“It was empty.”
“No, that’s not right. I saw it just tonight. His door was open—he keeps it open to show me he’s got nothing to hide. I saw it when I went in to change for dinner with Wilson. It was loaded up at least halfway.”
“It was empty,” Eve repeated, “and in his top drawer we found a second pressure syringe, and two vials of what appear to be illegals, one nearly empty.”
Those heavy-lidded eyes hardened like granite. “I don’t believe you. Not for one minute.”
“You should because I believe whoever emptied that jar planted the syringe and illegals. Whoever did that killed your brother and attempted to stage it like an overdose.”
“Killed him. Killed him. Killed—”
“You breathe, Ro.” Crack hurried in with the drinks. “You take your breaths.” After setting the glasses down, he plucked her out of the chair, then sat and cradled her in his lap.
“I knew he didn’t—but to hear … Murder. Somebody murdered Lyle. I can’t think. I need a second. Hold on to me, Wilson.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ve got you.”
Eve picked up the glass, took a welcome infusion of caffeine while she waited for Rochelle to steady herself again.
“He was so happy,” she murmured. “He’d found himself again, found the real Lyle again. I have to be grateful for that, that he had this time to be himself. I said, when I left tonight, ‘I love you,’ and he said, ‘Back at you squared.’ We said that to each other, the last thing. I have to be grateful for that. Oh God, if I’d insisted on staying home, making that celebration meal—”
“They’d have come another time,” Eve finished. “It reads like they waited for you to leave. It’s likely they knew his schedule well enough to know he had the night off. Who’d want to hurt him, Rochelle?”
“I swear I don’t know. If you’d asked me a couple years ago, I could’ve named a dozen. But he’s been out of that life, and he’s stayed away. He goes to work, to meetings, to see our brothers and Gram. He’s not even dating yet. He just got his two-year chip for sobriety.”
“We have a witness who saw a female go to your apartment door shortly after you left. She wore a hoodie, baggies, boots. All dark. The witness believes Caucasian, middle twenties, small build. Very thin. She described her—and she only caught a glimpse—as having a thin, hard face. Pink in her hair.”
“It sounds like Dinnie.”
“Dinnie?”
“Dinnie Duff. They lived together in that flop. She’s one of the Banger Bitches. That’s what they call themselves. He was with her before he got arrested. She’s done time, too. He wouldn’t have started seeing her again. He’d violate his parole.”
“We think he let her in tonight.”
“God.”
“The wit believes she was crying, said she needed or wanted help.”
“That would do it,” Rochelle confirmed. “He might have opened the door if she asked him for help. I think he did care about her, even when he was at his worst. She killed Lyle.”
“I think she was sent in so she could let the ones who did into the apartment. She left as she let them in.”
The fierceness flashed back. “She’s just as guilty.”
“Yes, she is. I’m going to pick her up when I leave here, and expect to charge her with accessory to murder.”
Rochelle closed her eyes, let her head rest on Crack’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to keep snapping at you.”
“Skinny white girl don’t worry ’bout no snaps,” Crack told her.
“If I did, I’d be in another line of work. I also expect, during interrogation, to get the names of the three men she let into your apartment.”
“What did they look like? I might have seen them before. I might know.”
“The witness didn’t see their faces. That doesn’t mean I won’t find them. I will. In the meantime, your apartment’s sealed. You should stay here tonight. I’m going to contact you tomorrow. I want you to go through your apartment with me, tell me if anything’s missing or out of place. Anything at all.”
“Yes, whenever you want. But I need to see Lyle. You were right, Wilson, you were right to stop me from going to him. But now, I have to see him.”