Golden in Death (In Death 50)

She unlatched the egg, tugged it open.

She never had time to understand the joke was on her.

* * *

Eve walked into the bullpen at Central, and saw Jenkinson’s tie. She figured it would burn your corneas if you viewed it from space. It was as if an evil rainbow infused with acid had exploded. Swirls and streams of ferocious color covered every inch.

She swore they moved, as if alive.

She wondered whether, if he dropped any crumbs from the cruller he munched on, those swirls would absorb them. And grow.

Risking temporary blindness, she walked over to his desk.

“You said you got those ties off the street. Where?”

Jenkinson brushed crumbs off the tie. Eve imagined the swirls covering his hand, pulling him in, inch by struggling inch.

“A stand on Canal. He’s doing the street fair on Sixth on Sunday. You looking to get one for Roarke?”

“Sure, if I want him to have me committed. One day, one fine day, I’m going to do a drive-by of that stand, buy all the ties, and have them destroyed—it may take a vat of acid—for the public good.”

“Aw, LT. They got pizzazz.”

“I don’t think that word means what you think it means. Don’t even think about showing me your socks.” She pointed at Reineke, Jenkinson’s partner. “Don’t even think about it.”

And escaped to her office.

Coffee first, before she sat down to update her book and write up her notes, then a report. She updated her board with Roe’s ID shot, and, studying it, rolled around the idea that a woman would murder, or participate in murder—a complex and canny one—because her husband took a slap at work.

Nothing, absolutely nothing in her background suggested it.

Ponti, a hothead, might strike back, but she imagined he’d do so impulsively, potentially with some violence.

But she couldn’t quite see the two of them plotting this out.

“She’s got your number, too,” Eve murmured. “Knows you’re kind of a dick, but doesn’t seem to mind it.”

Thomas T. Thane, she thought. More than kind of a dick. Easier to see him planning it out, figuring a way to pay back the man who’d screwed up his life—as that’s how he’d see it.

Back to the mad scientist. Could Thane have hooked up with someone like that? Not impossible, and maybe—at the moment—the sharpest angle to pursue.

And pursuing it, she sat down to dig deeper into Thane. A college buddy, a client, a lover. Someone with the skill who’d work with him to kill. Or the opposite. Someone eager to kill, and Thane provided the target.

As she scoured through Thane’s past, her communicator signaled.

“Dallas.”

Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, report to 255 Wooster. Hazardous Forensic Team already dispatched due to potential poisonous fumes. Victim deceased. MTs, first on scene, and nine-one-one caller quarantined on scene until cleared. Hazmat protocol required until clearance.

“Copy that.” Eve was already up, grabbing her jacket. “Dallas out.”

She strode into the bullpen. “Peabody, with me. Now. We’ve got another one.”

9

By the time Eve and Peabody arrived, the special team had cleared the scene, released the MTs.

The hazmat team leader, CI Michaela Junta, met Eve at the door. Music, some sort of bouncy rock, played on the house speakers.