Memory in Death (In Death 22)

Another appearance-appropriate name, she decided. The man was barely five feet in height and couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds. He used the short guy’s compensation swagger and wore a bright blue suit with a florid pink shirt. His hair was short, straight, reminding her of pictures of Julius Caesar.

It was ink black, like his eyes.

A silver eyetooth winked as he offered a smile.

“Something I can do for you, Officers?”

“Mr. Gant?”

He spread his hands, nodded at Peabody. “Just call me Zero.”

“I’m afraid we’ve had a complaint. We’re going to need you to come downtown and answer some questions.”

“What sort of complaint?”

“It involves the sale of illegal substances.” Peabody glanced to one of the privacy cubes. “Such as the ones currently being ingested by some of your clientele.”

“Privacy booths.” This time he raised his spread hands in a shrug. “Hard to keep your eye on everyone. But I’ll certainly have those people removed. I run a class establishment.”

“We’ll talk about that downtown.”

“Am I under arrest?”

Peabody lifted her eyebrows. “Do you want to be?”

The good humor in Zero’s eyes hardened into something much less pleasant. “Bull, contact Fienes, have him meet me…”

“Cop Central,” Peabody supplied. “With Detective Peabody.”

Zero got his coat, a long white number that probably was one hundred percent cashmere. As they stepped outside, Eve looked down at him.

“You got an idiot on your door, Zero.”

Zero lifted his shoulders. “He has his uses.”

* * *

Eve took a winding route through Central, giving Zero a bored glance. “Holidays,” she said vaguely as they mobbed onto another people glide. “Everybody’s scrambling to clear their desks so they can sit around and do nothing. Lucky to book an interview room for an hour the way things are.”

“Waste of time.”

“Come on, Zero, you know how it goes. You get a complaint, you do the dance.”

“I know most of the Illegals cops.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t know you, but there’s something…”

“People get transferred, don’t they?”

Off the glide, she led the way to one of the smaller interview rooms. “Have a seat,” she invited, gesturing to one of the two chairs at a little table. “You want something? Coffee, whatever?”

“Just my lawyer.”

“I’ll go check on that. Detective? Can I have a minute?”

She stepped out, closed the door behind Peabody. “I was about to check my pockets for bread crumbs,” Peabody commented. “Why did we circle around?”

“No point letting him know we’re Homicide unless he asks. Far as he knows, this is a straight Illegals inquiry. He knows the ropes, knows how to grease them. He’s not worried about us taking a little poke there. Figures if we’ve got a solid complaint, he’ll fob it off, pay a fine, go back to business as usual.”

“Cocky little son of a bitch,” Peabody muttered.