Brotherhood in Death

17

Eve went straight to EDD, hoping the e-geeks would give her something solid.

She found the e-lab packed with them.

McNab stood—hips jiving in his neon pants, hoops sparkling around his ear—at a station peering through some sort of scope. Feeney sat in his wrinkled brown suit, his hair standing up as if he’d been electrocuted while he swiped at two screens simultaneously.

The well-endowed Callendar seemed to dance between two stations, shoulders bouncing, which made the well-endowed portion—where for some unknown reason a monkey rode a unicycle across her spangled red shirt—bounce in turn.

Yet another geek Eve only vaguely recognized sat, bopping in his stool with comp guts spread out over his station. He had hair as red as Callendar’s shirt worn in long dreads with tips as bright and yellow as an exploding sun. The tips matched his bibbed baggies.

Eve vaguely wished she had sunshades as she pushed into the lab.

Spotting them, McNab wiggled his eyebrows at Peabody. “Yo, Captain, Dead Squad’s here.”

“We got some something and some nothing,” Feeney told Eve.

“Start with the something.”

“We could scan out the one swipe, and get the code and the ID. Bank was on it. Liberty National Bank of New York was on it. Did a little dance, and we got the branch for you. Whatever he stashed, he stashed it in the Bronx. I was just about to send you the address.”

“Do that. I’ll check it out, and thanks. What’s the nothing?”

“Other swipe. We got the code, no problem. But there’s no handy ID like with the bank box. We’re still working, but the best we can figure is residence. It doesn’t read like a company swipe, a business swipe. Still could be one, but we’re leaning residential.”

“It’s more than I had. What about vic comps?”

“I’m giving what we got from the Mira Institute another full scan, but what I got is all business and political bullshit. Callendar’s on Wymann. Juju’s got Betz.”

“Juju?”

“Cuz, I got it.” Red Dreads grinned at Eve.

She thought it looked as if someone had splattered his round white face with specks of red paint and called them freckles.

“Getting down on the Betz,” he said, tapping the toes of lightning-blue air boots laced to his knees. “Dude’s flush. Be flusher he didn’t ride slow ponies. Got two digs that show, one’s in the Apple, other’s rum and cigars. Pulls it in, doesn’t put much out. Got megs game for skirts for creaky. Lists ’em, flips ’em. Likes wheels, got three, mucho slap for zipping.”

“Just . . . stop.” Eve held up her hand as her head was starting to throb. “Does this guy speak English?”

“Bilingual,” Juju claimed with another happy grin. “American and geek. Like geek better.”

He turned the grin on Callendar. “Fluid?”

“Def. Fizz me cherry.”

“Check it. Black Death, Cap’n?”

“No, go with the sweet. Double Callendar.”

“Yo. McNab?”

“Triple it.”

He stood, showing himself to be well over six feet. An easy six-four, Eve judged, maybe helped a bit by the platform airboots with silver stars over the blue. “You up?”

“No. Whatever it is.”

“Cube it, thanks,” Peabody told him when he circled a finger at her.

“Covered.” He bopped out.

“My head hurts.”

Callendar offered Eve an easy shrug and smile. “He can go deep into e-jive, but he’s got the juju. He said how this Betz has money, and plenty, but he loses at the track pretty regularly. He bets the horses, and doesn’t win. He has two properties on official records—the one here in New York, and another in Cuba.”

“I want that data. We’ll have Cuba checked out.”

“You’ll get it. He also said this Betz is a—What’s it?—ladies’ man or whatever. Has a lot of women for being a guy his age. And he keeps a record of them handy, so he can have their names and, when he needs to, like shuffle or rotate them.”

“Christ. I want all that data.”

“We’ll make that so. Dude has three vehicles, and a whole buncha speeding violations.”

“Those, too. Let’s see if we can find out where he wants to get in such a hurry. It’s a good start.”

“Juju’s start,” Callendar said. “I’ve got the econ dude’s e’s. What shows on them is he doesn’t—didn’t—gamble, not that shows on his e’s. Unlike Betz—Juju was saying he took a lot in, financially, from the family businesses, and didn’t do much work—econ dude clocked in. He put in time, worked the job. Plenty of fun time for him. Vacays, trips. Got a lot of photos on his comps, and I’m IDing family. Got a grandson he’s bookmarked theater articles and reviews on, and there’s mail between them, friends, family. Some work. He didn’t keep a list of ‘dates,’ but he has a bunch of names and contacts of the female variety. Multiple properties—some straight investment, but also a flat in London and a place in East Hampton.”

“Okay, if they got their hands on keys, they could be using the place in East Hampton, or one of the other vics’ second houses. But . . .”

Too easy, Eve thought. Just too straight.

“They’d have their own. Couldn’t set all this up on the fly. We’ll have the secondary residences, even the income properties checked out. We need to eliminate.”

She checked the time. The day was streaming by, and Betz’s time was dwindling. “Send me everything, and whatever else you hit. I’m going to check with Yancy on a possible, then I’m in my office for now. I need to think.”

She went out as Juju bopped back with a tray of jumbo fizzies. He sent that mega-happy grin toward Peabody. “Check,” he said, and pulled one out of the tray.

“Thanks.”

When she started to dig out credits, he swiped a finger in the air. “Treat.”

They tapped knuckles before he bopped on.

“He’s good,” Peabody said before she slurped some fizzy. “I’ve hung with him a few times.”

“If Feeney put him on it, that’s good enough for me. Go on down, start digging on Downing. Deep.”

“Give Yancy a yo for me.”

They parted ways.

Eve made her way to Yancy’s division, found him at his desk, frowning at his screen. He glanced up, gave her a distracted look. “Hey.”

“Hey. And a yo from Peabody. Have you been able to connect with Laurel Esty?”

“You just missed her, and her friend Reb. Connect. Yeah, you could say that. I’ve got a date after shift.”

“With Esty?”

“It just happened.” He gave a puzzled laugh to go with the distracted look. “She said how maybe I’d take her out for a drink, and I guess I said sure. Then she said, ‘Mag, how about seven?’ So.”

Eve lifted her eyebrows. Peabody’s description—the hand fanning over the heart—hit the mark. The police artist had a lot of messy dark curls around a face that slipped along an interesting line between pretty and sexy.

“So,” Eve repeated. “I take it she wasn’t nervous about coming in.”

“Didn’t seem to be. Like some, she didn’t think she remembered or saw what she remembered and saw. It’s just a matter of easing them along. Huh. Straight wit, right? And not even because she didn’t witness a crime. Just got a glimpse at some art that pertains.”

“That’s right.” Since it was there, Eve leaned a hip on the corner of his desk. “No ethical lines crossed, if that’s what you’re asking, by buying her that drink. How much did you ease along out of her?”

“Besides her ’link numbers and the fact she’s not in a relationship?” He grinned now. “I think I replicated the art, as close as I can without seeing it myself. Used a regular sketch pad. I was about to transfer it to the comp and send it.”

“Do that, but let’s see it now.”

He opened a pad, flipped up a page. “I started with the whole works, as that’s how she saw it. The five women together.”

“Says unity, doesn’t it?” Eve studied the portrait of the women, shoulder to shoulder. “Downing—the wit knew her. But those are decent sketches of MacKensie and of Su—and she didn’t know them. Makes me think we’ll have some luck with facial rec on the others.”

“Factoring in that this is an approximation of an artist’s interpretation. The two unidentified—this one’s young. Early twenties tops, to my eye. And the other more mature. Mid-forties or more.”

“The youngest in the middle. It’s . . . like they’re supporting her.”

“Might be.” He frowned, studying his own work. “Might be,” he repeated, “the way she’s centered. I did individuals of the faces, but Laurie was clearest on Downing. Like you said, she knew that one, saw her off and on, talked to her. I can run the face rec with them.”

Eve started to say she’d do it herself, then backtracked. More hands, quicker work. “Appreciate it.”

“All in a day’s. Now the other painting?”

He flipped through his sketches of the faces, stopped on a study of six male figures, faces masks of evil and agony, falling toward a sea of flame. More flames shot out of the house in the background.

“It’s dark work,” Yancy said.

Eve took the pad from him, studied it up close. He’d been able to draw more details out of Esty, she noted. The house stood three stories, and sprawled some. Flames striking out of the windows lit what looked like brick. It didn’t strike her as a contemporary structure, but, despite the fire, seemed old in that rich sense. A wealthy house.

One she thought she’d know when she saw it.

Just as she recognized the men behind the demonic faces.

“Edward Mira, Jonas Wymann, William Stevenson—all dead, though Stevenson’s been that way for a while. Ruled self-termination, but we’ll take another look. Frederick Betz, currently missing. Marshall Easterday, trembling in his house, and Ethan MacNamee, currently alive and well in Glasgow, with the locals keeping an eye out. This is good work, Yancy.”

“We do what we do. Laurie said I got it, and I don’t think it was just because she was hitting on me.”

Eve flipped back through, studied the individual sketches of the women, and thought they had a good shot at IDing them. Better than fifty-fifty.

“Send me everything. If you get any hits on the women, I know when you do.”

“You got it.”

Eve went back to Homicide, arriving in time to hear Baxter ragging Jenkinson over his choice of tie.

“How can you wear purple and gold with that shade of brown suit?”

“The tie says it all.”

“It says I left my taste at home. At least you could think about color families and proper contrast.”

“Gotta take some fashion risks,” Jenkinson said, just to rag back. “Yo, Trueheart, I got a source on these. He’ll make you a nice deal if you want to polish up your detective wardrobe.”

“Thanks, Jenkinson, but I’ve got the one your wife gave me last night as a thank-you gift.”

“Thinks he can be a smart-ass now. Hey, boss. What do you think of my tie?”

“Jenkinson, I try not to think about your new tie fetish.”

“Just adding color to a dark world. Show the LT your socks, Reineke.”

“I don’t want to see—” She broke off when Reineke shot his foot out from behind his desk and showed off red socks shocked with blue lightning bolts.

She had a terrible flashback to Juju’s airboots.

“There is no merciful God,” Eve muttered.

“I gotta keep up with my partner,” Reineke claimed. “Figured I’d go for the footwear, and shoes cost too much to play with.”

The best cops she knew, Eve thought as she escaped to her office. Her bullpen was stocked with the best cops she knew.

But there were times.

She contacted Reo, again, for another warrant to get her into Betz’s bank box.

She got coffee, updated her board and book. Then did what she’d wanted to do for hours. She put her boots up on her desk and let herself think.

Five women, with a mutual secret, a mutual goal. Downing hadn’t had those two pictures in her apartment studio by chance.

Painting out her issues. Painting out her feelings.

Love and hate? Yeah, it could play like that.

Five women, Eve thought. It took deep loyalty and determination to keep a secret.

Age ranges, if the portrait held true, went from early twenties to mid-forties. A solid twenty-year gap. That gap took the older woman out of the usual range as a sexual target for the men in the morgue.

Six men. Half of them dead, and none by natural causes or accident. Six men who’d shared a house in college—and, she was convinced, a great deal more. Powerful men, wealthy men. Her two dead known adulterers with a taste for young flesh.

Something brought them together in college, she thought. Six young men, with privileged backgrounds. Ivy league young men.

What brought young men together?

Young women—the desire for them, the attaining of them.

At a university like Yale, they’d have to work, study, produce, or—money or not—they’d get the boot. A lot of stress, particularly as there’d been a war brewing. And that brew was stirred with anger and resentment against all of that privilege.

More restrictions, she concluded, for security.

What did young men want—besides women—that college provided? Freedom from the parental locks. No parents clocking their time, their activities. But now those restrictions set in, squeezing at those freedoms.

Sex, drugs, drink. Isn’t that a way to celebrate breaking the parental lock? To flip the bird at rules? To prove yourself a man? An adult?

But with rebels outside the gates, shaking fists, throwing stones, the gates get locked. What do you do?

None of their records showed any bumps for illegals, for alcohol violations. Could have been covered up—war and money—but either way, that left sex.

And sex was the key.

Six young men. Had it started all the way back there?

Old keys in a hidden drawer. A rich old house symbolically—or literally—burning.

And six old men on their way to hell.

She shifted to glance at her comp when it signaled an incoming. And dropped her boots to the floor when she noted it was from Morse.

Analyzed tattoos on both victims. Fully scientific report to follow. Simplifying same, the tattoos are between forty and fifty years old—and I lean toward closer to fifty. Have sent samples to lab for further analysis and verification, but evidence indicates your victims were young men when inked.

Six young men, she thought again, forging a brotherhood.

And five women, bound together.

She took the next incoming—Yancy’s work.

“Computer, run a search for properties within twenty-five miles of Yale University that carry no less than an eighty percent match with the house in sketch two, and are no less than fifty years old. Identify same whether or not the house still exists. Copy to my home unit, all search results.”

Search parameters acknowledged. Working . . .

“You do that, and so will I.”

And rubbed the tension in her neck at yet another incoming.

“Eve,” Mira began. “I wish I could give you more.”

“Inner Peace?”

“In more ways than one. Privacy laws, even from medical to medical, are very strict, and very clear. But, as I could already verify Su and MacKensie were guests, that eased the way a bit. While their individual therapists and group leaders couldn’t give details, professional courtesy counts for some. We’ll say they alluded to certain information, and/or didn’t contradict my conclusions. Both women sought help for recurring nightmares. Violent ones. And both engaged in therapy to release repressed memories. These details are corroborated by the insomnia studies Su and Downing participated in.”

“Okay. Every details helps the whole.”

“I can tell you this. Both of them registered for women-only areas, and sessions. My research there indicates those areas are primarily focused on physical and sexual abuse victims. Some confidence building, yes, some spiritual searching. But the main focus of that area of the center is for abuse victims. Rape victims.”

“They’ve gone to ground.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The three of them, and at least one more. Gone to ground.”

“One more.”

“There are five. Su, MacKensie, and Downing packed some things and left their apartments this morning. I have one unidentified woman—as yet—on the security feed of Su’s building. And I have five sketches from a painting seen in Downing’s apartment. Ages range from mid-forties to early twenties.”

For a moment, Mira said nothing. “I would conclude, on the basis of known evidence, the killings are revenge for sexual abuse, rape, assaults, that have gone on for many years, involving many victims.”

“We agree. I have to keep on this. Anything else you can dig out, I want it.”

“Five, Eve. With that much of an age span. You have only to fill in the blanks to see the probability.”

“Yeah. There are a lot more than five. I’ll be in touch,” Eve said, and clicked off.

She rose, grabbed her coat, headed out.

“Baxter, Trueheart, everything you get copy to my office and my home comp. I may not make it back. Peabody, the same.”

“But—”

“I’m heading to the Bronx—Betz’s bank box—and unless I need to, I’m not coming back into Central. Yancy’s doing the face recognition on the two unknown women in Downing’s painting, and I’ve got one going on the house in the second painting. We get hits, I’ll pull you in, if necessary. Otherwise, I want you digging every byte of data there is to dig. These five women’s paths crossed somewhere—and we only have three of the five for certain. I want to know where and when on all of them.”

She headed for the glide—just couldn’t face the elevator all the way to the garage this time. And pulled out her signaling ’link.

“Dallas. Tell me you got the warrant.”

“I will have by the time you pick me up,” Reo told her.

“What? Why?”

“Because banks are notoriously fussy. You can use a lawyer. Plus when you have me wrangling this many warrants in one day, I deserve a field trip.”

“It’s the freaking Bronx.” Impatient, Eve wound through people content to just stand and ride down.

“Pick me up, courthouse. I’ll be outside Justice Hall.”

Before Eve could argue, Reo cut off.

Still weaving, Eve muttered. She’d intended to use the drive time as thinking time with some nagging mixed in. The lab, EDD, Yancy. Then there was the likelihood of tapping Roarke for some assistance.

By the time she got to the garage, she’d resigned herself to hauling a passenger. And, yeah, sometimes a lawyer came in handy.

At least this one was as good as her word and stood outside with a sassy red beret tipped over her blond hair. Her coat matched it, and hit mid-calf over a pair of black boots with a high-curving heel.

“How do you walk on those?” Eve demanded when APA Cher Reo hopped in.

“With grace and sex appeal.” She settled her trim briefcase and enormous handbag on the floor and, like Peabody, ordered the seat warmer.

“New York winters, I wonder if I’ll ever get used to them.”

“They come every year.”

“You’re irritated because I’m coming along. How many warrants was that today?”

“Okay, okay.”

“Same team, Dallas. I’m assuming Franklin Betz is still missing.”

“Unless they decided to wrap it up and run—and I don’t see it—he’s still alive. But he’ll be in a world of hurt, and he won’t be breathing too much longer.”

“Such cloying optimism.” At its signal, Reo pulled out her ’link, scanned the readout, hit ignore.

“Don’t you need to take that?”

“No. I’m all yours,” Reo said cheerfully. “I’ve got some details. What don’t I know?”

Eve ran it through. It never hurt to run it through step-by-step again, for herself as much as Reo.

“You believe these men, your two victims and the three—no, four with the suicide—others, raped these women.”

“Yes. And since one of them is about two decades older than their usual taste, I think they’ve been raping women for at least that long. Maybe a lot longer.”

“Because of the tats.”

At least she didn’t have to explain every damn point.

“If the woman running the crisis center recognized three of them—by your instincts,” Reo added, “maybe the five of them met there.”

“It’s hard for me to buy five victims of the same group just happened to use the same crisis center. And none of them reported a rape. Nothing on record.”

“A support group then, a therapist, something else that united them.”

“Even then, all of them, independently? It’s a stretch. But it’s what I’ve got. Easterday’s shaken up. If I don’t find Betz, I’m pulling Easterday into Interview. I need to scare it out of him.

She shot a glance at Reo—petite, pretty. And under it, fierce.

“I could use some weight there.”

“He’s a lawyer, so he’s going to have plenty of representation telling him to exercise his right to remain silent.”

“If I make him believe his life’s on the line, he’ll break. It damn well is on the line. The other thing is getting into Edward Mira’s place—his things—without his wife’s consent. She’s going to block me however she can.”

“So lawyers come in handy. When do you want to go?”

“Today’s best, tomorrow latest.” She scrubbed her hand over her face. “With everything else on the plate, it’ll probably be tomorrow. Morning. Early. His son and daughter would cooperate. They may even help. I’d tap that if you get me the warrant. I want to confiscate his electronics. I want a search and seizure.”

Now Reo took out her PPC, made some notes. “Do you think she knew? If this is what you think, and he was part of it, do you think she knew?”

“I think she’s the type who can know and tell herself she doesn’t. I think she’s the type, when it comes out, who’d say they all asked for it, they all were willing.”

“I know the type. We see it on our end as much as you do. What about Easterday’s wife?”

“She doesn’t know. She doesn’t strike me as someone who wears blinders or doesn’t give a rat’s ass as long as it doesn’t interfere with her social schedule. And that’s a lever I’ll use when I have him in the box. However I get him there.”

“Do you always drive this way?”

“What way?”

“As if we’re trying to outrun an earthquake.”

“Time’s running out. In fact.” She hit the sirens, hit vertical, and punched it. “FYI? This is how you outrun an earthquake.”

She made it from downtown Manhattan to the Bronx in record time, and gave Reo points for only squealing once.

But that damn Rapid Cab shouldn’t have ignored the siren.

Eve squeezed into a No Parking area, flipped on her On Duty light.

Reo flipped down the vanity mirror, checked her face. “Just making sure my eyes aren’t bugging out.” But she fished some hot-red lip dye out of her purse. “It’s power,” she told Eve. “You’ve got the badge and the bad attitude, I’ve got the legal heft and Rock ’Em Red lip dye.”

Reo dropped the lip dye back in her bag, curved the Rock ’Em Red lips in a feral smile. “We’ve got this.”

Uniformed security stopped them at the door.

“Ma’am, you’re under surveillance. Please surrender your weapon immediately.”

“Lieutenant. NYPSD. Badge,” she said, and two fingered it out.

He scanned it, gave her the hard eye. “Bank policy requires you to secure your weapon before entering to do business.”

“I’m here on police business, and my weapon’s secure. On me. Reo?”

“Of course. Assistant Prosecuting Attorney Cher Reo.” Reo flashed a smile, opened her briefcase. “Warrant,” she said, offering it. “We’re duly authorized to enter the premises—and as we’re conducting police business, the lieutenant is under no obligation to remove her weapon—and access the safe-deposit box clearly listed on the warrant.”

“You need to wait here for the manager. Bank policy.”

“While this warrant trumps your bank policy, we’re happy to wait for precisely one minute.” Reo checked her wrist unit. “Beginning now.”

He gave her the hard eye, but hurried off.

“Nice,” Eve said. “The one-minute deal. Will that hold up?”

“If we don’t mind causing a scene.”

The bank was quiet as a church and ornate as a museum with fake marble columns pretending to hold up the sky-view ceiling. Tellers sat on stools behind blast shields and conducted business with patrons in hushed tones.

Eve decided she wouldn’t mind causing a scene.

A woman, long strides in skinny black heels, crossed the wide lobby. She had dark hair in a precise wedge and a stern expression on her face.

“What seems to be the problem, Officer?”

“Lieutenant.” Eve tapped her badge. “I’ve got no problem as long as you recognize the warrant APA Reo is showing you, and lead the way to the deposit box listed on same.”

“The privacy of our patrons, both through bank policy and federal regulations—”

“Does not supersede this duly administered warrant,” Reo interrupted. “A fact you’re fully aware of if you’re the manager of this bank. If you choose to attempt to block the execution of this warrant, Lieutenant Dallas will arrest you for obstruction.”

“As the manager of this bank, I’m obliged to contact Mr. Betz and inform him of the situation.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.” Eve rolled her shoulders. “You do that—after you take us to the box, and open it. We’re going by the minute here, right, Reo? You’ve got one minute to decide how you want to play this. Starting now.”

“It will take me longer than one minute to contact and inform Mr. Betz.”

“At the end of one minute, you’re going to be in restraints, and the only contact you’ll want to make is to your lawyer. Make that forty-five seconds.”

“I will be reporting you to your superiors. Both of you.”

But she turned on her heel, used those long strides to recross the lobby with Eve and Reo following closely behind, swiped a card over a security pad, tapped in a code.

Two steel doors parted in the middle and slid open to a small warren of rooms lined with steel boxes.

“You’re required to show your identification, and to sign the log. Again, both of you.”

While they did, the manager took the warrant and scowled over every word.

“You’ve left me no choice, but I do this under protest. Our patrons’ privacy—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eve moved past her, following the numbers until she came to Betz’s box. “Go away.”

The woman gave a long sniff and departed, yanking a smaller steel door behind her.

Eve took out the evidence bag, took out the swipe. Before she used it, she turned on her recorder, read in the data.

The box popped out from the wall so she could lift it out, take it to a table. She slid back the lid.

“Oh my,” Reo murmured. “That’s a whole bunch of paper money.”

“It’s going to be a whole bunch of unreported-to-the-tax-guys paper money.”

“How much do you think?”

“About half a mil, ballpark.”

“That’s a very green ballpark. We’re going to need a bag.”

“Yeah, we’ll get one.” Eve lifted out stacks of hundreds, and found the collection of small, sealed bags.

“Are those—they’re locks of hair.”

“Yeah.” Eve’s stomach knotted. “Souvenirs. They’re going to be DNA matches for women he—most likely they—raped.”

“Christ have mercy, Dallas, there are dozens. They have names.”

Eve did a quick count. “Forty-nine. Forty-nine souvenirs. A lot of fuckers can’t resist taking a souvenir. And here’s one marked Charity, there are a couple of Lydias, but only one Charity, only one Carlee spelled the way MacKensie does. First names only, but it’s going to help.”

Frowning, she uncovered a large disc in a clear plastic case.

“Look at the size of that. I’ve never seen one that big.”

Eve turned it under the lights. “I’m guessing it’s old. Maybe as much as forty-nine years old. Handwritten title.”

She turned it over for Reo to read.

“‘The Brotherhood: Year One.’”

“Get that bag, will you, Reo?”

“All right.”

When Reo stepped out, closed the door again, Eve tagged Roarke.

“I’m sorry, I know you’ve got stuff.”

“The amount of which is easing up for the day. What is it?”

“I could use some help. See this?” She held up the disc so it would show on his ’link screen.

“Ah, an antique.”

“Yeah, out of Betz’s bank box in the Bronx.”

“Say that five times fast.” But Roarke didn’t smile, just kept his eyes on hers.

Did it show? she wondered. Did the sickness she felt inside show on her face?

For him it would, she thought. He’d see it.

“Listen, I—”

“Do you need me to come?”

“No, no. I— Can you jury-rig something to play this thing?”

“I can, of course. Are you going home?”

“I’ve got a couple of stops to make, then, yeah. I think I know what’s on here, and . . . I’d rather be home when I view it than asking Feeney.”

“I can be home in about ninety minutes. Sooner if you need me sooner.”

“Ninety’s great. Thanks. I’m with Reo, and I’ve got a couple things. I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

“You take care of my cop, body and soul.”

“Trying to. See you in ninety.”

She clicked off and stood staring down at the little sealed bags with the locks of hair. Stood staring and fighting off waves of revulsion.