Witness in Death

CHAPTER NINE

"Ah, Lieutenant Dallas." Chief Medical Examiner Morse's dark eyes glittered behind his microgoggles. Above the serviceable lenses, his eyebrows arched in two long, slim triangles. At the peak of the left was a small, shiny silver hoop.

He snapped his fingers, held out his sealed hand, palm up. A grumbling assistant flipped a twenty-dollar credit into it. "Dallas, you never disappoint me. You see, Rochinsky, never bet against the house."

The credit disappeared into one of the pockets of his puke-green protective jumpsuit.

"Win a bet?" Eve asked.

"Oh, yes indeed. A small wager with my associate that you would show up in our happy home before five P.M."

"It's nice to be predictable." She looked down at the middle-aged, mixed-race woman currently stretched out under Morse's laser scalpel. The Y cut had already been made.

"That's not my dead guy."

"Very observant. Meet Allyanne Preen, Detective Harrison's dead gal, who was several slots ahead of yours. Licensed companion, street level. She was found stretched out in an abandoned '49 Lexus coupe, in the great automotive morgue we call long-term parking, La Guardia. "

"Trouble with a John?"

"No outward signs of violence, no recent sexual encounters." He scooped out her liver, weighed and logged it.

"She's got a faint blue tinge to her skin." Eve bent down to examine the hands. "Most noticeable under the nails. Looks like an OD, probably Exotica and Jumper."

"Very good. Any time you want to switch to my side of the slab, just let me know. I can promise, we have a lot more fun around here."

"Yeah, word's out on you party animals."

"The reports of the Saint Patrick's Day celebration in the ice room were…" His eyes laughed behind his goggles. "Accurate."

"Sorry I missed it. Where's my guy? I need his tox report."

"Mmm-hmm." Morse poked at a kidney before removing it. His hands were quick and skilled and seemed to keep time to the beat of the rebel rock music playing over the speakers. "I assumed you'd be in a hurry. I gave your guy to young Finestein. He just started here last month. Has potential."

"You gave mine to some rookie?"

"We were all rookies once, Dallas. Speaking of which, where's the stalwart Peabody?"

"She's outside, doing some runs. Listen, Morse, this is a tricky one."

"So they say, all the time, every time."

"I'm betting on homicide, but it was set up to look like self-termination. I need good hands and eyes on my guy."

"I don't take on anyone without them. Relax, Dallas. Stress can kill you." Unruffled, he strolled over to a 'link, put out a call for Herbert Finestein. "He'll be right along. Rochinsky, run this young lady's internals to the lab. Start the blood work."

"Morse, I've got two bodies, and the probability is that they're linked."

"Yes, yes, but that's your area." He wandered to a detox bowl, washed the soiled sealant from his hands, ran them under the radiant heat in the drying hood. "I'll look over the boy's work, Dallas, but give him a chance."

"Yeah, yeah, fine."

Morse pulled off his goggles and mask, smiled. His black hair was intricately braided to hang down to the middle of his back. He disposed of his protective suit to reveal the stunning pink of his shirt and electric blue of his trousers.

"Nice threads," Eve said dryly. "Going to another party?"

"I'm telling you, every day's a party around here."

She imagined he habitually chose snazzy clothes to distance himself from the starkness of his job, the brutality of it. Whatever works, Eve thought. Wading through blood and gore and the misery human beings inflicted on each other on a daily basis wore on you. Without an escape valve, you'd explode.

And what was hers?

"And how's Roarke?" Morse asked.

"Good. Fine." Roarke. Yes, he was hers. Before him there had just been work. Only been work. And would she have, one day, reached the limit, felt her own soul shatter?

Hell of a thought.

"Ah, here's Finestein. Be nice," Morse murmured to Eve.

"What am I?"

"An ass-kicker," Morse said pleasantly and laid a friendly hand on her shoulder. "Herbert, Lieutenant Dallas would like an update on the DOS I assigned to you this afternoon."

"Yes, the Dead on-Scene. Quim, Linus, white male, fifty-six years. Cause of death strangulation by hanging." Finestein, a skinny mixed race with black skin and pale eyes, spoke in quick, piping tones and fiddled nervously with a small forest of pencils tucked in a breast pocket protector.

Not only a rookie, Eve thought with frustration, a nerd rookie.

"Did you want to review the body?"

"I'm standing here, aren't I?" Eve began, then relented with a quick gnashing of teeth when Morse's long fingers squeezed her shoulder. "Yes, thank you, I'd like to review the body and your report. Please."

"Just this way."

Eve rolled her eyes at Morse as Finestein hurried across the room. "He's fucking twelve years old."

"He's twenty-six. Patience, Dallas."

"I hate patience. Slows everything down." But she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling line of drawers, waited while Finestein uncoded one, pulled it open with a frigid puff of cold gas.

"As you can see…" Finestein cleared his throat. "There are no marks of violence on the body other than those caused by the strangulation. No offensive or defensive wounds. There were microscopic fibers of the rope found under the subject's nails, indicating he secured the rope personally. By all appearances, the subject willingly hanged himself."

"You're handing me self-termination?" Eve demanded. "Just like that? Where's the tox report, the blood work?"

"I'm – I'm getting to that, Lieutenant. There were traces of ageloxite and – "

"Give her the street names, Herbert," Morse said mildly. "She's a cop, not a scientist."

"Oh, yes, sir. Sorry. Traces of um… Ease-Up were found in the victim's system, along with a small amount of home brew. This mix is quite commonly ingested by self-terminators to calm any nerves."

"This guy didn't pull his own plug, damn it."

"Yes, sir, I agree." Finestein's quiet agreement cut off Eve's tirade before it could begin.

"You agree?"

"Yes. The victim also ingested a large pretzel with considerable mustard less than an hour before death. Prior to this, he enjoyed a breakfast of wheat wafers, powdered eggs, and the equivalent of three cups of coffee."

"So?"

"If the subject knew enough to mix a cocktail of Ease-Up and alcohol before termination, he would have known that coffee can potentially counteract and cause anxiety. This, and the fact that the alcohol consumed was in very small proportion to the drug casts some doubt on self-termination."

"So, you're ruling homicide."

"I'm ruling suspicious death – undetermined." He swallowed as Eve's eyes bored into him. "Until more evidence weighs in on either side, I feel it's impossible to make the call."

"Just so. Well done, Herbert." Morse nodded. "The lieutenant will feed you details as she finds them."

Finestein looked relieved, and lie fled.

"You give me nothing," Eve complained.

"On the contrary. Herbert's given you a window. Most MEs would have slammed it shut, ruling ST. Instead, he's cautious, exacting, and thorough, and he considers the attitude of the victim rather than only the cold facts. Medically, undetermined was the best you were going to get."

"Undetermined," Eve muttered as she slid behind the wheel.

"Well, it gives us a window." Peabody glanced up from her palm unit, caught the coldly narrowed stare Eve aimed at her. "What? What did I say?"

"Next person says that, I'm throwing them out the goddamn window." She started the car. "Peabody, am I an ass-kicker?"

"Are you asking to see my scars, or is that a trick question?"

"Shut up, Peabody," Eve suggested, and headed back to Central.

"Quim had a hundred on tonight's arena ball game." Peabody's smile was thin and self-satisfied. "McNab just relayed the data. A hundred's his top bet. Odd he'd place a bet a few hours before offing himself, then not even wait around to see if he won. I've got the name and address of his bookie here. Oh, but I'm supposed to shut up. Sorry, sir."

"You want more scars?"

"I really don't. Now that I have a sex life, they're embarrassing. Maylou Jorgensen. She's got a hole in the West Village."

Peabody loved the West Village. She loved the way it ran from bohemian chic to pinstriped drones who wanted to be bohemian chic. She liked to watch the street traffic stroll by in ankle dusters or buttoned-up jumpsuits. The shaved heads, the wild tangles of multicolored curls. She liked watching the sidewalk artists pretend they were too cool to worry about selling their work.

Even the street thieves had a veneer of polish.

The glide-cart operators sold veggie kabobs plucked fresh from the fields of Greenpeace Park.

She thought longingly of dinner.

Eve pulled up in front of a tidy, rehabbed warehouse, double-parked, and turned on her On Duty sign.

"One of these days, I'd like to live in one of these lofts. All that space and a view of the street." Peabody scanned the area as she climbed from the car. "Look, there's a nice, clean deli on the corner there, and a 24/7 market on the other."

"You look for living quarters due to the proximity of food?"

"It's a consideration."

Eve flashed her badge at a security screen in working order, then entered the building. The tiny foyer boasted an elevator and four mail slots. All freshly scrubbed.

"Four units in a building this size." Peabody heaved a sigh. "Imagine."

"I'm imagining a bookie shouldn't be able to afford a place in here." On a hunch, Eve bypassed the buzzer for 2-A and used her shield to gain access to stairs. "We'll go up this way, surprise Maylou."

The building was utterly silent, telling her the soundproofing was first-rate. She thought of Quim's miserable flop a few telling blocks away. Bookies apparently did a lot better than the majority of their clients.

"Never bet against the house," Morse had said.

Truer words.

She pressed the buzzer on 2-A, waited. Moments later, the door swung open in front of an enormous redhead and a small, white, yapping dog.

"About time you – " The woman blinked hard gold eyes, narrowed them in a wild and striking face the tone and texture of alabaster. "I thought you were the dog walker. He's late. If you're selling, I'm not buying."

"Maylou Jorgensen?"

"So what?"

"NYPSD." Eve held up her badge then found her arms full of barking fur.

"Well, hell." Eve tossed the yelping dog at Peabody, then charged into the loft. Leaping, she tackled the redhead as the woman scrambled for a wide console, studded with controls and facing a wall of busy screens.

They went down like felled trees.

Before Eve could catch her breath, she was flipped to her back, pinned under a hundred eighty-five pounds of panicked female. She took a knee to the groin, spit in the eye, and only through lightning reflexes managed to avoid the rake of inch-long blue nails down her face.

Instead, they dug rivers in the side of her neck.

The smell of her own blood irritated her.

She bucked once, swore, then swung up, elbow in the lead. It slammed satisfactorily into Maylou's white face. Her nose erupted with blood.

She said, quite clearly: "Eek!"

Her gold eyes rolled up white, and her considerable weight flopped lifelessly on Eve.

"Get her off of me, for Christ's sake. There's a ton of her, and all of it's smothering me."

"Give me a hand. Dallas, she's like a slab of granite. Must be six-three. Push!"

Sweating, liberally sprayed with blood, Eve shoved. Peabody pulled. Eventually, Maylou was rolled onto her back, and Eve came up, gasping for air. "It was like being buried under a mountain. Jesus, shut that dog up."

"I can't. He's terrified." Peabody glanced over, with some sympathy, as the little dog backed his white butt into a corner and sent out high, ear-piercing barks.

"Stun it."

"Oh, Dallas." Peabody's tone was a whisper of utter horror.

"Never mind." Eve looked down at the blood spray on her shirt and jacket, gingerly lifted a hand to her raw neck. "Is much of this mine?"

"She made some mag grooves," Peabody announced after a quick exam. "I'll get the first aid kit."

"Later." Eve crouched down, frowned at the unconscious woman. "Let's roll her over and get the restraints on her before she wakes up."

It took some time, brought on more sweat, but they managed to secure her wrists behind her back. Eve straightened, studied the console.

"She's got something going on here. Thought we were a bust. Let's see what I remember about Vice and Bunko."

"Do you want me to call for a warrant?"

"Here's my warrant." Eve rubbed her fingers over her throbbing neck as she sat at the console. "Lots of numbers, lots of games. So what? Names, accounts, bets wagered, money owed. Looks clean enough on the surface." She glanced back. "Is she coming around yet?"

"Dead out, sir. You knocked her cold."

"Go find something to stuff in that dog's mouth before I use my foot."

"He's just a little dog," Peabody murmured and went to search out the kitchen.

"Too many numbers," Eve said to herself. "The pool's too damn deep for a nice little betting parlor. Loan-sharking. Yeah, I bet we got some loan-sharking here, and where you got sharks, you've got spine crackers. What else, what else?"

She turned, saw Peabody cooing to the dog and holding out a biscuit of some kind. Eve slipped out her pocket-link and called the one person she knew who could cut through the ocean of numbers and ride the right wave.

"I need Roarke a minute." She hissed it to his assistant when she came on-screen. "Just one quick minute."

"Of course, Lieutenant. Hold please."

"There's a sweet little dog, there's a nice little doggie. Aren't you pretty?"

Instead of razzing Peabody over the baby talk, Eve left her at it.

"Lieutenant." Roarke's face filled the screen. "What can I – " Instantly his easy smile vanished, and his eyes were bright and hard. "What happened, how badly are you hurt?"

"Not much. Mostly it's somebody else's blood. Look, I'm in a private betting parlor, and something's off. I've got some ideas, but take a quick look, give me your take."

"All right, if your next stop is a health center."

"I haven't got time for a health center."

"Then I haven't time for a consult."

"Goddamn it." She was tempted just to cut transmission, but took a steadying breath instead. "Peabody's going to get the first aid kit. I got a couple of scratches, that's all. I swear."

"Turn your head to the left."

She rolled her eyes but complied.

"Get them seen to." He snapped it out, then shrugged as if in acceptance. "Let me see what you're looking at."

"Lots of numbers. Different games," she began as she turned her unit so that he'd have her view. "Arena ball, baseball, the horses, the droid rats. I think the third screen from the right is – "

"Overdue loans on bets. Interest compounded well above legal limits. The screen directly below is outlay, for loan collection. On the screen beside that, you have what looks like private games – casino style. Look on your console, see if you find a control that's linked to that screen. If it's simple, it'll be something like 3-C, for the placement of the screen in the grid."

"Yeah, here."

"Give it a flip. Ah," he said as the screen switched to monitor and played a busy casino, full of smoke and tables and glassy-eyed patrons. "What kind of building are you in?"

"Loft, West Village, two levels, four units."

"I wouldn't be surprised if the other level isn't very busy at this moment."

"This area isn't zoned for gambling."

"Well then." He grinned at her. "Shame on them."

"Thanks for the tip."

"My pleasure, Lieutenant. See to that injury, Darling Eve, or I'll be seeing to it myself first chance. I won't be happy with you."

He cut her off before she could make some snippy remark, which she figured was just as well. She turned and caught Peabody, the little white dog nestled in her arms, watching her with speculation.

"He knows a lot about illegal gambling runs."

"He knows a lot about legal ones, too. He gave us a lever with Maylou here. Do you care how or why?"

"No." Peabody rubbed her cheek on the dog's fur, smiled. "It's just interesting. You going to bust the operation?"

"That's going to depend on Maylou here." Eve rose as the woman began to moan and stir. She made bubbling sounds, coughed, then began to buck, her enormous butt humping up, her surprisingly small feet kicking.

Eve simply crouched down. "Assaulting an officer," she began in an easy voice. "Resisting arrest, loan-sharking, spine cracking, running an illegal gambling facility. How's that for starters, Maylou?"

"You broke my nose."

At least that's what Eve assumed she said as the words were muffled and slurred. "Yep, looks like."

"You have to call the MTs. It's the law."

"Interesting, you refreshing me on the law. I think we can hold off on the broken nose a little while. Of course, the broken arm's going to need attention."

"I don't have a broken arm."

"Yet." Eve bared her teeth. "Now, Maylou, if you want medical attention and want me to consider looking the other way as regards your enterprise downstairs, tell me all there is to tell about Linus Quim."

"You're not here to bust me?"

"That's up to you. Quim."

"Penny-ante. Not a gambler, he just plays at it. Like a hobby. He's lousy at it. Costs him an average of a hundred K a year. Never bets more than a hundred bills straight, and usually half that, but he's regular. Jesus, my face is killing me. Can't I have some Go-Numb?"

"When did you talk to him last?"

"Last night. He likes to do the e-betting deal rather than over the 'link. Transmits twice a week, minimum. Last night, he laid a hundred on the Brawlers on tonight's arena ball – and that's rich, for him. Said he was feeling lucky."

"Did he?" Eve leaned closer. "Did he say that, exactly?"

"Yeah. He says, put me down a hundred on the Brawlers for tomorrow night. I'm feeling lucky. He even smiled, sort of. Said he was going to double it and let it ride on the next night once he won."

"In a good mood, was he?"

"For Quim, he was doing a happy dance. Guy's mostly a pain in the ass, a whiner. But he pays up, and he's regular, so I got no beef with him."

"Good thing. Now, that wasn't so bad, was it, Maylou?"

"You're not going to bust me?"

"I don't work Vice or Bunko. You're not my problem." She released the restraints, hooked them in her back pocket. "If I were you, I'd call the MTs and tell them I walked into a wall – tripped over your little dog."

"Squeakie!" Maylou rolled over to her ample butt, threw open her arms. The dog leaped out of Peabody's hold and into Maylou's lap. "Did the nasty cop hurt Mama's baby girl?"

With a shake of her head, Eve headed out. "Give it two weeks," she told Peabody, "then call Hanson in Vice and give him this address."

"You said you weren't going to bust her."

"No, I said she wasn't my problem. She's going to be Hanson's."

Peabody glanced back. "What's going to happen to the dog? Hey, and the apartment. Maybe the bust will drive down the rent. You should see the kitchen, Dallas. It's mag."

"Keep dreaming." She got in the car, then scowled when Peabody popped the dash compartment. "What are you doing?"

"First aid kit."

"Stay away from me."

"It's either me or the health center."

"I don't need a health center. Don't touch me."

"Stop being a baby." Enjoying the role of nurse, Peabody chose her tools. "Ass-kickers aren't afraid of a little first aid kit. Close your eyes if you don't want to see."

Trapped, Eve gripped the wheel, closed her eyes. She felt the quick, biting sting of the antiseptic before the numbing properties took hold. The smell of it spun in her head, rolled into her belly.

She heard the low hum of the suture wand.

She started to make some sarcastic comment to take her mind off the annoyance of the procedure. Then suddenly, she was sucked back.

The dim and dingy health center ward. The hundreds of stings as hundreds of cuts were treated. The vile buzz of the machines as her broken arm was examined.

"What's your name? You have to give us your name. Tell us who hurt you? What's your name? What happened to you?"

I don't know. In her mind she screamed it, again and again. But she lay still, she lay silent, trapped in terror as strangers poked and prodded, as they stared and they questioned.

"What's your name?"

"I don't know!"

"Sir. Dallas. Hey."

Eve opened her eyes, stared into Peabody's wide ones. "What? What is it?"

"You're really pale. Dallas, you look a little sick. Maybe we should swing by a health center after all."

"I'm all right." Her hands fisted hard until she felt herself steady again. "I'm okay. Just need some air." She ordered the window down, started the car.

And pushed the helpless young girl back into the darkest corner of her mind.