It had been constructed in the mid-twenties when the media boom had hit such astronomical proportions as to generate more profits than a small country. One of the loftier buildings on Broadcast Avenue, it towered up from a wide, flat hilt, housed several thousand employees, five elaborate studios, including the most lavish new set on the East Coast, and enough power to beam transmissions to every pocket of the planet and its orbiting stations.
The east wing, where Eve was directed, faced Third with its tony mutiplexes and apartment buildings designed for the convenience of the broadcast industry.
Due to the thick air traffic, Eve realized word had already hit. Control was going to be a problem. Even as she rounded the building, she called Dispatch and requested air barricades as well as ground security. A homicide right in the lap of the media was going to be hard enough to deal with, without the vultures flying.
Steady now, she locked away guilt and stepped from her car to approach the scene. The uniforms had been busy, she saw with some relief. They’d cleared the area and had the outside door sealed off. Reporters and their teams were there, naturally. There would be no keeping them away. But she’d have room to breathe.
She’d already attached her badge to her jacket and moved through the rain to the porta-tarp some wise soul had tossed over the crime scene. Raindrops pinged musically against the strong, clear plastic.
She recognized the raincoat, dealt viciously with the quick, instinctive lurch of her stomach. She asked if the immediate scene had been scanned and recorded, and receiving the affirmative, crouched down.
Her hands were rock steady as they reached for the hood that had fallen forward over the victim’s face. She ignored the blood that pooled in a sticky puddle at the toes of her boots and managed to smother the gasp and the shudder as she tossed the hood away from a stranger’s face.
“Who the hell is this?” she demanded.
“Victim’s been preliminarily identified as Louise Kirski, editorial tech for Channel 75.” The uniform pulled a log out of the pocket of her slick black raincoat. “She was found at approximately eleven fifteen by C. J. Morse. He tossed his cookies just over there,” she went on with light disdain for civilian delicacy. “Went inside through this door, screaming his head off. Building security verified his story, such as it was, called it in. Dispatch logged the call at eleven twenty-two. I arrived on scene at eleven twenty-seven.”
“You made good time, Officer . . . ?”
“Peabody, Lieutenant. I was on a swing of First Avenue. I verified homicide, secured the outer door, called for additional uniforms and a primary.”
Eve nodded toward the building. “They get any of this on camera?”
“Sir.” Peabody’s mouth thinned. “I ordered a news team off scene w
hen I arrived. I’d say they got plenty before we secured.”
“Okay.” With fingertips encased in clear seal, Eve did a search of the body. A few credits, a little jingling change, a pricey mini ’link attached to the belt. No defense wounds, no signs of struggle or assault.
She recorded it all dutifully, her mind working fast. Yes, she recognized the raincoat, she thought, and her initial exam complete, she straightened.
“I’m going in. I’m expecting Captain Feeney. Pass him through. She can go with the ME.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You stand, Peabody,” Eve decided. The cop had a good, firm style. “Keep those reporters in line.” Eve glanced over her shoulder, ignoring the shouted questions, the glint of lenses. “Give no comment, no statement.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to them.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
Eve unsealed the door, passed through, resealed it. The lobby was nearly empty. Peabody, or someone like her, had cleared it of all but essential personnel. Eve shot a look at the security behind the main console. “C. J. Morse. Where?”
“His station’s on level six, section eight. Some of your people took him up that way.”
“I’m expecting another cop. Send him after me.” Eve turned and stepped onto the ascent.
There were people here and there, some huddled together, others standing against video backdrops talking furiously to cameras. She caught the scent of coffee, the stale just-burned fragrance so similar to a cop’s bull pen. Another time, it might have made her smile.
The noise level was climbing, even as she did. She stepped off on level six into the frantic buzz of the newsroom.
Consoles were set back to back, with traffic areas snaking through. Like police work, broadcasting was a twenty-four-hour business. Even at this hour, there were more than a dozen stations manned.
The difference, Eve noted, was that cops looked overworked, rumpled, even sweaty. This crew was video perfect. Clothes were streamlined, jewelry camera friendly, faces carefully polished.
Everyone seemed to have a job to do. Some were talking quickly to their ’link screens—feeding their satellites updates, Eve imagined. Others barked at their computers or were barked at by them as data was requested, accessed, and transmitted to the desired source.
It all looked perfectly normal, except mixed with the stale scent of bad coffee was the sticky odor of fear.