Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

Surprised by the question, Eve, on the point of rising, sat again. “Why?”

“I’ll take care of the arrangements for him.”

“Why would you do that?”

“He was a regular, and he brought in business. He still had a rep with a cue, and gamers came in to play against him. People come in, they buy drinks, sex, play other games. He was a screwed-up junkie, but I never knew of him hurting anybody but himself. He doesn’t deserve to get shoved in the state furnace. If he doesn’t have somebody, I’ll take care of it.”

“He has a mother,” Peabody told him, glancing at her PPC. “In Trenton.”

Carmine nodded. “If she can’t afford to take care of him, I will. If you can let me know.”

“I can do that.”

“He was just a screwed-up, harmless asshole,” Carmine murmured.

And that, Eve thought, was the perfect epitaph for Ledo.

• • •

Back at Central Eve booked a conference room, sent out a division-wide memo. Anyone not active in the field or obliged to be in court would be required to attend the briefing.

She wrote her report on Ledo, copied Whitney, Mira—and included her notes on her visit to Hilly Decker.

She updated her board, spent some time staring at it.

An incoming from Mira contained another five names—two New York residents this time.

She read all the letters—got the same queasy feeling at the idea of being the center of someone’s intense attention and need.

After adding the letters, the ID shots to her growing file, she opted to hunt down Yancy. Maybe Misty Polinsky had come through with something—anything—they could use.

She found Yancy at his desk, working at his comp with his artist pad at his elbow. His mass of hair curled around an appealing face—she’d seen him use his looks to distract a wit from nerves.

“Hey, Dallas, I was just getting this ready for you. You just missed Misty. Ah, Roarke sent her transpo—I figured you knew.”

“Yeah. How’d she do?”

“Pretty good once we got rolling. She actually drew this.”

He picked up the sketch pad, tossed back a page. “She’s got some raw talent.”

Eve frowned down at the image of someone who looked to be wearing a combination of sweeper cover and a hazmat suit.

“That’s it?”

“It’s close. Working with her, we got more like this.”

He turned over his own sketch.

“Burly build.”

“Maybe. But working with her, again, she said she thought, was nearly sure, the bug guy—she calls him—was wearing his coat under the suit. White coverall—but she remembered seeing boots, which she covered up in her initial sketch. She thinks brown work boots. Brown gloves like you see here. She remembered that—the brown against the white cover. Work boots, work gloves. And the white hood, pulled up, pretty sure again attached to the cover. And you see, she’s got this brown ski cap under it. Then the mask, and safety glasses. Her impression was the bug guy was white, but she’s not sure.”

“Never got a look at his face,” Eve stated flatly.

“Nope. Goggles, hood, mask. And when she peeked out, talked to him, he turned away. Her impression was he was pretty strong as he hauled the tank easily. But we don’t know how full or heavy it was.”

“You can buy coveralls like this at any hardware, paint store, uniform shop. Same with the mask, the glasses. Nothing stood out? No logo, company name?”