Page 32 of Passions in Death
By the time the elevator stopped again, every cop in the car had an opinion on Murder Face.
Eve squeezed out and headed for the glides.
Peabody trotted after her.
“I never thought about how diverse and varied murder faces are.”
“I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“No, it’s a good point. And it’s not like I just look at the surface—I know better. But the friendships in this tribe just strike me as the real deal.”
“Remember poisoned champagne, the devoted wife, the loving husband? That bond came off real.”
“Well, yeah, but she was a professional. Actress, I mean. She knew how to put on the show.”
“Any killer worth his salt knows how to put on the show. And what the fucking fuck does that mean? The salt? Why did I say that? That’s what happens,” she said darkly, “you get sucked into spouting those sayings that make no sense. Sucked in.”
She jumped off the glide and arrowed toward Homicide.
One foot in the door, and Jenkinson’s tie assaulted her with its multicolored smiley-faced cartoon stars over a wild blue sky.
“Detective Sergeant.”
“Yo, Loo!”
“Status.”
“Rocking and a-rolling. Carmichael and Santiago caught one about an hour ago. Baxter and Trueheart”—he chin-pointed to where Baxter in his sharp suit worked his ’link, and the earnest-faced Trueheart his comp—“they’re following up some leads.”
In acknowledgment, Baxter tapped a finger to his temple in salute.
“Me and Reineke got a breather, so we dug out a cold one.”
“No case, however cold, can outwit the badge,” Reineke said.
“Let me know if you thaw it out. Runs, Peabody, and get an update from McNab.”
She strode straight to her office, and straight to the AutoChef for coffee. Then with said coffee, took two quiet minutes at her skinny window with New York rocking and a-rolling below.
Peabody wasn’t wrong about how the friendships and bonds of the group connection to the victim and Hunnicut felt genuine.
But feelings weren’t facts. Resentments and worse could and did simmer well under the surface until something—anything—set them to boil.
At this point, evidence indicated—strongly—the victim knew her killer. A member of the tribe, as Peabody termed it? Maybe, maybe not. But someone known, someone trusted enough to do a favor and keep a secret.
And that, she thought, equaled: Advantage badge.
She sat at her desk and opened the murder book.
Another hit of coffee, and she began on her board.
Plenty of names and faces, she thought, and the bulk of them already eliminated due to their whereabouts at TOD.
But that didn’t mean they had no connection to the murder. Advertent, or inadvertent.
Friendships were often complicated, she thought as she worked. And man, could she attest there. Then those connections within the larger group brought in different levels, different dynamics.
Friend A’s great, Friend B says to Friend C. And Friend C agrees, but adds how it bugs the crap out of her when Friend A does X. And snickering in solidarity, Friend B agrees there. Right before she tags up Friend A and tells her how Friend C trashed her about X.
