She stared at the door across the hall. “I wish I’d gotten up to look. I wish I had. I heard Rochelle come up with that big, handsome man she’s seeing. Sounded like they were getting a little frisky out in the hall. I had a smile over that, and went on in to put my night things on. I didn’t hear them leave. Is she in there? I think I’ve got some tea, maybe.”
“No, she’s not here now.”
“Poor thing.” Lips pressed, Ms. Gregory shook her head. “Poor thing. I heard you come, and I thought, What the hell’s going on tonight. So I looked. I heard you say you were the police, and when you opened the door, I could just see that poor boy. So I stayed up, and listened.”
“We appreciate that, Ms. Gregory. Do you think you’d recognize the female again, if you saw her picture? Or failing that work with a police artist?”
Now she puffed out her cheeks. “Never wanted much to do with the police, but I’ll look at the pictures and whatnot. For young Lyle and Rochelle.”
“Thank you. Peabody, why don’t you go inside with Ms. Gregory, get a description. McNab, you can start knocking on doors. Maybe we’ll get lucky again.”
“They killed that boy, that’s what they did, then they walked away laughing like it was one big joke.” Ms. Gregory shook her head again, gestured Peabody inside.
* * *
By the time Eve knocked on Crack’s door, she had the broad strokes of what she believed happened. She’d sent Peabody to Central to write up a preliminary. She had a vague description of the female from Ms. Gregory, and might need to pull in Yancy for a sketch.
But if Lyle knew the woman, odds were Rochelle did, too. She’d go there first.
Crack answered wearing the same conservative dinner-date black sweater and pants. No feathers, no beads, no tats on view.
The Down and Dirty pulled them in, and Crack—or Wilson—was nobody’s fool of a businessman. So his apartment climbed several steep flights over Rochelle’s.
Rochelle sat in his living room with its bold African art and the oversized furniture to suit the size of the man. She popped to her feet, her eyes rimmed with red, her face sallow with stress.
“He wouldn’t have done this. Whatever you say, I know he wasn’t using again. And he’d never bring illegals into our home.”
“You’re right. Or, my conclusion at this stage of the investigation lines up with yours.”
“He—” The fists at Rochelle’s sides unballed. She lowered shakily into the chair again. “What happened to my brother?”
“Y’all sit down. I don’t have any of that coffee you like around, but I got Pepsi.” As he spoke, Crack stroked his hand over Rochelle’s curly wedge of hair. “That’s your cold drink, right?”
“That’d be great.”
“Roarke?”
“I’m fine with that, thanks.”
“I’m sorry.” Rochelle pressed a fist to her lips, fought to steady. “I haven’t even thanked you for coming so quickly, for helping. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Eve sat so she and Rochelle were eye-to-eye. “Rochelle, Lyle had a jar on his dresser.”
“His Save It fund. He’d toss loose change in there every night after work.”
“How much would you say he had in it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess it was about half full, maybe a little more.”
“It was empty.”
“No, that’s not right. I saw it just tonight. His door was open—he keeps it open to show me he’s got nothing to hide. I saw it when I went in to change for dinner with Wilson. It was loaded up at least half way.”
“It was empty,” Eve repeated, “and in his top drawer we found a second pressure syringe, and two vials of what appear to be illegals, one nearly empty.”
Those heavy-lidded eyes hardened like granite. “I don’t believe you. Not for one minute.”
“You should because I believe whoever emptied that jar planted the syringe and illegals. Whoever did that killed your brother and attempted to stage it like an overdose.”
“Killed him. Killed him. Killed—”
“You breathe, Ro.” Crack hurried in with the drinks. “You take your breaths.” After setting the glasses down, he plucked her out of the chair, then sat and cradled her in his lap.
“I knew he didn’t—but to hear . . . Murder. Somebody murdered Lyle. I can’t think. I need a second. Hold on to me, Wilson.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ve got you.”
Eve picked up the glass, took a welcome infusion of caffeine while she waited for Rochelle to steady herself again.
“He was so happy,” she murmured. “He’d found himself again, found the real Lyle again. I have to be grateful for that, that he had this time to be himself. I said, when I left tonight, ‘I love you,’ and he said, ‘Back at you squared.’ We said that to each other, the last thing. I have to be grateful for that. Oh God, if I’d insisted on staying home, making that celebration meal—”
“They’d have come another time,” Eve finished. “It reads like they waited for you to leave. It’s likely they knew his schedule well enough to know he had the night off. Who’d want to hurt him, Rochelle?”
“I swear I don’t know. If you’d asked me a couple years ago, I could’ve named a dozen. But he’s been out of that life, and he’s stayed away. He goes to work, to meetings, to see our brothers and Gram. He’s not even dating yet. He just got his two-year chip for sobriety.”
“We have a witness who saw a female go to your apartment door shortly after you left. She wore a hoodie, baggies, boots. All dark. The witness believes Caucasian, middle twenties, small build. Very thin. She described her—and she only caught a glimpse—as having a thin, hard face. Pink in her hair.”
“It sounds like Dinnie.”
“Dinnie?”
“Dinnie Duff. They lived together in that flop. She’s one of the Banger Bitches. That’s what they call themselves. He was with her before he got arrested. She’s done time, too. He wouldn’t have started seeing her again. He’d violate his parole.”
“We think he let her in tonight.”
“God.”
“The wit believes she was crying, said she needed or wanted help.”
“That would do it,” Rochelle confirmed. “He might have opened the door if she asked him for help. I think he did care about her, even when he was at his worst. She killed Lyle.”
“I think she was sent in so she could let the ones who did into the apartment. She left as she let them in.”
The fierceness flashed back. “She’s just as guilty.”
“Yes, she is. I’m going to pick her up when I leave here, and expect to charge her with accessory to murder.”
Rochelle closed her eyes, let her head rest on Crack’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to keep snapping at you.”
“Skinny white girl don’t worry ’bout no snaps,” Crack told her.
“If I did, I’d be in another line of work. I also expect, during interrogation, to get the names of the three men she let into your apartment.”
“What did they look like? I might have seen them before. I might know.”
“The witness didn’t see their faces. That doesn’t mean I won’t find them. I will. In the meantime, your apartment’s sealed. You should stay here tonight. I’m going to contact you tomorrow. I want you to go through your apartment with me, tell me if anything’s missing or out of place. Anything at all.”
“Yes, whenever you want. But I need to see Lyle. You were right, Wilson, you were right to stop me from going to him. But now, I have to see him.”
“I’ll arrange that for you tomorrow.”
“Did you ask for Morris?”
Eve nodded at Crack. “Yes. Morris will take care of Lyle.”
“That’s just what he’ll do, Ro. He’ll take care. I’ll go with you.”
“My brothers—Martin and Walter—and our grandmother. I need to tell them. How do I tell them?” She turned her face into Crack’s shoulder for a moment. “But I have to. Face-to-face. We need to be together.”
“We’ll go to Walt’s school. I’ll get us a car and we’ll go get Walt, then we’ll go over to Martin’s.”
“I’ll arrange a car and driver for you,” Roarke said.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s done. You’re family,” he told Crack. “And Rochelle is one of my people now. Lyle is Eve’s. You’ll have a car and driver at your disposal as long as you need.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Rochelle said. “This doesn’t seem real, then it does, horribly real, then it doesn’t. I have to tell them, even knowing how it’ll hurt them.”
“You won’t be alone.” Crack kissed her hair. “I’ll be right with you.”
As they walked back to the car, Eve dug up the last known address of Dinnie Duff. “Banger turf,” she muttered. “Won’t that be fun?” She slid into the car, keyed in the address. “I’m calling it in, getting backup from a couple of uniforms who work that area.”
“You don’t think we can handle it . . . skinny white girl?”
“Oh, we could handle it, scary Irish boy, but I’m not looking for a gang fight. They sent three to take out Lyle. That’s not small change, that’s not some petty bullshit. It’s something else, and a whole lot more. Dinnie Duff not only knows the three who killed him, it’s likely she knows who sent them.”
“Would they have a captain?”
“Yeah.” She considered the most probable setup as Roarke took the wheel. “And likely a handful of lieutenants and down the pecking order. But someone in charge, someone overseeing gang business—illegals, finances, sex trade. Then there’s negotiations or hits on rival gangs. There’s the protection racket, and so on.”