Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

“A mom called you the C word?”

“What’s giving birth have to do with it?”

“Well, it’s just . . . a mom.”

“This mom wrote a second time after Nadine?

??s book hit the best-seller lists, and in that one I’m a glory-seeking whore-bitch with seeping pus in my heart, and my judgment day won’t be far off. Oh, and she prays every night that the day comes when I get true justice and burn screaming in everlasting hellfire.”

“Well, wow. She’s got a way with words.”

“It made for interesting reading. So maybe the daughter’s devised a way to answer her mother’s prayers.”

“But the UNSUB’s been obsessed with being your friend and partner, not sending you and your pus-seeping heart into everlasting hellfire.”

“Maybe that’s bullshit—the friend and partner. Maybe a smart cop could figure out how to send us chasing the wild turkey.”

“It’s goose, the wild goose. I’m pretty sure wild turkey is some kind of whiskey.”

“Kentucky bourbon,” said a helpful uniform sardined in the elevator with them. “Good stuff if you can get it. Got family in Lexington. My uncle’s been known to chase the wild goose after a few rounds of Wild Turkey.”

That got him a laugh from some of the cops before he squeezed off.

“Goose, turkey, they’re both weird-looking birds. The messages link me to two murders in the media,” Eve continued as they rode the elevator to the garage. “We can look at it as a kind of payback. Long shot,” Eve added before Peabody could. “But the mother’s letters are full of crazy rage. The daughter’s a wrong cop. Maybe she’s full of crazy rage, too.”

In the garage she headed for the big All-Terrain. “Then we’ll take the other tack with ex-officer Farmer. I don’t know how this one got through the screening for a badge in the first place.”

Eve strapped in, thought it was a little like sitting at the controls of a fancy tank, reversed out of the slot.

“She’s loony. Smart though, which may be how she got through screening. She did the six-week fast track, aced pretty much across the board. But she fell apart once she was on the job. Unless it’s true pretty much everyone she has contact with—male, female, cop, suspect, bystander—sexually harasses her. She filed charges about every five minutes, then whined nobody understood her or would work with her.”

“Gee, that’s really unfair.” Peabody rolled her eyes.

“She knows I get it, though, and has contacted me a few times with requests to work as my aide. Failing that, given her experience—for the last eight months as a skip tracer—she could be my main CI.”

“She sounds like a real winner. But the sex part doesn’t fit.”

“No, it doesn’t. But the rest does. And still, both the mother and this perennially sexually harassed skip tracer both contacted me through active e-mail accounts.”

“Still have to follow them up.”

“So we are. Mavis is in rehearsal. Mantal and Grommet are on her and Leonardo and Bella.”

“Good hands. We had Delivery Roulette with them a few weeks ago.”

“Delivery Roulette?”

“Yeah.” Though the temperature had risen enough to turn the ice to slush, Peabody kept a choke hold on the chicken stick. “Mavis tagged us, and we were just hanging, so we went down. We play it every couple months I guess—their place or ours. Easy since we’re in the same building. Security was there because she asked them to stay after the gig. What she does is spread out all the delivery menus, then you have to close your eyes, pick one—then pick a number. You have to order from that menu, and that item. It goes down the line. Hilarious when you end up with this mix of Thai, Chinese, Italian, vegan, and whatever. Ben and Steve were good sports about it.”

“Trina,” Eve remembered.

“Sure, she’s been in on it a few times.”

“No, you need to contact her because I’m not putting myself there. I want her to watch her ass while this is going on. Just text her, otherwise the two of you will start on hair or something else that makes me want to punch you.”

While Peabody made the contact, Eve hunted for parking somewhere in the vicinity of the squat, dumpy building that housed Arsenial Investigators. Giving up—the size of the All-Terrain made it next to impossible to find any suitable street parking—she bumped into a potholed lot, squeezed into a viciously overpriced slot.

“Thirty-two-fifty an hour.” She shoved the ticket into her pocket. “Whoever runs this place should be arrested for petty larceny. Make that grand larceny by the end of a single freaking day.”