Eve opened the door of the cruiser, took a look at the two men—maybe twenty—shivering under heat blankets.
She crouched down. “Lieutenant Dallas. Let’s hear it.”
“Man, Jesus, we were just taking a walk, right?”
“Right.”
He had smooth cocoa-colored skin, a little gray under it, and wide, wide brown eyes. She could smell the nerves, the water, and the cheap brew pumping off him.
“Your name?”
“Marshall. Marshall Whitier. We pulled like an all-nighter, and were walking it off, and messing around. Maybe jog around the JKO, right? And we saw the dude. So Richie says, Holy shit, and I’m like, What the fuck, and we climbed over and jumped in the water.”
“I tried CPR, even mouth-to-mouth,” the other man said.
“Name?”
“Oh, Richie. I mean Richard Lieberman.” He swallowed, hard.
He had skin so white his freckles popped out like . . . polka dots, Eve thought. And orange hair with tips of blue—with a tiny pointed beard to match.
“I’m, uh, certified. I work summers as a lifeguard, so I knew what to do. But, man, he was gone. You know, dead. So we called the cops.”
“Did you see anyone while you were messing around, or while you waited for the police?”
“Nobody. Well, there was a sidewalk sleeper, but he was back on Fifth, before we came into the park. And well . . .”
“Well?”
“I guess we saw the beat droids back there, too, so we sort of ducked in here.”
“Got any Sober-Up?”
Their eyes shifted to each other, then down.
“Look, I don’t currently give a shit about your underage drinking.”
“There was this party—”
“Don’t care,” she told Marshall. “I’m going to need your contact information, then these officers are going to take you back to—where?”
“We’re at Berkely. We, ah, sort of snuck out of the dorm to go to the party, then—”
“Don’t care,” she said to Richie. “We’re going to get you back.” Impaired or not, she thought, they’d tried to save a life. “What are your chances of sneaking back in?”
That eye slide again. “We’re pretty good at it,” Richie told her.
“Good. Do that. Dry off, get something hot—and nonalcoholic—to drink. Here’s what I care about: You tried to help someone, and when you couldn’t, you called the cops.”
“You’re not going to rat us out?”
“I’m not going to rat you out. If you don’t have such good luck sneaking back in, have the person who busts you contact me. Lieutenant Dallas, Cop Central. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You lose points for the ‘ma’am.’” She shut the door. “Get them back,” she told the uniform. “Make sure they get back inside.”
“Dumb-asses.” The uniform shook his head. “But they got balls. Probably shriveled up right now, but they got ’em.”
In full agreement, she went back to her car for her field kit, started the hike to the jogging path and the reservoir.
The struggling sun turned the sky to a lighter, dirtier gray. In its pissy light, she spotted the beat droids—muscular issues, both male with square, serious faces. Unaffected by the wind and the wet, they stood flanking the body.
Eve held up her badge. “Report.”
Their report added little to the witnesses’ statements but for, in the way of droids, precise times. She had them stand by, then took a long look at Jordan Banks.
He lay faceup, and from the angle of his neck, the bruising harsh against the skin, she judged his neck had been broken before whoever broke it dumped his body in the water.
The droids had ID’d him with scanners, but she sealed up, took out her Identapad, made it official.
“Victim is identified as Banks, Jordan.” She rattled off the data for the record before taking out her gauge for time of death. “TOD, oh three hundred twenty hours. Witnesses notified nine-one-one at five-twelve. He wasn’t in the water long. He’s not wearing a coat, a wrist unit, or shoes.”
She searched the pockets of his pants. “No wallet, no ’link. It looks like a mugging, but it’s not. Just not.”
Taking out her penlight, she examined the bruising on the neck. “Not from a blow. Maybe a fall, but . . .” She ran the light over the left side of the face, studied as she heard Peabody’s clomping winter boots.
She rose, turned to her partner. “Turn around.”
“What?”
“Just turn around.”
When she did, Eve stepped up behind her, cupped her right hand under Peabody’s chin, pressed her left to the left side of Peabody face, gave her partner’s head a quick—but gentle—twist.
“Hey!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Eve stepped back. “Somebody knows how to kill, quick and quiet. No defensive wounds. He never saw it coming. Didn’t expect it. Knew who was behind him, and wasn’t worried. Could be they stunned him first, or had a weapon, but why kill covert, combat style, if you could just stun and toss him into the water to drown, or use the weapon?”
Peabody fussed the scarf back around her neck. “This is Karson’s ex, right? You interviewed him yesterday?”
“And he lied through his teeth. I could see it.”
“He was in this?”
“I don’t know if he knew he was, but he was. And they didn’t leave this loose end alive.”
Peabody stepped closer to the body. “His neck’s broken. Can you really break somebody’s neck with just your hands?”
“If you’re strong enough, and know how. Military, he’s going to be military.”
She shoved her hands in the pockets of her long leather coat, stared over at the skyline, gray against gray. “How the hell did they get him here? Three in the morning, he comes here, meets them. Or they come here together. No defensive wounds, no sign of struggle. He came willingly. Did he walk—he doesn’t strike me as somebody who’d walk this far. Let’s check for cabs, private car services for pickups at his address and for drop-offs in this area. Drop-offs between two and three-twenty this morning.”
She played her light over the grass, the path. “We’ll call it in, sweepers and the dead wagon. Crime scene might find something. Get that going. I’ll finish with him.”
When she had, ordered the bag and tag, she left the beat droids guarding the crime scene, and filled Peabody in on the witnesses’ statements as they walked back to the car.
“The water has to be freezing.”
“I’d say they were too young and drunk to care.” Eve got into the car, said, “Coffee.”
“Oh yeah.” Peabody programmed it. “If Banks is tied in, it gives us a lead.”
“He’s tied. So we’re going to see Karson.”
“Now? It’s pretty early.”
“Not for Banks.”
Eve dealt with the nurse—a different one but almost as disapproving—and bullied her way into Karson’s room.
The patient was awake, with the morning reports murmuring on her wall screen. The nurse fussed over her, checking monitors, fluffing pillows.
“Lilian, I’d really love some coffee.”
“I’m going to order up your breakfast now.” She gave Karson a pat on the hand before sailing out.
“It’s terrible coffee,” Karson said, “and I know it’s whining, but, God, I can’t wait to get out of here. Do you have information?”
“Ms. Karson, I regret to inform you that Jordan Banks is dead.”
“What? What?” She used her good arm to try to push up, winced, dropped back. “Jordan? How? My God.”
“He was murdered in the early hours of this morning.”
“Murdered? How could—how? Where? Oh, my Jesus. I need a minute.”
She covered her hands with her face, rocked, rocked. “Murdered. Dead. I can’t . . . I despised him. I came to despise him. He made a fool out of me, and I hated knowing I’d let him make a fool out of me. Now he’s dead.”
She dropped her hands. Her eyes shone damp, but tears didn’t fall. “We were involved, for about eight months. Up until a few weeks ago.”
“I know.”
“Of course you know. It’s your job to know. I can’t think. I just can’t think.”
“Would you like some water?” Peabody offered.
“I’d like a drink, a goddamn double of anything with a kick. I’d like for an hour to pass where people I know aren’t dead.” She closed her eyes, seemed to breathe herself under control. “How was he killed? Can you tell me?”
“The medical examiner will determine cause of death.” Eve weighed the odds. “I believe his neck was broken.”
“He was in a fight? That’s just impossible. He wouldn’t know how.”
“No, not a fight. How much did you tell him about the details and timing of the merger?”
“I . . . Too much.” As her breathing pitched again, she gripped the sheet in a fist. “Are you saying Jordan had something to do with the bombing? I can’t believe that—won’t.”
“I don’t know that. You gave him details?”
“I thought I was in love with him. I thought he was in love with me. His family . . . they understand business. Jordan’s more interested in the arts—and really that’s not entirely true, either. He’s more interested in women, and how to use them—wealthy women. But I thought he had an interest in my business—a caring interest—and I shared some of my thoughts, plans, hopes with him. He had advice, sometimes it was reasonably good advice. And he listened, he was supportive. And I was an idiot.”
“I don’t think so,” Peabody put in. “You cared for him, and thought he felt the same. You thought of him as a partner, on a personal level.”