but the drummer moved around the stage a lot, she recalled, switching places, dancing around, playing to each other, playing to the crowd.
On the dance floor, under those blue lights, movement. Feet, hips, arms. Bodies brushing, bumping.
That smell of candy and sweat and teenage lust notes.
He’s watching her while she dances with her friends, surrounded by other bodies in motion.
Did he know her? Maybe, maybe not.
A pretty girl in a tiny skirt, bare midriff, hair flying, eyes bright.
Why her when there were so many others?
He knew her, or … he had to pick one, and she drew the short straw.
The lights shift from blue to red.
Onstage, Jake looks out at the dancers. All those young faces, those young bodies, caught up in the music. She looks at him, and he smiles.
And oh, her heart jumps. Her skin goes electric.
She squeals out the thrill, babbles to her friends, can barely find her breath.
He saw her!
Then, a quick, sharp pain in her arm.
Seeing it, feeling it, Eve closed her hand over her own.
Somebody jabbed me.
And looks left.
He sees her. Is he pleased with her angry look? He’s already slipped the syringe back in his pocket, but doesn’t he take that one moment to look at her, maybe to meet her angry eyes before he melts away?
He doesn’t run, running draws attention, but walks—as Eve does now—off the floor, brushing and bumping others as he does. It’s crowded, it’s loud, the lights are dim and red.
Skirt the tables, keep going.
Straight to the men’s room. Already scoped it out, planned the way out to avoid the security cams. Cops would look hard at anyone leaving in this time frame.
Music pumps against the walls.
If somebody’s there, use the urinal, use a stall, just wait. If not, move fast now.
She lifted her hands, boosted up. She didn’t need to brace her foot on the wall, and had no trouble easing through the window to the alley.
She could still hear the music, dimmer now, but still playing as she looked down the alley.
She walked back and went inside just as the song ended.
“Want we should play it again?” Harve asked when she stepped back into the club area.
“No, that’s fine. You can shut it down. We’ll get out of your way. We appreciate your cooperation.”
“We’re going to stay closed tomorrow, out of respect. But Blondie has our contacts if there’s anything we can do. And when you find out that how and why, we’d sure like to know.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
She walked back to the table. “We’re clear here. We’ll give you a lift home. McNab, can you pick up the face rec from where Roarke left off?”
“I’ll be on it.”
Outside, she let the night air wash over her. “He had a plan. It would’ve taken him less than ninety seconds to get off the dance floor and into the men’s room after he injected her. And it’s timed,” she continued as she got in the car. “Last song before the break. After the break, the bathrooms are going to be swamped, lines into the hall.”
“And the song’s a classic,” McNab told her. “It’s one of those that has people pouring out on the dance floor. Art said they generally play it before a break. Art’s the married one. He was on the ’link with his wife during the break. They’re expecting their second kid pretty soon. I verified that.”
“Good. Okay, so the chances the john’s clear go up. He timed it. He’ll be a teenager or look like one. An adult would’ve stuck out, even a parent.”
“Parents danced, too.” Peabody stifled a yawn. “But from my interviews, they stuck to the fringes, gave the kids the floor.”
Filing that away, Eve nodded. “Slight build, shorter than me, or sloppy core. He had to work to get out the window, use his feet to boost up. I didn’t. But he knew the club well enough to know he had that route out. He knew the band well enough to know how to time the attack and the escape.
“We can’t be sure yet if he knew the victim or just picked her out of the crowd.”
“If he didn’t know her, what’s the motive?”
Eve gave Peabody a shrug. “To be determined. Morgue, eight hundred sharp,” she added when Roarke pulled up at the apartment building. “Thanks for the assist, McNab.”
“I go with She-Body.”
He got out, then leaned in her window. “You know how Feeney feels about kid killers.”
“I do.”
“And how he feels about Avenue A.”
“Yeah.”
“He’ll want a piece of this one.”
“He’ll get it. Go to bed.”
As Roarke drove away, she leaned back.
“What do you think on motivation?” Roarke glanced at her. “You have a thought on it.”
“She rebuffed him. If I’m wrong and it’s a female, then it’s some sort of crazed jealousy, or maybe, again, a brush-off. But I don’t think she knew him, or her. Him, damn it. Either way, Jenna didn’t know or feel anything toward this person.”
“Why not?”
“She said, ‘Asshole.’ She didn’t say, with her friends right there, ‘that asshole Bob’ or ‘that bitch Jane.’ She didn’t say, ‘That asshole Bob jabbed me.’ And she said ‘he’ when she said it to Jake. ‘He jabbed me.’ I’m saying she saw the one who did, the one who did’s a male, and she didn’t know him. Doesn’t mean he didn’t know her.
“They could go to the same school,” she continued, “but he’s not in her circle, not on her social rung, so she doesn’t see him or notice him. There’s a pisser. Or he came ready to kill in that place, with that method, and had to pick somebody. Maybe Jenna was a type. Maybe he asked her to dance and she blew him off. And that’s a pisser.”
“You’re a marvel.”
“It’s just logic.”
“It is when you lay it all out that way, yes. So you likely have a teenage boy with a homicidal grudge against either Jenna or teenage girls. One who has a slight build and is somewhere under five-nine, who can access whatever substance he used to kill.”
“And is smart enough, organized enough to have worked out a plan.” With her eyes closed, she ran it through. “Smart enough, I think, not to have come into the club alone. He’s thinking about the cameras, so he slides in with a group. Head down, face turned away. But he didn’t come with a group so no one’s going to notice when he’s gone.”
When she felt herself drifting off, she straightened up again. “We’re not going to lock him in with the face rec—we won’t see his face. But maybe the build and his clothes, the hair. Process of elimination. Who with that build, those clothes, that hair didn’t walk out again?”
She huffed out a breath. “Is that going to be as complicated and time-consuming as I think?”
“Probably more so.”
“Well, Feeney’s going to want a piece. McNab’s not wrong. He can sure as hell have that one.”
“No one better for it.” He glanced at her again.
Cop adrenaline fading, he noted. When fatigue hit her and hit hard, she went so pale. At times so pale he imagined he could pass his hand through her.
“You know it’s near to three and tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“This is not news.”
“You could start an hour or two later in the morning.”
“When it’s hot, you work it hot. Who caught the weekend?” Trying to pull it out of her head, she rubbed her eyes. “Who caught weekend duty? Carmichael and Santiago. Baxter and Trueheart on standby. I’ll know more after I talk to Morris, and if they’re not working one, I can pull them in if I need them.”
When he drove through the gates, she let out a sigh. “So much for a lazy weekend at home.”
“We had almost half of one.”
“Next time we both have one free, let’s make sure we get a whole one. We could go to the island.”
When he parked, he leaned over, kissed her. “The very next.”
“Deal. Just leave the car. I’ll be back in it soon enough.”
Inside, they walked up the stairs. “I should get up by six.”
“Why, now? It won’t take you two hours to get dressed and get downtown.”
“I’m too wiped to write my report tonight. And I want to open the book, put up a board. It’ll keep it clear in my head when I get to Morris.”
“Six it is then.”
“You don’t have to get up at six. You have a free day.”
“To paraphrase Ian, I go with the Boss Cop. No, not to the morgue.” Since she was fading, he guided her to the bed, where the cat sprawled. “But I’ll get you up, Lieutenant.”
“’Kay.”
She yanked off her boots, her clothes, and would’ve fallen facedown on the bed if he hadn’t pulled the spread off first.
She was out before he slid in beside her.
The cat stirred enough to rearrange himself.
Roarke brushed his lips over her hair, closed his eyes. And dropped into sleep with her.
At six, he woke her with coffee, and even through the grogginess, she decided he was the most magnificent human in the history of humans.
Enough so she set the coffee aside, crooked her finger. “C’mere.”
With her arms around his neck, she kissed him, long, slow, deep.
“That’s exceedingly unfair when you’re soft and sleepy and naked.”
“I know.” She dropped her heavy head on his shoulder. “For me, too, and you’re not even naked.”
Then she pushed him back, grabbed the coffee.
“Thanks for this. I’m going to blast myself awake in the shower. Five minutes. And for the second time in a row, I won’t bitch if you pick out some clothes.”
He knew her idea of blasting away meant calling for the shower temp to hit close to boiling. It nearly made him shudder as he strolled to her closet and considered.
Another hot one forecast, he thought, and opted for linen trousers in pale gray, a crisp white shirt with half sleeves, a dark gray vest, boots and belt to match, with a pale gray linen jacket if she did fieldwork and needed to cover her weapon.
Both the vest and jacket had the Thin Shield lining, so she’d be as safe as he could make her.
And look crisp and fresh while she went about it.
He laid out the clothes just as she opened the door, a bit flushed from the heat of the drying tube.
“Great, thanks. Need more.” “More” meant coffee, and she hit up the bedroom AutoChef before she dressed.
“You’ll eat something while you work.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He only lifted his eyebrows. He’d see she had a bacon and egg pocket, with a bit of spinach she’d hardly notice.
“What’re you going to do while I’m at Central?”
“I imagine I’ll find something to occupy myself.”
As she hooked on her weapon harness, she lifted her eyebrows at him. “You’re going to work, aren’t you? Maybe buy a small country.”
“Only a small one?”
“It’s Sunday, so on the small side.”
“Ah, I see. Actually, I may wander out and take a look at your new property. You’ll need to think of a name for the club there. You won’t want to call it Stoner’s.”
“That asshole. There you go. We’ll call it Stoner’s an Asshole.”
“Truth doesn’t always ring.”
When she grabbed the jacket, he walked out with her.
“I don’t know how to name things.” Or actually own them, either. “You do. You name it.”
“It’s your place.”
“You bought it.”
“Ah well, we’ll think of something. Why don’t you print out what you want on your board? I’ll set it up for you.”
Grateful she didn’t have to think about owning a building, she sat at her command center, opened operations.
She ordered the printouts, and while that worked, started her report.
He set a plate with an egg pocket beside her unit. “Fuel, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, okay.”
It smelled good. She suspected spinach, but it smelled good.
She ate while she worked. Once she’d completed the report, she opened the murder book.
Between the coffee, the fuel (despite spinach), and the work, she felt fully awake.
She heard Roarke talking to the cat in the little kitchen. The cat, she thought, who’d been dead asleep when they’d left the bedroom.
Obviously, Galahad’s superpowers included scenting food, especially bacon, regardless of the distance involved.
She rose, studied the board. Jenna’s ID shot. Vibrant with youth and possibilities. And the crime scene stills with all that wiped away.
She’d added the two friends, the club owners, Jake and the other band members, Nadine, and all the bits of evidence.
The demo disc, the close-up of the needle mark, the vomit, the scuff marks, the open bathroom window.
Now she added the timeline she’d worked out.
Not much, not yet, but she’d get more.
She thought of a mother’s face turning gray, of a father simply dissolving onto the floor.
She’d get more.
“You should add your description of him,” Roarke said from behind her.
The cat, she thought, made more noise than the former cat burglar.
“Speculation. But … maybe. We’ll see what we find today. I have the morgue, and I want to go through the victim’s bedroom sometime today. I’ll tag the lab to see if Harvo’s on, but it’s Sunday so not likely.”
Sunday, she knew from experience, would be a pain in her ass on a hot day.
“I might want to talk to her two friends again, see if either of them noticed anyone at school, or wherever they hang out otherwise. Definitely need to talk to Feeney. And Jake’s coming in this morning, which I’m betting means Nadine.”
“She’s in love with him. It shows.”
“Yeah.” She let out a breath. “Yeah, it shows, both ways. I just looked at the security feed, the alley door.”
And watched a young girl die.
“His statement’s accurate,” Eve commented. “The time’s as close as it gets. When he stepped out, when she came out. Stumbled out, just the way he said she did. He tried to help her. He did everything right. Everything he could to help her.”
“I know. I watched it as well.”
She turned now. “But there wasn’t anything he could do, because she was dead when she fell out that door. It was already too late to save her.”
“I thought the same.”
Eve shook her head. “Not think, is. I know what death looks like, and it was all over her. She never had a chance. Not once whatever was in the needle went into her. She stayed on the floor and danced another couple minutes, but she was already dead.”
She rubbed her hands over her face. “Okay. Okay. I’ve gotta go.”
“Tag me, will you, when you’re done for the day. Or before, if you can use me. If I’m wandering, I may wander by the Great House Project. I’ll be downtown having a look at your property in any case.”
“All right.”
When he kissed her goodbye, she leaned into him.
“I probably won’t put in a full day. It’s harder to shake people loose on a Sunday.”
“Either way, take care of my cop.”
When she left, he turned to the cat. “What’s your Sunday look like then?”
After a quick ribbon through Roarke’s legs, Galahad jumped on the sleep chair, stretched out.
“Just as I expected.”