Page 34 of Random in Death
“Pete—PR’s working on one, but—”
“He’s bucking PR,” Nadine interrupted. “I’m working with them because Jake’s idea of a statement was and is a mess.”
“I don’t want some hollow-ass, two-sentence nothing.” He snapped it out. Eve figured this marked the first time she’d heard him snap out anything.
“And you can’t feed the public an overemotional, guilt-ridden soliloquy,” Nadine responded with absolute and utter calm.
Before Jake could snap again—because she could see it coming—Eve held up a hand. “I’m going to bet the answer’s between those two. You do want to keep it brief,” she added. “You don’t want to say too much, for Jenna’s sake, her family’s, and for the investigation. And you don’t want it to sound like someone else wrote it. I don’t know your PR people, but I’m going to say it’d be smart to give Nadine the lead on this.”
“I’m backing up the lieutenant on this one, too,” Peabody commented. “Nadine knows how the media works, she knows how we work, and she knows you.”
“I’d like to look it over before you release it,” Eve said. “You don’t have any obligation there, but—”
“I’d actually appreciate your take,” Nadine told her. “I’ll send you a copy of what we’ve drafted.”
“I don’t want it to sound cold.” With a wince, Jake looked at Nadine. “Sorry, really sorry. I didn’t mean you’re cold, or sound like it. It’s just—You need to cut me some slack.”
“All you need. This time.”
“I have to get back to it. Peabody, do the one-on-one, then you get back to it.”
Jake rose as Eve did. “I know you’re not big on… cut me some slack,” he said, and hugged her. “Thanks.”
“Okay. Keep it short,” she told Nadine. “We’ve got work.”
She headed back, then turned into the bullpen. Both her detectives sat at their own desks. “Status?”
“They’re kids. Few dings.” Santiago shrugged as he worked. “Shoplifting, underage drinking, truancy. Kid crap.”
“I took the adults first.” Carmichael mimicked her partner’s shrug. “Few little dings. Nothing pops.”
She imagined either of them finding something that broke the case hit the same odds as Santiago beating Carmichael at cards.
In her office, she contacted the parents of each of the victim’s friends to arrange a follow-up interview. It didn’t surprise her both agreed to come into Central.
A lot of people didn’t like cops in the house. Bonus? It saved her time.
What did surprise her came in the form of a lab report in her incoming.
Somebody had spent Sunday morning analyzing vomit.
And had matched it to the victim’s DNA.
The contents, other than cherry fizzy, soy fries, gummy candy, included a junkie’s dream stash. The heroin both she and Morris had suspected, along with ketamine, a trace of potassium chloride—something she knew had once been used in lethal injections before the outlawing of capital punishment.
And the surprising addition of Rohypnol.
Why add in a date-rape drug when death was the goal?
The heroin, confirming Morris’s take, wasn’t Junk, not street-level, but high-octane, and not cut with any of the usual cheap agents.
Death was the goal.
But why the other drugs? Why the roofie? Why the dirty needle?
Playing? Experimenting?
She got up, programmed coffee, and drank it standing at her skinny window, looking out at her view of New York.