Page 58 of Obsession in Death

When Eve only nodded, he walked over, got a tube of Pepsi from his friggie.

“Thanks. Morris, I’ve got to ask. Have any of your people—the techs, the docs, the drivers, maintenance, anybody, shown a particular interest in my cases, my DBs?”

“You’ve had some noteworthy ones, so there’s been interest. But not undue, not to my mind. And no one who’s regularly or routinely taken one.”

“But you discuss, consult, coordinate.”

“Yes, we do.” He took the tube, cracked it himself, handed it back to her. “It’s hard what we do—murder cops, death doctors, and those who work with us. So you have to consider that, consider someone who’s signed on to do good may turn, and do what puts people on my table.”

And that, Eve thought, was exactly what she feared.

“He’s smart, Morris, and he’s skilled. Trained, I think, I really do. But he’s not as smart as he thinks because he thinks he leaves nothing behind.”

“And he leaves his words.”

“That’s right, and the words are his thoughts, his feelings, his motives. So that’s a lot to leave behind. I just have to figure out how to... read between the lines.”

She took a long drink, felt the caffeine slide in. “Now I have to go talk to the fucking media.”

“Be brave, my child.”

That got a snort of laughter out of her. “The slick and chilly high-powered defense attorney, and the low-life chemi-head. Is there a pattern there?”

She started to pace, tried to find it.

Morris glanced at Peabody. “How’s that hot chocolate?”

“I think it’s a small, pale island off the continent of hot chocolate, but it carries a faint whiff.”

“Time wise,” Eve said out loud, “I had my first, annoying meet with Bastwick the summer of ’58, my last with Ledo around January ’59. So that’s a possible timeline. Possibly chronological. That would be organized, efficient.”

And she shoved her hands in her pockets. “Which doesn’t give me much of dick, because I’ve gone around with a hell of a lot of people between early ’59 and now. He’s got two years, basically, to pluck from.”

“No physical altercation with Bastwick, but one with Ledo,” Peabody suggested. “Maybe an escalation of crimes—in the killer’s view.”

“Maybe. Maybe that’s something to look at. Ledo’s was an accident, so maybe I try to find something deliberate.” She rolled her eyes as she took another drink. “And again, how many people have taken a pop at me in the past couple years? Or, say, said fuck you, bitch cop—verbal disrespect escalating from Bastwick—maybe added a shove? And we won’t find him by trying to forecast his next victim.”

She shook that off. “The words, the pattern—that’s what he leaves behind. And the victims,” she added with another glance at Ledo. “There’s a guy named Carmine Atelli. He’s going to take care of the arrangements for Ledo.”

“A relative?”

“No, in a weird way a good Samaritan. He’ll be in touch.” She polished off the Pepsi, slowly rolled the tube. “What color do you call that suit?”

“Carnelian.”

“Isn’t that the animal who changes colors?”

“That’s a chameleon.”

“Okay. Well, I like the color so it’s good it doesn’t change on you.” She two-pointed the tube into the recycler. “Still got it,” she said, and headed out.

“That you do,” Morris agreed, then turned back to Ledo. “And she’ll use that to find who did this to you. If the killer doesn’t know that, he doesn’t know her as intimately as he believes.”

•••

She got back into Central for a last quick briefing from Kyung.

“I know the drill,” she told him.

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