“You must’ve flown.”
“Roarke can drive. Strongbow sent the text from the moronic Janis Dorsey’s ’link—one she conveniently left on the table when she got up to dance with her moronic friends. Sent the text—which Loxie answered in less than a minute to announce she was on her way to die—faded back, and waited. The place is full of a lot of other morons, most of them high.”
&
nbsp; Eve looked down at the body with a combination of pity and disgust. “She waits until Loxie comes in, and doesn’t Loxie play right into the damn script and go over to try to sex up the ex. He, by all accounts, wasn’t sexed. She comes over here, drinks, takes more illegals, gets up to dance. Which presents excellent timing for Strongbow to order the drink, tip in the poison, and goddamn set it down on the table herself.”
“She served the drink. Man, that’s ballsy.”
“Risk and reward,” Eve muttered. “Nobody gave a shit that some stranger set a drink down. Nobody gave a shit what might be in it. Probably hoped it was laced with good stuff. She comes back, drinks it down, lets the guy she was dancing with paw her. And it kicks in. If, as advertised and as her color indicates, it’s cyanide, she had some trouble breathing, felt off, weird.
“Did she think then?” A hint of rage leaked into Eve’s voice. “Did it even begin to occur to her then that she’d killed herself because she couldn’t not be a fuckhead? Who the hell knows? She passes out, falls off the bench. Starts to seize. That cherry-red’s coming up in her face. Her system revolts, tries to expel what’s already killed her. The morons she’s surrounded herself with squeal, scramble, and laugh. I’ll bet vids of her death are already making the rounds. Meanwhile, the seriously not-moronic bartender has not only called the cops and gotten his bouncer on the front door, but after locking eyes with the killer, tries to catch her when she runs. She’s smart enough to grab one of the morons’ coats, which—her lucky day—is a goddamn mink hoodie. She bolts out the kitchen, and she’s gone.
“So’s Loxie, long before the MTs can get to her.”
“A few people caught a glimpse of her,” Peabody added. “She knocked into a couple as she fled. The descriptions are what you’d expect given the alcohol, illegals, lighting. I’ve got the coat she wore to get here.”
“Score one for us.”
“McNab’s getting a bag from the kitchen. We don’t have any big enough. It’s well made—professionally made. She’s got skills, Dallas, and a professional machine. It’s a cheap, blended material, but she put in a decent lining for warmth. Cheap braiding, but perfectly sewn. Nothing in the pockets.”
“She had a purse, put everything in there. Where did you find the coat?”
“She left it on the barstool. It looks to me like she hung it there when she ordered the drink. Left it there when she walked the drink to the table here.”
“But didn’t go back for it. Stayed here, closer to the booth. She wanted to watch, to make sure it went according to script.”
“I guess when she saw Brad made her, she grabbed the closest coat right off the bench. Did you say mink?”
“Yeah.” Eve jammed frustrated hands in her pockets. “If she tries to pawn it or sell it, we may be in luck. I’ve got the description from its idiot owner. We’ll get it out. Contact the other women on the list, Peabody, contact Yola Bloomfield. She got a text from the moron’s ’link, too. And the rest of the list. See if they got one from another ’link.”
“It’s really late, Dallas.”
“It’s a hell of a lot later for her.” Eve glanced at Loxie again. “Let’s get the dead wagon and the sweepers.”
She stepped out, moved to the only people present now besides cops—and an expert consultant, civilian.
“I’m sorry you had to wait.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Glaze told her.
“If I could speak to you, Mr. Glazier. Over there.”
“Glaze,” he said as he rose, laid a hand on the shoulder of the brunette sitting beside him. “Mr. Glazier’s my old man.”
She took him to a table away from the body, and his friends.
“You and the deceased were involved at one time.”
“We were a lot of things at one time.” He had a compelling face, with deep, dark eyes against pale, pale skin. Hair, nearly as dark as his eyes, that shagged long around it. “We were a lot of things, off and on, for too long a time. You never think it’ll be you. That you’ll be the one to play too hard, party too much, cross that line, and check out. Lox thought she was invincible. I used to think the same.”
Eve didn’t disabuse him about the overdose. “Did you know she was coming here tonight?”
“No. I guess I knew she might, that somebody might tell her I was here. The last time we ran into each other, it was pretty harsh.”
“When was that?”
“Five months, three weeks, and two days ago.”