Home > Connections in Death (In Death #48)(9)

Connections in Death (In Death #48)(9)
Author: J.D. Robb

The sweatshirt announced him as a Knicks fan. He wore baggies and well-worn high-tops. Vomit, crusting, ran down the shirt.

She turned from him to study the locks. “No sign of forcing, locks or jamb. No signs of struggle in here.”

Out of the kit, she took a can of Seal-It, sprayed her hands, her boots, handed it off to Roarke.

“Must I?”

“Yeah. Take a look at the kitchen, then the bedrooms while I deal with the body.”

She went step-by-step, confirming ID. “Victim is identified as Pickering, Lyle, age twenty-six of this address.”

“There’s a glass of water overturned on the counter in the kitchen,” Roarke told her. “And what I’d assume is the victim’s ’link on the floor.”

“That’s interesting. Like this small, shallow nick on the vic’s throat and the faint bruises on his wrist are interesting.”

“Should I contact Peabody for you?”

Eve studied the body, especially that left arm where a gang tat—a fist encircled by the word Bangers—showed distinct signs of a removal process. Before she answered, she put on microgoggles, studied that arm.

And spotted the tiny—and fresh—needle mark on the first knuckle of the fist. The circular mark from the pressure syringe hit at the curled thumb.

“Yeah. Yeah, why don’t you do that?”

She sat back on her heels. “How do you kill a recovering addict if you’re bright but not real bright?”

Standing back, Roarke studied Rochelle’s brother with pity. “You stage it to look like a self-inflicted overdose.”

“Yeah. Better to have hit him on the street, make it look like a mugging, a gang retaliation, a wrong-place-wrong-time. Come here, into his home, shoot him up for his sister to find? Bright, not real bright. And personal.”

She nodded, reached in her kit for the next tool. “Yeah, pull Peabody in. We’re going from what looked like murder this morning and turned into accidental, to what looks like accidental OD but is murder.”

4

After he contacted Peabody, Roarke skirted around Eve, moved down a short hallway toward the two facing bedrooms and the single bath at the end.

He identified Rochelle’s not only from the floral spread on the bed and the frilly shade over the lone window, but by the neatly made bed with no clothes scattered over it or the floor. She’d squeezed in a small desk for a work area in the corner.

He turned to the brother’s room.

A thin, gray duvet covered the not-as-neatly made bed. In the closet, clothes heaped in a plastic basket or hung—a number crookedly—on a rail.

A two-drawer dresser held a framed copy of the Serenity Prayer. A stubby jar, empty, carried a handwritten label.

Save It!

The top drawer hung crooked, jammed a bit when Roarke pulled it open. On top of underwear and socks, a jumble of bandannas, was a second pressure syringe and a pair of dime vials he imagined the dealer Eve had rousted earlier sold routinely.

One of the vials was nearly empty.

He left them alone, for Eve’s record, moved to the second drawer.

Tees, workout gear, sweatshirts.

In the drawer of the box of a nightstand he found a cheap e-book that opened at a swipe. He scanned the contents, replaced it, moved into the bathroom.

As he came out again he heard Eve calling in sweepers.

“There’s another pressure syringe in his top dresser drawer, and two vials of illegals. All but in plain sight, Eve. Lying on top of his socks and boxers.”

“Which makes it look like he’s been using all along. Or at least he started up again.”

“There’s also a notebook in the bedside table. A journal of sorts that it appears he’s kept faithfully for about two years. Some poetry, some recipes. It has his work schedule. And a kind of log—how much money he’s banking every pay period, and what he spends on his share of the rent, food, his clothes, music, even what he puts in the jar at meetings. He has a jar on his dresser for saving—I’d suspect loose coin and credits. It’s empty.”

She listened as she replaced her tools, the evidence bags she’d used.

“Might as well take the money. The only thing in his pockets is his two-year chip, his keys, and a bandanna. No wallet, no loose coins. They may have lifted other things. We’ll have Rochelle go through the place later.”

“What do you see?”

Shoving at her hair, she turned to the door. “He let somebody in, and since TOD was nineteen-twenty-two, it couldn’t have been long after his sister left.”

“Someone watching the place then.”

“Possibly, yeah.” Almost had to be, she thought, because she didn’t buy that kind of lucky timing. “So he lets them in. Someone he trusted, wasn’t afraid of, or just wanted to deal with. Then he goes into the kitchen, pours a glass of water. Maybe he takes out his ’link—going to contact someone. They—because it’s probably more than one—get him from behind. The bruises on his wrist look like hand grips. Somebody with muscle. Glass gets knocked over, ’link hits the floor. I figure they jab him with the needle—he’s got a needle mark. Get him high or put him out. Pull him out here, stage the OD. He’s got a little slice on the throat. Hold a knife there in case he fights or tries.”

Roarke could see it, too. “He wouldn’t have had much of a chance, would he?”

“No, and it wouldn’t take long. Minutes, really. While he’s dying, they plant the illegals and works where they’re easy to find.”

She moved back to the body, lifted the sweatshirt to expose the abdomen and lower ribs, and the bruising.

“Couldn’t resist giving him a couple shots before they killed him. Personal. Could’ve been clean, but they’re not as smart as they think.”

She walked to the door again to answer a knock.

“Good timing,” she said to Peabody—and McNab, who stood with her. “We’ve got a homicide staged, poorly, to look like an OD.”

“Rochelle’s brother?” Peabody looked beyond Eve to the body. “Man, that’s rough.”

“No cams out front or on the door. You got the god of e’s already,” McNab added. “But I can help if you need.”

“You could knock on doors with Peabody. I don’t think we’ll have much luck, if any, but we need to check if anybody saw anything. I’m looking, particularly, for anybody who came into the building or approached this unit, left this unit between seven and seven-forty-five tonight.”

“Can do.”

“Rochelle?” Peabody added.

“I had Crack take her to his place. They got back from dinner out about nine-fifteen, found him, tagged me. I’ll fill you in later. Sweepers and dead wagon on the way. Try to dig me up a wit.”

Even as she spoke, the door across the hall opened. A woman, mid-fifties, mixed race, streaked hair slicked back in a tail, stepped out.

“I saw something.”

Eve eased the door behind her closed to block the view of the body. “Ma’am.”

“You the police?”

“Yes, ma’am.” All three drew out badges.

“Well, I’m not going to pretend I didn’t listen through the door when I heard these two come up.” She nodded her chin at Peabody and McNab. “Been more coming up the stairs tonight than I hear in a month or more.”

Then she sighed. “Is that young Lyle in there, come to a bad end?”

“Yes. Could we have your name?”

“I’m Stasha-Jean Gregory. I’m going to say I got home from work right about six, got out of my work clothes, had a brew, fixed me some dinner. I heard Lyle come up—gets so you recognize the steps—and, plus, I heard him open the door there. I think that was about seven, maybe a little before, but not much. Then I heard that sweet Rochelle leaving not too long after. Figure she had a date because she was wearing heels. Couldn’t’ve been more than ten minutes after Lyle went on in.”

“And you heard someone else come up?” Eve prompted.

“I saw that one. I forgot how it’s trash day tomorrow, so I had to run my bag down. She was coming up.”

“She?”

“A girl. Had a hood on, had her head down, but I got a glimpse, and she had a girl body, you know what I mean. Breasts and such. Pink in her hair. I heard her knocking on Lyle’s door, and kind of crying. Saying how she was ready for help, or needed help. Didn’t pass her on my way back, so I figured he let her in.”

“What time?”

“Rochelle couldn’t’ve been gone five minutes.”

“You didn’t recognize this girl?”

“I think maybe I’ve seen her around outside before. Not up here. So, I’m hardly back inside my place when I hear more coming up. I think three.” Ms. Gregory blew out a breath. “All right, I know three because I got nosy and looked out the peep.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“Didn’t see faces as they were at the door when I snuck up to look. Big ones, big guys in hoodies. Was the girl let them in. Let them in and ducked right out herself and ran on down the steps.”

She paused now, rubbed her hands over her face. “I liked that boy. I sprained my ankle last summer, and didn’t he help me up these steps when he was around? Carted bags up for me, or down on trash night. I saw that gang tat on him last summer, though he tried to keep it covered, and he saw me see it. He said that was all finished, and how he was saving to have it removed.”

She let out a puff of air. “If I’d known there was trouble for him, I’d’ve called the police. The man I had the bad sense to hook up with when I was younger than that boy in there had some run-ins with the police, and they weren’t much good to me back then, either. But I’d have called you in to help Lyle and his sister.”

“You’re helping them now. Did you see them leave? The three who came?”

“I heard them. I settled in to watch some screen, and I heard them. Laughing and banging on down the stairs. They weren’t in there very long. I guess it was still shy of seven-thirty, but I didn’t get up to look. They were laughing,” she said again, “and now you say that young Lyle’s come to a bad end.”

   
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