Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

“Your name?”

“Marshall. Marshall Whitier. We pulled like an all-nighter, and were walking it off, and messing around. Maybe jog around the JKO, right? And we saw the dude. So Richie says, Holy shit, and I’m like, What the fuck, and we climbed over and jumped in the water.”

“I tried CPR, even mouth-to-mouth,” the other man said.

“Name?”

“Oh, Richie. I mean Richard Lieberman.” He swallowed, hard.

He had skin so white his freckles popped out like . . . polka dots, Eve thought. And orange hair with tips of blue—with a tiny pointed beard to match.

“I’m, uh, certified. I work summers as a lifeguard, so I knew what to do. But, man, he was gone. You know, dead. So we called the cops.”

“Did you see anyone while you were messing around, or while you waited for the police?”

“Nobody. Well, there was a sidewalk sleeper, but he was back on Fifth, before we came into the park. And well . . .”

“Well?”

“I guess we saw the beat droids back there, too, so we sort of ducked in here.”

“Got any Sober-Up?”

Their eyes shifted to each other, then down.

“Look, I don’t currently give a shit about your underage drinking.”

“There was this party—”

“Don’t care,” she told Marshall. “I’m going to need your contact information, then these officers are going to take you back to—where?”

“We’re at Berkely. We, ah, sort of snuck out of the dorm to go to the party, then—”

“Don’t care,” she said to Richie. “We’re going to get you back.” Impaired or not, she thought, they’d tried to save a life. “What are your chances of sneaking back in?”

That eye slide again. “We’re pretty good at it,” Richie told her.

“Good. Do that. Dry off, get something hot—and nonalcoholic—to drink. Here’s what I care about: You tried to help someone, and when you couldn’t, you called the cops.”

“You’re not going to rat us out?”

“I’m not going to rat you out. If you don’t have such good luck sneaking back in, have the person who busts you contact me. Lieutenant Dallas, Cop Central. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You lose points for the ‘ma’am.’” She shut the door. “Get them back,” she told the uniform. “Make sure they get back inside.”

“Dumb-asses.” The uniform shook his head. “But they got balls. Probably shriveled up right now, but they got ’em.”

In full agreement, she went back to her car for her field kit, started the hike to the jogging path and the reservoir.

The struggling sun turned the sky to a lighter, dirtier gray. In its pissy light, she spotted the beat droids—muscular issues, both male with square, serious faces. Unaffected by the wind and the wet, they stood flanking the body.

Eve held up her badge. “Report.”

Their report added little to the witnesses’ statements but for, in the way of droids, precise times. She had them stand by, then took a long look at Jordan Banks.

He lay faceup, and from the angle of his neck, the bruising harsh against the skin, she judged his neck had been broken before whoever broke it dumped his body in the water.