Delusion in Death (In Death 35)

People moved fast, heads down. Busy, busy. She smelled the smoky scent of soy dogs, the heady grease of fries, the bitter edge of take-out coffee. She spotted a girl in high boots, a puffy purple coat, and a rainbow of scarves walking a pair of big white dogs. Or they walked her as she trotted to keep up with their manic prance. A sidewalk sleeper bundled in so many layers only his narrowed eyes showed. He hunched on a threadbare blanket against a building and sported a sign announcing the end of days.

She wondered if he heard any coins or credits thunk into his cup with such depressing billing.

She stopped, hunkered down. “If the world’s ending, what do you need money for?”

“Gotta eat, don’t I? Gotta eat. I got a beggar’s license inside my coat.”

“Which coat?” She dug in her pocket, tossed in some change though she figured he’d spend it on brew rather than a bowl of soup. “This your usual spot?”

“No. Buncha people killed right down there. People come to look, maybe they spare some change. Like you. ’Cept cops don’t usually spare some change.”

“Cops don’t usually have it to spare.” She got up, walked on. She passed the bar, resisted the urge to go in. Nothing new to see, she thought. But the sleeper was right. She watched a few people take pictures of the front, a couple more try to see in the window over the door.

Bloody murder always drew a crowd.

She snagged fries and a tube of Pepsi at the next cart—who could resist that smell? And ate her way back to Central as the thin, pretty flakes of snow turned to a bitter, wetter sleet.

She stopped by the bullpen first, noted Baxter’s and Trueheart’s absence, Jenkinson’s and Reineke’s empty desks. She walked over to Sanchez.

“Looks lonely in here.”

“Baxter and Trueheart headed out. Arkansas. Reineke and Jenkinson just left, going to tug a few lines.”

“You and Carmichael are picking up a lot of slack. Anything you need?”

“We’ve got it, LT.”

“Let me know if that changes.”

“The Stewart deal—brother of a vic? He’s wrong, but it’s not connected. We’re sniffing him down on embezzlement, and maybe doing the missing accountant. He looks good for both. Thing is, the sister’s death triggers an automatic inventory of the trust. Last thing he’d want. We don’t like him for the bar.”

“Then get him on the rest.”

“It’s looking good. I heard you were bringing the suspect in.”

“You heard right. With any luck we can close this up, get back to what passes for normal.”

He’d only been assigned to her for a few months, but he’d slipped right into the rhythm. She considered, angled her head.

“I bet you know who’s stealing my candy.”

He gave her a blank cop’s stare. “What candy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.”

She went to her office, ditched her coat, sat to write up her report. While she had time, she walked out, into the conference room.

She turned the boards around, gathered the copies she wanted, began to arrange them. Connected some, wrote in time frames. Kept it all loose, a little scattered, a little vague.

Except for the board of vics. That one she covered with the images of the dead.

She studied the table, noted no one had tossed the box Feeney’d brought in that morning—though she didn’t see even a single crumb inside.

That was fine. She left it there, tossed some files on the table, programmed shitty coffee, poured half of it out, set the mug on the table.

She hunted up more debris.

“Lieutenant, I heard you were back in the house.”