Alone, she considered it. She wouldn’t mind hanging for lunch, she realized. It would be a kind of bridge between vacation and the job, screwing around and the routine of work.
She didn’t have any meetings scheduled, no actives on her plate. She’d need to go over some of the open cases with the teams assigned, touch base with Moynahan mostly to thank him for his service. Other than that—
She scanned the next report, answering her ’link. “Lieutenant Dallas, Homicide.”
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.
So much, she thought, for bridges.
Jamal Houston died with his chauffeur’s hat on behind the wheel of a limo of glittery gold, long and sleek as a snake. The limo had been tidily parked in a short-term slot at LaGuardia.
Since the crossbow bolt angled through Jamal’s neck and into the command pad of the wheel, Eve assumed Jamal had done the parking.
With her hands and boots sealed, Eve studied the entry wound. “Even if you’re pissed off you missed your transpo, this is a little over the top.”
“A crossbow?” Peabody studied the body from the other side of the limo. “You’re sure?”
“Roarke has a couple in his weapons collection. One of them fires these bolts like this. One question is just why someone had a loaded crossbow in a limo to begin with.”
Houston, Jamal, she mused, going over the data they’d already accessed, black male, age forty-three, co-owner of Gold Star transportation service. Married, two offspring. No adult criminal. Sealed juvie. He’d been six feet one and one-ninety and wore a smart and crisp black suit, white shirt, red tie. His shoes were shined like mirrors.
He wore a wrist unit as gold as the limo and a gold star lapel pin with a diamond winking in the center.
“From the angle, it looks like he was shot from the right rear.”
“Passenger area is pristine,” Peabody commented. “No trash, no luggage, no used glasses or cups or bottles, and all the slots for the glassware are filled, so the killer and/or passenger didn’t take any with him. Everything gleams, and there are fresh—real—white roses in these little vases between the windows. A selection of viewing and audio and reading discs all organized by alpha and type in a compartment, and they don’t look like they’ve been touched. There are three full decanters of different types of alcohol, a fridge stocked with cold drinks, and a compact AutoChef. The log there says it was stocked about sixteen hundred, and it hasn’t been accessed since.”
“The passenger must not have been thirsty, and didn’t want a snack while he didn’t listen to music, read, or catch some screen. We’ll have the sweepers go over it.”
She circled the car, slid in beside the body. “Wedding ring, pricey wrist unit, gold star with diamond pin, single gold stud in his earlobe.” She worked her hand under the body, tugged out a wallet.
“He’s got plastic, and about a hundred fifty cash, small bills. It sure as hell wasn’t robbery.” She tried to access the dash comp. “It’s passcoded.” She had better luck with the ’link, and listened to his last transmission, informing his dispatcher he’d arrived at LaGuardia with his passenger for the pickup, and suggesting the dispatcher call it a night.
“He was supposed to pick up a second passenger.” Eve considered. “Picked up the first, second passenger coming in, transpo on time according to this communication. So he parks, and before he can get out to open the door for passenger one, he takes one in the neck. Time of death and the ’link log are only a few minutes apart.”
“Why does somebody hire a driver to go to the airport, then kill him?”
“There’s got to be a record of who hired the service, where they were picked up. One shot,” Eve murmured. “No muss, but a lot of fuss. Add in what you’d call an exotic weapon.”
She took a memo book from his pocket, his personal ’link, breath mints, a cotton handkerchief. “He’s got a pickup listed here at the Chrysler Building, ten-twenty P.M. AS to LTC. Passenger initials. No full name, no full addy. This is just his backup. Let’s see if we can find anyone who saw anything—ha ha—get crime scene in here. We’ll go check in with the company first.”
Gold Star ran its base out of Astoria. Peabody relayed the salient data as they drove. Houston and his partner, Michael Chin, had started the business fourteen years before with a single secondhand limo, and had run it primarily out of Houston’s home, with his wife serving as dispatcher, office dogsbody, and bookkeeper.
In less than fifteen years, they’d expanded to a fleet of twelve—all gold, high-end luxury limos with premier amenities, and had earned a five-diamond rating every year for nearly a decade.
They employed eight drivers, and an office and administrative staff of six. Mamie Houston continued to keep the books, and Chin’s wife of five years served as head mechanic. Houston’s son and daughter were listed as part-time employees.
When Eve pulled up in front of the streamlined building with its mammoth garage, a man of about forty in a business suit was watering a long window box full of red and white flowers. He paused, turned his pleasant face toward them with an easy smile.
“Good morning.”
“We’re looking for Michael Chin.”
“You’ve found me. Please come in, out of the heat. Barely nine in the morning and already sweltering.”
Cool air and the scent of flowers greeted them. A counter held the flowers and a compact data-and-communications unit. On a table glossy brochures fanned out. A couple of cozy scoop chairs ranged beside it while a gold sofa and a couple more chairs formed a conference area.
“Can I get you something cold to drink?”
“No, thanks. Mr. Chin, I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody. We’re with the NYPSD.”
“Oh.” His smile remained pleasant, but edged toward puzzled. “Is there a problem?”
“I regret to inform you your partner, Jamal Houston, was found dead this morning.”
He face went blank, like a switch turned off. “I’m sorry, what?”
“He was found in one of the vehicles registered to this company.”
“An accident.” He took a step back, bumped into one of the chairs. “An accident? Jamal had an accident?”
“No, Mr. Chin. We believe Mr. Houston was murdered at approximately ten-twenty-five last night.”
“But no, no. Oh, I see. I see, there’s been a mistake. I spoke with Jamal myself shortly before that time. Minutes before that time. He was at the airport, at LaGuardia, driving a client, and picking up the client’s wife.”
“There’s no mistake. We’ve identified Mr. Houston. He was found in the limo, parked at LaGuardia, early this morning.”
“Wait.” This time Chin gripped the back of the chair, swayed a little. “You’re telling me Jamal is dead? Murdered? But how, how? Why?”
“Mr. Chin, why don’t you sit down?” Peabody eased him into the chair. “Can I get you some water?”
He shook his head, kept shaking it as his eyes, a brilliant green behind a forest of black lashes, filled. “Someone killed Jamal. My God, my sweet God. They tried to steal the car? Was that it? We’re supposed to cooperate in a jacking. It’s firm company policy. No car is worth a life. Jamal.”
“I know this is a shock,” Eve began, “and it’s very difficult, but we need to ask you some questions.”
“We’re having dinner tonight. We’re all having dinner tonight. A cookout.”
“You were here last night. You were running dispatch?”
“Yes. No. Oh, God.” He pressed the heels of his hands to those wet, brilliant eyes. “I was home, running dispatch from home. He had this late run, you see. He took it because Kimmy had two night runs in a row, and West was on an early one this morning, and it was Peter’s son’s birthday, and . . . it doesn’t matter. We flipped a coin, winner chooses dispatch or the run. He took the run.”
“When was it booked?”
“Just that afternoon.”
“Who was the client?”