“No prints, no trace but the vic’s. But I got the code, manufacturer codes them in case of defect and whatnot. It was made in April of last year, shipped to New York from Germany. Only two outlets in the city. I got those.” He offered her a disc. “All the data’s in there.”
“Did you get bashed on the head recently?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Anything out of the vehicle?”
“We got the ’link transes and the trip log. We’re still processing the rest. It’s a damn big bastard. Prelim doesn’t turn up prints or trace, not even a loose hair, except for the driver’s. Cleanest damn car I’ve ever seen, if you don’t count the blood in the front.”
“Okay,” she said for a third time, at a loss. “Good work.”
“That’s what we do around here,” he said so cheerfully her stomach threatened to curdle. “You go catch the bad guy.”
“Right.” Eve slid a glance at Peabody as they left. “What the fuck was that? Is it like that vid, with the people and the pods and the dupes?”
“Oh, that’s a scary one. It’s sort of like that. He’s in love.”
“What with?”
“Who,” Peabody said with a laugh. “Apparently he met somebody a few weeks ago, and he’s in love. He’s happy.”
“He’s fucking creepy, that’s what he is. I think I like him better when he’s a dick. He kept smiling.”
“Happy makes you smile.”
“It’s unnatural.”
Still, she had a constructive chunk of data to work with. Back at Central she closed herself in her office to open her murder book, set up her murder board, and write up her initial report while Peabody contacted the two outlets to try to track down the bolt.
She tagged Cher Reo in the PA’s office.
“How was your vacation?”
Eve resigned herself to answering the question all day. “Good. Listen, I caught a case this morning.”
“Already?”
“Crime marches on. The vic’s got a sealed juvie. I need to unseal it.”
Reo sat back, pushed a hand through her fluffy blond hair. “You believe the juvie’s pertinent to the case?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I need to see it. Guy’s a successful business owner, husband, father, big fancy house in the burbs. No trouble on the surface, so far. The scan in autopsy shows multiple old wounds, mostly breaks. Might be abuse, might be from fighting. The past can come back to haunt you, right?”
“So they say. It shouldn’t be a problem for the primary on a homicide to view the records of the victim. I’ll make the request.”
“Appreciate it.”
“How’d he die?”
“Crossbow.”
Reo widened bright blue eyes. “Never a dull moment. I’ll get back to you.”
Eve programmed coffee, put her boots on her desk, and studied the board.
Moments later, Peabody gave a cursory knock and stepped in. “I’ve got a customer list for that particular batch of bolts. It’s a couple of dozen worldwide, with a handful off planet. There’s only one with a New York residence. I ran her, and she’s clean, but you have to be to get the license and permit.”
“We’ll look at her. Why Gold Star?” she wondered. “Small, exclusive company, small fleet, small staff, and if their hype’s to be believed, premium class, personal service. Top of the line,” she murmured, “like the weapon. Expensive. Connect to Sweet, high-level exec for a high-level company. If there’s no connection between Houston or his company and Sweet and his, then the only common denominator is they’re both successful men with specialized skills.”
“Maybe it’s totally random.”
“If it is, Houston may or may not be the first, but he won’t be the last. Listen to Houston’s transmissions.” She ordered the computer to play it.
“Hey, Michael. I’m pulling up to the pickup now. Traffic’s not too bad, considering. I’ll check back when I’ve got the Person on Board.”
“I’ll be here.”
“How’s Kimmy doing?”
“She’s beat. She’s gone on to bed. I’m going to carry the portable with me when I check on her and our boy.”
“Couple more weeks, you’ll be a daddy again. You get some rest, too. I think I see the client. I’ll come back.”
“Time lapse to next trans,” Eve said, “three minutes, ten.”
“POB,” Jamal said, his voice quieter now, brisker. “En route to LaGuardia, commercial transpo area for pickup, Supreme Airlines, Flight six-two-four out of Atlanta. ETA, ten-twenty.”
“Copy that.”
“Go to bed, Michael.” Jamal’s voice was barely a whisper now. “Take the portable with you if you’re going to be a stickler. I’ll come back to you if I need to. It’s a long run, no point in both of us getting a short night. I’ve got a book. I’ll entertain myself when the clients have their late supper.”
“Come back when you get to the airport, then I’ll go to bed.”
“Deal. The client’s excited about this surprise for his wife,” Jamal added. “He’s sitting back there grinning. Just keeps grinning. I have a feeling I’ll be using the privacy window before the night’s over.”
Michael chuckled. “Client’s king.”
“Last transmission,” Eve said.
Jamal relayed his arrival, said good night to Michael.
“Within five minutes, he’s dead. There’s no worry, no tension in his voice. Just the opposite. No sense of threat from the passenger, no worries. The killer’s not nervous, not if Houston’s read him right, and somebody who does what he did for a living should have a good sense. His passenger’s excited, happy, he’s anticipating the kill.”
“He—which lets out Iris Quill—the bolt buyer.”
“She could’ve provided the weapon, been the ‘wife.’ We’ll look at her. The transmissions tell me Houston didn’t recognize the client. Could be wearing a disguise, could be somebody he hasn’t seen in a long time. But a stranger says something else.”
“Random again,” noted Peabody.
“Even random has a pattern. We find the pattern. Get me this Quill woman’s address. I’ll take her on the way home. I’m going to work there. Do a secondary on everyone who bought that make of bolt, and on the owners and employees of the outlets.”
“Jeez.”
“Send me the list, and I’ll take half.”
“Yay.”
“Do a standard on Mitchell’s financials, copy me. Add Sweet’s to that. We’ll see if money takes us anywhere.”
Iris Quill lived in a sturdy townhome in Tribeca. The exterior spoke of no nonsense, no fuss. She hadn’t troubled to deck it out with flowers or plants in a neighborhood that seemed to love them. She hadn’t stinted on security, however, and Eve went through the routine with the palm plate, the scanner, the computer’s demand for her name, her badge, her business.
The woman who opened the door hit about five foot two, weighed in at maybe a hundred pounds with a short straight skullcap of shining silver hair and sharp blue eyes. She wore brown shorts that showed off short but exceptionally toned legs and a skin tank that showcased strong, defined arms.
Eve judged her to clock in at about seventy-five.
“Ms. Quill.”
“That’s right, and what can I do for you, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve? Last thing I killed was a black bear, and that was up in Canada.”
“Did you use a crossbow?”
“A Trident 450 long-barrel.” She cocked her head. “Crossbow?”
“Can I come in?”
“Why not? I recognized your name with the badge scan. I keep up with city crime, mostly watch Furst on Seventy-five.”
In a tidy foyer, sparsely furnished with what looked like quality antiques, Iris gestured to a small, equally tidy living area. “Have a seat.”
“I’m investigating a homicide. A crossbow bolt is the murder weapon.”
“Hard way to go.”
“Do you own a crossbow, Ms. Quill?”
“I own two. Both properly licensed and registered,” she added with a gleam in her eye that told Eve the woman understood that information was already confirmed. “I like to hunt. I travel, and indulge my hobby. I enjoy testing myself against the prey with a variety of weapons. A crossbow takes skill and steady hands.”
“Records show you purchased six Firestrike bolts last May.”
“I imagine I did. They’re the best, in my opinion. Excellent penetration. I don’t want the prey to suffer, so that’s an important factor in a bolt or an arrow. And they’re designed for reasonably easy extraction. I also don’t want to waste my ammo. Have to replace the barbs, of course, but the shafts are durable.”