Dark in Death (In Death 46)

“What the hell? I’m clean for four months, just had my regular test two days ago.”

“We’re not here about illegals.”

“Good, because I haven’t had so much as a puff of Zoner for four months. What do you want? I’m working.”

“If we can come in, we’ll tell you, and get out of your way.”

“Fine. Fuck.”

She waved a hand, left the door open as she stalked away into a room she obviously used as her studio.

Rather than a sofa, a chair, a screen, or anything usually found in a living space, she had a long, burly workbench and a big shelf crowded with painting supplies. Easels, canvases, something green and cloudy in a tall, clear cup Eve took for solvent until Yola picked it up, gulped some down.

On the walls paintings and drawings of various forms of violence and misery crowded together. More demons (no rainbows), an enormous bat with the head of a man, a woman in a pool of blood at the feet of a hooded man, a winged woman running a forked tongue down the torso of a screaming woman in chains.

The one on the easel centered at the window still gleamed wet. A variety of crawling, flying, slithering things came out of a wide, jagged chasm in what appeared to be Times Square. The sky swirled red. People ran screaming while others were consumed.

“You can sit on the floor.”

“We’ll stand.”

Yola shrugged, plopped on the single stool in the room. “Look, I’m not so pissed off at the rehab shit. I did my ninety, and I’m not bitching about the unscheduled tests. I’m clean, and I’m working better because I’m clean. Clear mind. I’m drinking veg smoothies. Clean out the toxins, get healthy. I’m chilled.”

“Good for you. We’re here because your name came up during the course of our investigation into two murders.”

“Fuck that!”

“You’re not a suspect, Ms. Bloomfield, but a potential target.”

“Fuck that squared.”

Peabody walked the photo over. “Do you know or have you seen this woman?”

“Can’t see her anyway, and does she look like somebody I’d hook with? I’ve got standards, and she’s below the line.”

“She’s already killed twice.”

“What’s she got against me?”

“She’s delusional, Ms. Bloomfield.”

Eve held back, let Peabody take point.

“She’s reenacting murder scenes from books.”

“No shit? Now that’s iced.” Yola toasted with her veg smoothie. “Serious performance art.”

“You won’t admire the concept if you end up in the morgue.”

“Harsh.” Conside

ring, Yola drank again. “So what’s my scene, what’s my part? Death’s the ultimate, sure, but I’m not going there yet.”

“The killer will be obsessed with your ex.”

“Which ex?”

“Stone Bailey.”