Page 125 of Random in Death
The fashion dish part wore a lavender lab coat over a plum-colored, body-conscious sheath. The skyscraper heels matched the coat. She’d tamed her hair, currently highlighted in copper, into a sleek twist that left her impressive face unframed.
She and Berenski appeared to be enjoying an animated conversation.
It paused when they spotted Eve.
DeWinter said, “Dallas.”
Eve said, “DeWinter.”
DeWinter smiled past her. “Hello, Peabody. I’m told the incident last night was attempted murder. I’m glad the victim survived. I hope you find who attacked her, who killed the other girls very soon.”
“We’re getting there,” Eve said before Peabody could. “No bone work needed on this investigation.”
“A good thing, as I’m hip-deep in one of my own. Remains found during demolition of a condemned building in Yonkers. Encased in one of the foundation columns after being bludgeoned, then shot in the back of the head twice. I’ve dated them at between a hundred and thirty and a hundred and thirty-five years old.”
“Odds are whoever put them there’s buried elsewhere by now.”
“Very true, but no less fascinating. And we do need answers.”
“Yeah, I need answers, too, and mine deal with the right now. Fingerprints, Berenski.”
“I’ll leave you three to discuss the right now. I appreciate the assist, Dick.”
“Anytime, Garnet. You have a good one.”
She sashayed off—at least that was the word that sprang to Eve’s mind.
“Now, that’s a woman who knows how to dress, how to act, and how to get shit done. You look pretty good, Peabody. You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
“Because I am. Jenna Harbough’s.”
His shoulders drooped. “Yeah. Well.”
“Prints.”
“I’m on them, for Christ’s sake, and I’ve got my best man on them with me. You know how many prints were on that door?”
“I believe Peabody’s term was a crapload.”
“Yeah? Let me up that to a crap and a half load. We’re pushing on it, damn it. I got a soft spot for little girls, so… Not that way. I ain’t no perv or pedo.”
“You’re not a pedo,” Eve said, and teased a smile out of him.
“Only get pervy with women over the legal age. It’s taken some time to eliminate. Looks to me like they never wiped down the damn door, or hadn’t in weeks. And it looks to me like a lot of the staff used it. See, they probably shut off the alarm, went out that way to catch a smoke or a snoot or try for a bang. You just prop it open while you’re out there.”
He slid down the counter on his stool, brought up an image on-screen. “Here’s the section I’m working. A crapload, smeared prints, partials. I had a pal back in high school, right? He worked a vid place. Between shows, after the last one, they gotta clean the place because people are pigs. Trash they can’t bother to toss in a bin, spilled drinks, and all that. And they gotta police it before opening. So they sneak breaks out the back.”
Eve had figured all that out due to the crapload, but didn’t bother to point it out.
“I’ve eliminated seventy-three percent of this section, unless you want to tell me this fuckhead’s employed there.”
“No, I don’t want to tell you that. He had to leave prints, Berenski. He was running, panicked. No reason for him to seal up like he did the first one.”
She leaned closer to the screen. “He knew he’d have to grab the windowsill at the club, but here, all he’d need to do was rap the bar with his hip.”
“We checked the bar first. What we can pull’s staff. A couple partials, but wicked smeared. We’re working to try to get something from them, but it’s not likely.”
“He’s short.” She put herself back in the theater, running for the door, shoving people aside. Full panic. “Maybe he doesn’t hit the bar with his hands. Whole body slam, hands more up here. Or he’s still got enough in him to remember the hip or side-body bump, but aren’t you going to slap at the door? Instinct, flight instinct. People are screaming, yelling, the alarm goes off. And you’re panicked, you’re going to shove at the door.