Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

“Lucky break, so you’ve got time for grunt work.”

“Got some running, boss, as we speak. Lead didn’t pan out?”

“Not such a lucky break. Work now, sleep later.”

She went into her office, thought: process, routine, so got coffee before she sat at her desk. The time out hadn’t been completely wasted, she noted, as her comp had tossed out a few more maybes.

She studied them in turn, reading the accompanying data.

She liked the look of Marti Fester, who worked right in Central, in Maintenance. Single, thirty-five, five years on the crew. Skinny face, sallow complexion, a hank of medium-brown hair, bored brown eyes.

Maintenance could get into her office, her vehicle, maybe her files. Hell, Maintenance swarmed all over the building, and if anyone had a mind to, could find out a hell of a lot.

No criminal, and she lived three blocks from Mavis. No cohab.

“Okay, Marti, you make the top five.”

She went through the others, carefully, rejecting the next. Zoey Trimbal looked too damn cheerful, and while the spiky red hair could be dyed any color known to man, it said pay attention to me.

Not you, Zoey, Eve thought.

“Settled for civilian consultant, e-division, after washing out of the Academy, but you just don’t blend, do you? Let’s look at . . . Wait a minute.”

She leaned closer to the screen, looked into the eyes of Lottie Roebuck.

“I’ve seen you,” Eve murmured.

Crime scene unit, under Dawson, Eve read. Four years as lab tech, over two years now as field tech. Single, age thirty-three, resided . . . on the same block as Mavis.

She felt the punch of it.

Long mousy hair—what did they call that? Dishwater-blond, which made no sense. Didn’t matter. Lottie wore the dishwater hair pulled back from a narrow face. Thin mouth, thin nose, good skin—café au lait said it, high forehead, and those good bones DeWinter had talked about. Pale hazel eyes that looked . . . empty.

Mother deceased, one sibling—sister, deceased, same day.

Eve dug down. Vehicular accident, two minor boys charged, vehicular manslaughter. Joyriding, drunk, both fifteen. One of th

em ended up in the hospital, multiple surgeries. Juvie time, community service, mandatory rehab, and so on.

Both free and clear by the eighteenth birthday.

The sister had been twelve.

Eve shifted her gaze from the data, back to the image.

“Hello, Lottie.”

• • •

Dawson slogged through paperwork. He wanted to get it done, get out, get home. He’d all but sworn to his wife in blood he wouldn’t miss her sister’s bash tonight.

But people just kept killing each other, regardless of party plans. And he was two field techs short. Still, with some luck, maybe nobody else would get murdered on his shift. Or at least, nobody would find the DB until tomorrow—after the hangover he was bound to have had passed.

“Yo! Got the vic’s shirt processed and sent up to Harvo.”

Dawson grunted at Mickey, one of the rookie techs. He didn’t need chapter and verse. He needed to finish the paperwork.

“How come you got this drawing of Lottie hanging out here?”