Dodo stopped examining her nails, looked at the display. “Bogus. She, like, signs her texts. Jadar. Like radar with a J, right? No sig, not hers.”
“You can look, go on and look, all my texts. I can show you.”
“I can find them.” Eve called them up, ignored the gossip, the nonsense, the bullshit displayed. And saw ever yone with the Jadar signature line.
“All right, did you lend your ’link to anybody?”
“As if!”
“Was it in your possession all evening?”
“Right on the table.”
“Right on the table, say, when you all got up to dance.”
“Sure. Nobody’s going to steal it, right? And I’ve got more at home anyway. Not like my hoodie. Somebody took my hoodie right off the booth, and it was my favorite mink. Anyway, I didn’t text Loxie.”
“I need the ’link. I’ll give you a receipt.”
Janis sighed. “Bummed.”
“Run it through for me, from the time she came in.”
“Okay, well, I saw her over at the G-man’s booth. He was there with a group, and I saw her hitting on him pretty hard, but he didn’t bite, right? So she came over to hang with us, took my drink, right, Dodo?”
“Slurped it right down. You gave her a tab of—Hey,” Dodo objected when Janis jabbed her with an elbow. “What the fuck does she care?”
“Anyway,” Janis said quickly. “Loxie said how she needed another drink, but then she slithered up Bennie to dance some sexy, then she came back, drank her drink down. Then she … she fell on the floor. Plop, then puke. Everybody scrambled up because, wow. I didn’t think she really died. I didn’t think.”
Do you ever? Eve wondered. “How did she get the drink, the one she had before she died?”
“Ah … I guess she ordered it?”
“Who served it?”
Janis shrugged, looked at Dodo. Another shrug, looked at Bennie.
“It was there when we came back to the booth.”
Eve looked at the second male, got a snarky smile.
“Speak.”
“Little tits. I notice tits.” He brushed his hand over the partially covered breast of the woman currently curled up, passed out, and snoring beside him.
“The server had small breasts.”
“Barely made bumps in her top. Like yours.”
She let that pass. “Did you happen to notice anything else about her?”
“Some fan.” He started to reach for the unconscious woman’s breast again, caught the hard glint in Eve’s eyes. Laid his roaming hand back on his thigh.
“Why do you assume that?”
“I assume it wasn’t a waitress because they all wear short black skirts and tight red tops, and she wasn’t. Hangers-on send over drinks all the time. And other things,” he added with that smile.
“What was she wearing?”
“It wasn’t that. Home dye job, red, fake side dreads, blue.”
“You noticed her tits and her hair.”
“Her tits because I have a dick. Her hair because it’s what I do and am. Sylvio, hair designer to those who rock. You could use some work. Some Brimstone lowlights to add some fire.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
17
It took her longer than she liked to pick her way through the memories and observations of the group in the privacy room. Since the one woman slept through it, Eve arranged for her transportation home, and earmarked her for later, if necessary.
At least by the time she came back down the screen closed off the body, and at least half the number of patrons had been moved out.
Eve went first to Glaze’s booth. “I’m going to ask you to wait awhile longer.”
“Not a problem, as long as you need. But could you let the others go on home?”
Before she could answer, the man to his left shook his head. “We stick, brother. We all stick.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Eve turned away, started for the screen. Roarke intercepted her.
“I’ve got her coming and going. You might want to have a look.” He offered her a handheld. “I copied the feed, just her bit. First, the arrival, front door cam. Second, exit out of the back.”
Eve studied the feed. The hat, the goggles—the same as she’d worn at the vid palace. Dark, knee-length coat with some sort of glittery braiding on the cuffs, the hem, the shoulders. Thick-heeled ankle boots—gold chains with dangling skulls draped from the top. Skin pants with a star pattern.
A shoulder bag—larger than the useless one Janis used. Big enough for a vial of poison, she assumed, and the cash needed, with room enough to stow the goggles, the gloves, the scarf, and the hat.
She noted the time stamp, calculated Strongbow had entered the club about the time Eve herself had spoken with the victim. Maybe slightly prior.
She switched to the exit. “Got the purse,” she noted. “Wearing it cross-body. I can see the strap across her back. Carrying a coat, but not the one she wore in.”
“No,” Roarke agreed. “It looks like a fur of some sort, and there’s a hood. It’s dangling down there.”
“Yeah, I see. It’s going to be mink. Damn it, she snatched the coat off the vic’s booth. Had the presence of mind not to run out into the cold and wind without a coat. That’s thinking on your fucking feet.”
She handed him back the device. “Start contacting cab companies. Ten-block radius to this location. A pickup matching her description.”
“They might not cooperate, as I haven’t a badge number.”
“You’ll find a way.” No question of that, Eve thought. “She probably didn’t cab it. Subway maybe. Or grabbed a bus. Cab’s are tough on the budget, but we’ll start there.”
She scanned for Peabody, spotted McNab. “McNab!”
“Yo.”
“Transit Authority. Start with lines going to Brooklyn. Have them scan for a woman wearing a hooded mink jacket. Add her description, though if she has brains—and she does—she’ll have ditched the dreads. I want subways, and buses.”
“You got it.”
She damn well hoped so.
“Have Peabody search the club for a dark coat with glitter braiding. Probably homemade. She’ll know.”
Eve stepped behind the screen. “Okay, Loxie, you idiot, let’s do what we can.”
She removed the leather coat, tossed it on the padded booth. And did what she could.
When Peabody stepped behind the screen, Eve closed her field kit. Straightened from her crouch.
“Rounding it, TOD’s eighteen minutes before I got here.”
“You must’ve flown.”
“Roarke can drive. Strongbow sent the text from the moronic Janis Dorsey’s ’link—one she conveniently left on the table when she got up to dance with her moronic friends. Sent the text—which Loxie answered in less than a minute to announce she was on her way to die—faded back, and waited. The place is full of a lot of other morons, most of them high.”
Eve looked down at the body with a combination of pity and disgust. “She waits until Loxie comes in, and doesn’t Loxie play right into the damn script and go over to try to sex up the ex. He, by all accounts, wasn’t sexed. She comes over here, drinks, takes more illegals, gets up to dance. Which presents excellent timing for Strongbow to order the drink, tip in the poison, and goddamn set it down on the table herself.”
“She served the drink. Man, that’s ballsy.”
“Risk and reward,” Eve muttered. “Nobody gave a shit that some stranger set a drink down. Nobody gave a shit what might be in it. Probably hoped it was laced with good stuff. She comes back, drinks it down, lets the guy she was dancing with paw her. And it kicks in. If, as advertised and as her color indicates, it’s cyanide, she had some trouble breathing, felt off, weird.
“Did she think then?” A hint of rage leaked into Eve’s voice. “Did it even begin to occur to her then that she’d killed herself because she couldn’t not be a fuckhead? Who the hell knows? She passes out, falls off the bench. Starts to seize. That cherry-red’s coming up in her face. Her system revolts, tries to expel what’s already killed her. The morons she’s surrounded herself with squeal, scramble, and laugh. I’ll bet vids of her death are already making the rounds. Meanwhile, the seriously not-moronic bartender has not only called the cops and gotten his bouncer on the front door, but after locking eyes with the killer, tries to catch her when she runs. She’s smart enough to grab one of the morons’ coats, which—her lucky day—is a goddamn mink hoodie. She bolts out the kitchen, and she’s gone.
“So’s Loxie, long before the MTs can get to her.”
“A few people caught a glimpse of her,” Peabody added. “She knocked into a couple as she fled. The descriptions are what you’d expect given the alcohol, illegals, lighting. I’ve got the coat she wore to get here.”
“Score one for us.”
“McNab’s getting a bag from the kitchen. We don’t have any big enough. It’s well made—professionally made. She’s got skills, Dallas, and a professional machine. It’s a cheap, blended material, but she put in a decent lining for warmth. Cheap braiding, but perfectly sewn. Nothing in the pockets.”
“She had a purse, put everything in there. Where did you find the coat?”
“She left it on the barstool. It looks to me like she hung it there when she ordered the drink. Left it there when she walked the drink to the table here.”
“But didn’t go back for it. Stayed here, closer to the booth. She wanted to watch, to make sure it went according to script.”
“I guess when she saw Brad made her, she grabbed the closest coat right off the bench. Did you say mink?”
“Yeah.” Eve jammed frustrated hands in her pockets. “If she tries to pawn it or sell it, we may be in luck. I’ve got the description from its idiot owner. We’ll get it out. Contact the other women on the list, Peabody, contact Yola Bloomfield. She got a text from the moron’s ’link, too. And the rest of the list. See if they got one from another ’link.”