Page 31 of Passions in Death
“Okay,” Peabody began. “Statements are Albright was always open to off-the-books work if she didn’t have something else going. So whenever one of the three venues we have needed more hands, they’d tag her. Usually she said yes. Which she did to a cleaning job yesterday morning. She worked with an Andrew Minor, from eight to about eleven-thirty. That’s confirmed.”
“Finished there, went by the D&D to pick up the swipe,” Eve concluded.
“Yeah, she told Minor she had some errands. As it was rarely more than a hundred bucks, they paid her in cash. And she’d make that or more in tips with the bar and the catering deal. I hear personable, friendly, efficient, good worker from all of them. Oh, and Chassie isn’t employed by her mother’s company. She works at the Met—the museum—but will occasionally pitch in.”
In the car, Peabody strapped in. “She and the victim went to high school together, and Albright worked part-time and a chunk of the summer with the cleaning service.”
“Okay. We’re going to head in. You can do the runs. Start with the other artists. Unlikely the killer would’ve stayed—had to get rid of the murder weapon, what he took off the body. But we’ll run McNab’s group, just to cover it.”
“I’ll get it rolling. You know, both Albright and Hunnicut have what feels like a tight circle of friends, and in both cases some of that going back to high school.”
“Okay, and?”
“Well, a lot of people—probably most—scatter after high school. Different colleges, jobs, interests, locations. But these two found their tribe—or a member of their tribe—early and stuck. Stuck and expanded, then like blended tribes.
“It’s like you and Mavis.”
Though she saw where Peabody was going, Eve decided to make her work for it. “Mavis and I never planned to marry each other.”
“Now that I think about it…” Peabody angled her head. “You’d make a cute couple. But what it is? The two of you recognized each other, on some level. So even though you busted her for street grifting way back, the two of you stuck. I met Mavis through you, and we have that hook, but we also have our own level of friendship. Same with the rest of the tribe.”
Eve pulled into the garage at Central. “Now we have a tribe?”
“Sure. You, Mavis, me, Nadine, Reo, Mira, Trina—”
“Wait!” After she got out of the car, Eve slammed the door. “Don’t I get a vote on tribe membership? I never voted for Trina.”
“It’s not a democracy, it’s a tribe. Louise, Callendar, and Harvo are in there. We’re connected, and we’re connected inside the connection. We’re all separate women with different backgrounds, personalities, and all that, but together? Tribe.”
They crossed the garage to the elevators.
“It feels to me like Albright and Hunnicut worked the same way, so it’s hard to see a member of their tribe having any part in the murder.”
“So, you’ve never heard of intertribal warfare or treachery?”
Frowning, Peabody got on the elevator with Eve. “Okay, point, but wouldn’t it be hard to keep that hidden? Hidden so well, nobody else in the tribe got a hint?”
“Peabody, if people weren’t at least half-decent at wearing masks, we’d never have to investigate a homicide. We’d just scan the tribe, say, and point, ‘You, you there with the murder face. You’re under arrest.’ Then the judge and/or jury would take one look when he went to trial and it’s: ‘Murder Face is guilty on all counts.’”
“Murder Face,” Peabody speculated as the elevator bumped to a stop. When the doors opened, two uniforms and a guy with clown-orange hair, blue baggies with rainbow suspenders, and a shirt that read WHEE!! stepped on.
“What’s a murder face look like? Bared teeth? Slitty eyes?”
Clown Hair turned around, blew a small blue bubble with his gum. Obviously one of Feeney’s, Eve thought.
“Is it a crime of passion or planned?”
“Planned.”
“Ditch the teeth and slitty eyes. You’d go for something like…” He had bright green eyes, animated eyes that suddenly went blank.
Not flat like a cop’s, Eve noted. But just dead. Like a shark’s.
And she had to admit he pulled it off.
“Nah.” One of the uniforms shook her head as the elevator stopped again and more cops filed on. “Me? I’d go for the friendly face.” She burst out with a wide smile and eyes just over the edge of crazy. “Then it’s ‘Hey, pal,’ right before you shove the knife in their throat.”
The other uniform disagreed. “Not me. I’d go for the helpless, with mild distress. ‘Oh, could you give me a hand? I can’t quite—’ Then you bash them over the head.”
