Page 40 of Obsession in Death

Eve sat back on her heels. “Fucked-up life, but it was his.”

“The locks were tampered with recently,” Roarke told her. “What there is of them.”

She nodded. “Knows he’ll have flopped sometime before dawn. Hell, if he’s not here, just wait until he stumbled home. But odds are he’d be here. No security on this building, just walk in. Bet you had your cover, though. Your delivery uniform, your box of tricks. Just step over the sleepers and come right up. Pick the locks—crap locks, but you didn’t just break them, so that’s another skill in your pocket.”

She walked through it in her head, walked through it with the killer.

“He’s passed out. Had to be dark—filthy windows, not much light coming through that early, even from the streetlights, not through those windows. Brought your own light.”

Carefully, she lifted the bloodstained sweatshirt, examined his torso. “Brought your stunner, too. Passed-out junkie, and still you use a stunner. Cowardice or compassion? Have to think about that. Either way, he didn’t feel a thing.”

She got to her feet. “Pool cue’s right there. He kept it close, like a fricking teddy bear. Bust it—that’s symbolic. Give him one good smack with it—same side of the face as he got me. That’s symbolic, too, otherwise, why not beat him to death with the cue? Just wail away.”

“Too violent,” Peabody suggested.

“Yeah. Too violent, too passionate, and too messy. Beating somebody to death just isn’t efficient. One hit—payback—then stab the broken end into his chest. That takes some muscle.” She shifted her body, held her hands just above the butt of the cue.

“Set it on him? Press down, use your weight, push. That’s probably it. Popped it right through him. Take care of the tongue—lying tongue—then write the message.”

TO LIEUTENANT EVE DALLAS, WITH RESPECT AND ADMIRATION.

HE WAS A BLIGHT ON SOCIETY, THE SAME SOCIETY WHO HAMPERS YOU WITH RULES PROTECTING BLIGHTS. SOME RULES RESTRAIN JUSTICE. YOU AND I KNOW THIS.

HE SOLD HIS FILTH TO THOSE WHO IGNORE ALL RULES, LIVE IN FILTH. HE LIED TO YOU, ASSAULTED YOU. WHILE HE FEARED YOU, HE NEVER RESPECTED YOU. AND STILL THOSE RULES ALLOWED HIM TO LIVE HIS WORTHLESS, PARASITIC LIFE.

THIS IS JUSTICE, FOR SOCIETY, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, MOST PERSONALLY, EVE, FOR YOU. THE MARK HE LEFT ON YOUR FACE FADED, AND NOW THE INSULT HAS BEEN REPAID, IN FULL.

I AM YOUR FRIEND. KNOW THAT I’LL ALWAYS STAND BY YOU, ASK FOR NOTHING MORE THAN YOUR FRIENDSHIP. I WILL HELP YOU SERVE JUSTICE, REAL JUSTICE TO THE GUILTY. AS YOU READ THIS, KNOW I’M THINKING OF YOU EVERY HOUR OF EVERY DAY.

YOUR TRUE FRIEND.

“It’s longer,” Eve noted. “Getting chattier, and...” She pulled out microgoggles, moved in closer. “Shakier. Not as precise and controlled on the lettering here. We need this analyzed, but it looks like some of the words are darker, a little thicker—like he pushed harder with the marker. My first name, justice, filth, respected, true. More emphasis there.”

She stepped back, pulled off the goggles. “Okay. We’re going to leave the scene to the sweepers.”

Peabody glanced around the pesthole. “Thanks be to the goddess of all that’s clean and healthy.” She smiled at Roarke. “A little Free-Ager sentiment.”

“And perfectly apt, considering.”

“Send for the sweepers, and the wagon,” Eve ordered. “Tag Morris, Mira, and Whitney. EDD can check out his ’link. We’ll talk to the wit, have the uniforms secure the scene.” She looked over at Roarke. “You’ve got to have things to do.”

“I’ll stay until you’re done here.”

Rather than argue, she moved out and across the hall, knuckle-rapped on the door.

A female officer with a tough build answered. She glanced at Eve’s badge, back up to her face. “Lieutenant.”

“Your partner’s started the canvass. The sweepers and the morgue have been notified. Keep the scene secured, Officer Morales.”

“Yes, sir. Wit’s shaken up, but cooperative. I don’t think she saw anything. Her story’s holding solid.”

“We’ll take a pass at her.”

Eve stepped in. It was a mirror of Ledo’s flop in size and shape, but it lacked the toxic pigsty decor. Misty Polinsky had a saggy sofa covered with a wildly floral throw, a skinny red rug over clean floors, a fringed lamp with a dented shade. She—or someone—had painted more flowers on boxes stacked into a substitute dresser.

The kitchen consisted of a cup-sized sink, a mini AutoChef, and a counter about as big as a desk blotter. But it was clean.

Misty herself sat on the floral throw, legs curled up, holding a chipped mug in two hands. She wore her sky-blue hair in a sharp wedge, shivered under an oversized sweater draped over narrow shoulders.