Page 9 of Bonded in Death

She sealed her hands, her boots, then opened the passenger door.

The victim lay, mouth agape, eyes wide—the white showed streaks of red under the film of death. He had a faint blue tinge to his lips. He wore a light jacket, a collared shirt beneath, tan pants, brown loafers.

He wore a wedding band on his left hand, a ring with a blue stone on his right.

A wineglass lay on the carpeted floor, and the stain on the carpet, a splatter on the door panel looked more like wine than blood.

His hands, fisted, looked as if he’d fought something or someone. The card stuck up between his clenched fingers.

“The victim, as yet unidentified, is male. Hair gray, eyes brown. About… five-ten, approximately two hundred pounds. He’s got a business card—what appears to be one of my business cards in his right hand. I’m removing it.”

She tugged it out, and it took a tug.

“Appears to be my card, but it’s not. The paper’s thicker than mine. There’s printing on the back—all bold, all caps.

“‘Here lies the dead Wasp,’” she began, and recording it visually, read out the message.

“Someone wants me to know he killed this guy, and intends to keep at it. Who the hell is the vic?”

She took out her Identi-pad, managed with some effort to turn the victim’s thumb onto it.

“The vic is identified as Giovanni Rossi, Rome, Italy. Age seventy-nine. No New York address or U.S. address. Mitgy, check the trunk. Seal up first.”

She backed out enough to toss him her can of Seal-It, then her master.

She slid back in, began to go through the victim’s pockets.

“Got a passport. And a ’link, a wallet. He’s wearing two rings and a wrist unit. Killer didn’t bother to help himself. Not even,” she noted when she checked the wallet, “to about three K in USD, and, ah, that again in euros.”

“There’s a suitcase, Lieutenant, and a shoulder bag in the trunk.”

“Just came in, didn’t you, Rossi? Just flew into New York tonight, from Rome. Limo picked you up. Wasp, what the hell does that mean? Wasp, Fawn, Hawk, Rabbit.”

And where the hell was Peabody?

“Blane, run the limo’s plates. Mitgy, check international flights, Rome to New York City.”

She found the ’link passcoded—not a surprise.

She checked the body for wounds.

“No injuries visible other than the knuckles, both hands.”

She frowned at the window. “Looks like a little blood on the glass.”

“Lieutenant, a vehicle of this description was reported stolen seven days ago. Executive Transportation.”

“A week. Couldn’t have it on the street for a week. Had it stashed somewhere. Had adjustments to make.”

She climbed out. On the off-chance, she hit the ignition. It purred to life. “He didn’t bother to lock the ignition. Didn’t bother with the code. Done with it.”

She hunted and found the mechanism for the privacy screen, lifted it.

Rounding to the back again, she studied the screen from the victim’s side. “Blood traces, and it looks like he tried to kick it out.”

She looked back at Rossi.

“You’re trapped.” She tried to lower the window, and it didn’t budge. Tried the door handle. It stayed firmly in place. “Locked in. Pro job, all the markings of a pro. But why the card, my card, the message?”

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