Treachery in Death (In Death 32)

But it had to be done.

When the sweepers arrived, she hunted up the head CSI. “I’m going to want a full-level sweep, all three levels.”

Eve got the beady eye. “Is this a joke?”

“No. And I tagged the lock on the front door. I need make, model, and an analysis of when it was installed.”

“Petrie put you up to this, didn’t he? He’s got a sick sense of humor.”

“Do you have a problem being thorough, Kurtz?”

Behind her goggles, the woman rolled her eyes. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that isn’t some dead chemi-head but the Prince of Monaco or some shit.”

“No, I’m pretty sure he’s some dead chemi-head. He’s also my dead guy, and I need what I need.”

“You’ll get what you need, but it’d be better all around to just burn everything in here. Purify.”

“Don’t light the match until after the sweep.”

That, at least, got a smile out of Kurtz before Eve left the scene to the sweepers and the body to the morgue team.

On her way out she sent a text to Morris, the chief medical examiner, requesting he take the body himself.

“There’s going to be some muttering about going top level on this,” Peabody commented once they were outside, recorders off.

“Just what I had in mind.”

She got behind the wheel and headed off to a sex club to rat out Renee Oberman.

When she walked into the Down and Dirty, Crack stood huge behind the bar. His shaved head gleamed like polished onyx, and his chest, his muscled arms, bared but for a sleeveless vest, rippled with tattoos.

He shot her a steely stare. “You screwed my beauty sleep, white girl.”

“Black man, just how much prettier do you want to be?”

“Smart answer.” He inclined his head toward a corner table. “Got a rat in the house.”

“Yeah.” She’d already spotted Webster. “I’ve got reasons. I owe you one, Crack. I’ll owe you two if you keep the place shut until I’m done.”

“This time of day that ain’t no thing. Figure one and a half. Want coffee?”

Experience told her the coffee here was as lethal as the booze. “Maybe water?”

He snorted, but pulled two bottles from under the bar, then after a moment’s hesitation added a third. “Rats get thirsty, too.”

“Appreciate it.” Eve passed a bottle to Peabody, carried the other two across the room to Webster.

“Too early for entertainment,” he commented.

She glanced toward the stage. In a couple hours a holoband would set the rhythm for the strippers on early shift, and the scatter of customers would insult their deteriorating stomach linings with hard drinks and cheap brew.

By midnight, the place would be ass-to-ass and elbow-to-elbow under swirling lights. Upstairs in the privacy rooms people—many who’d just met—would be humping away at each other like crazed rabbits.

“I could ask Crack to put on a couple virtual strippers, but I think what we’ve got for you is entertaining enough.”

“It better be. How’s it going, Peabody?”

“I guess we’re going to find out.”