Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

e would be on the books, and it’s the same deal.

She’d get in and out on her own. I never, I swear on my life, I never saw him force anyone. He was always so polite.”

“And she was always a little drunk?”

“I … I guess you could say. Driving people’s my job. A lot of them might be a little drunk, or even a lot. It’s my job to take them where they want to go safely. I’ve been driving professionally for twelve years. You can look at my record. Not one complaint. Mr. McEnroy asked me to do this, and keep it between us. It was wrong, and I could lose my job over it, but that’s all I did.”

Eve sat back, glanced at Peabody. “Okay, Mr. Printz, I bet you keep decent personal records. You’re going to dig into those and show us the times, the dates and locations when you drove McEnroy off the books.”

“I can do that. Yes, I can do that.”

When they let the very cooperative and deeply shaken Printz go, Eve cocked a brow at Peabody.

“I believe him. Down the line,” Peabody added. “He saw what probably other people saw. A man and a woman, a little drunk, a lot loose after some clubbing, heading off to have a bunch of sex.”

“Printz made the mistake a lot of people do. Sure, it’s breaking the rules, but who does it hurt? And I can use the money. But he’s no killer, he’s no rape apologist, either. And otherwise?”

Peabody looked blank. “Otherwise?”

“Why didn’t McEnroy tag Printz for the pickup from the club, as arranged? As was his pattern?”

“Oh, okay. So the killer persuaded him to walk, maybe? Or the killer had the transportation.”

“It’s going to be the second—more people see you walking, and why let more people see you? Pattern, Peabody, why does McEnroy break it, why does he give up the control of his own car and driver when all of this is about him having the controls?”

“Maybe he knew the killer, trusted the killer. The text to Printz came in just before midnight, so McEnroy was, probably, already incapacitated, and the killer sent the text. So …”

“This was planned, carefully. She—because the killer’s going to be female—had to get McEnroy to her chosen location, with her in control. How did McEnroy get women into his transpo, and to his locations?”

“He drugged them. She drugged him at the club. Turned the tables, used his own methods.”

“Roofied him,” Eve agreed. “Added more in the transpo—Morris got tox back. We’ll check out This Place after we talk to Jessica Alden. We might hit some luck, get a description of his killer.”

“We’re in some luck now,” Peabody said as she checked her communicator. “Alden just got here.”

“We’ll keep the room. Go ahead and bring her in.”

“I’m getting a fizzy.” Peabody rose. “You want a cold one?”

“Pepsi works. Offer Alden whatever she wants. We’ll start friendly.”

Eve tucked the fresh printouts gleaned from Printz in the file, cross-checked her notes on the time stamp of the vid she’d watched. Alden coordinated with a nine-thirty pickup at La Cuisine, a restaurant on the Upper West, the previous September.

Take the candidate—for job placement, for rape—to dinner, slip a little something in her drink, walk her out to the limo, slip her a little more on the drive home. Into the lobby, the penthouse elevator, up to the bedroom, where the camera’s already set up.

She sat back, caught a glimpse of herself in the two-way glass.

Maybe she looked a little pale, she admitted, but she’d been at this since before dawn. And she’d forgotten to grab anything for lunch. No, she’d worried she wouldn’t be able to stomach anything, she corrected.

She’d fix that, she promised herself. She wasn’t going to fall into the comparison trap. She wouldn’t let old wounds start throbbing again, old memories cloud her judgment or objectivity.

She had a job to do.

When the door opened, she had the file open as if reviewing the contents. She closed it when Peabody shut the door behind Alden.

The curvy redhead wore a good suit in pale blue, ankle-breakers covered with a floral pattern, and an expression of mild annoyance.

“Lieutenant, Ms. Alden.”