Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

“Yeah, we’ll get to it. It’s going to.” When her ’link signaled, she answered through the in-dash. “Dallas.”

“This is Bondita Rothchild, Marcella’s mother. We’re en route to the city, and should be there within the hour.”

“All right, Ms. Rothchild, we’ll come to you.”

“I’m taking Marcella home with me. I don’t want her in that house.” She rattled off an address in Cobble Hill, which meant a trip across the river into Brooklyn.

“We’ll come to you,” Eve repeated. “About ninety minutes.”

“I’ll expect you to be respectful of Marcella’s delicate emotional state,” Bondita added before she clicked off.

Once they’d parked, started down the tunnel, Peabody checked her own ’link. “The warrant’s in the works.”

“See who’s loose in the bullpen. I’d rather a detective, but a uniform will do. Have them serve it, get the data.”

As they approached Morris’s doors, her comm signaled. “What now?” Then she read Commander Whitney on the readout, and had a pretty good idea what now. “Dallas. Sir.”

“Lieutenant. You’re needed in The Tower for a conversation with Chief Tibble.”

That proved a higher what now than she’d expected. “Commander, I’m in the field, currently at the morgue about to speak to Dr. Morris regarding Thaddeus Pettigrew, who all evidence indicates is the second victim in my current investigation. We also have an interview with Pettigrew’s live-in scheduled in ninety minutes.”

“Report to The Tower at thirteen hundred hours.”

“Yes, sir.” She stuffed her comm back in her pocket. “Geena McEnroy.”

“She went straight to the top,” Peabody commented. “At least we’ve got some time to interview Horowitz.”

“He didn’t send for you. You weren’t there for my interview with her anyway.”

“Uh-uh.” Peabody put her stubborn face on. “Partners. You have to risk an ass-frying, my ass is in the pan with yours.”

“I didn’t need the visual of your ass bumped up against mine in some damn pan. Ass partners,” she muttered, and pushed through the doors when Peabody snorted out a laugh.

Morris had one of his favored bluesy numbers going and wore a suit in forest green. Cord, stone gray like his tie, wound through the braid he’d doubled up at the back of his head in a loop.

He currently had his hands in Pettigrew’s open chest.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends. This poor soul won’t fight another battle.”

“He didn’t get to fight the last one,” Eve pointed out.

“No, he didn’t. No defensive wounds though he suffered more trauma than our previous guest. I have no argument with your on-scene conclusions, Dallas. He hung by the wrists, from above, and his weight, his struggle eventually dislocated both shoulders. An electric prod—the same dimensions as the one used on McEnroy—was used to beat, burn, sodomize. I estimate at least four hours between the first burn and the last.”

“She’s … dedicated.”

“I’d say that’s an accurate term for it. It takes a kind of dedication to torture another human being for hours. There’s no sign of gagging, so he’d have screamed, likely have pleaded. COD would be severe blood loss from the amputation. He was, as was McEnroy, alive when she used the blade. The same blade, in my opinion, that was used on McEnroy.”

“Was he drugged?”

“As before I put a rush on the tox report. It’s the same mix. In this case, the first dose was administere

d into the palm of his hand.”

“Okay, okay, that’s how it’s done.” Nodding, Eve circled the body. “He comes to the door to let her in. She introduces herself, offers her hand. She’s got the syringe palmed. He wouldn’t even have time to react. She just leads him out to the waiting car, and she’s got him.”

“He ingested the second dose.”

“Probably in the car.” She could see it. Yes, she could see it very clearly.