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“Yes, sir. Looks like he might’ve fallen in and drowned. Not a mark on him, and the way he’s dressed, he could be an usher for the Met or one of the other theaters in the Center. Thing is,” he continued as he fell into step beside Eve, “he’s about the same age as the recycle bin case. She didn’t have any marks on her either.”
“We’ll see what we see.”
There were still little rivulets and pools of wet where the body had been pulled out of the fountain. The air was already warm, but heavy enough with humidity that she imagined the water would take some time to evaporate.
She set down her field kit, engaged her recorder, and stood over the body.
Young, she thought on the first quick stir of pity. Twenty at best. Pretty face for a boy. Death had leeched his color, but she imagined his skin had been a smooth and dusky go
ld to go with the ink black hair and brows. Sharp facial bones, long, elegant fingers, a long trim body, mostly leg.
He was dressed in black—short jacket with a notched collar, straight pants, soft leather shoes. When she crouched, peered close, she could see the faint marks where a name tag had been removed.
Carefully removed, she thought.
“Victim is male, Asian, eighteen to twenty. No visible signs of violence. He is fully dressed in what appears to be a uniform.”
She sealed up, then went through his pockets for ID. She found a wallet that held two debit cards, a student ID, and an employee card from the Lincoln Center.
“Victim is identified as Sulu, Kenby, age nineteen, Upper East Side residence, currently a registered student at Juilliard and employed by Lincoln Center.”
She sealed the wallet in evidence, then examined his hands.
The skin was smooth, the nails short and well-kept. “Come from money, don’t you?” she murmured. “Took care of yourself. Juilliard.” She looked toward the Center. “So it was theater for you. You were working tonight. Part-time job, right? To keep close to the theater, maybe help pay your way.”
She turned his right hand over, saw the faint red mark from a pressure syringe. “I’m going to find out how he got you, Kenby.”
She dug into her field kit, barely glancing up when she heard the huffing breaths and rapid clap of cop shoes on pavement.
“Record on, Peabody. The body’s been moved. Lifted out of the fountain, civilian found him.” As she spoke, she fixed on microgoggles and examined the palm of the right hand more closely.
“Faint discoloration as is typical from pressure syringe.”
“Like Howard.”
“Yeah, like Howard.” She unbuttoned the jacket. “He was carrying an ID, and two debit cards, got a trendy wrist unit.”
“Not robbery.”
“No, not robbery.” She parted the jacket.
The wound was small and neat. A tidy round hole through smooth flesh, toned muscle, and into the heart. With the goggles on she could see the bits of NuSkin adhesive left around the wound. “And he didn’t drown either. Primary’s assessment, cause of death, heart wound induced by thin blade. Tox report will likely show opiates in bloodstream.”
She sat back on her heels. “Contact Morris. I want him on this one. Run the victim’s prints, Peabody, to verify ID. Get time of death, finish the scene exam. Get the names and addresses of next of kin. Then have him bagged, tagged. Homicide. I’m going to question the civilians.”
She heard Peabody take a breath to steady herself as she walked away.
The couple sat close on the steps. Hip to hip in their fancy evening clothes. The woman was wearing a black-and-white speckled dress that wound around her body like the snake it mimicked. Her hair had probably started out the evening in a golden tower, but the tower had crumbled considerably, sending poofs and curls and straggles in and around her face.
The man had fared little better. His jacket was bundled in a wet ball beside him, and his snow-white ruffled shirt was transparent from his dip in the fountain. He was barefoot, with his soggy silver shoes on the steps. His pants were still dripping and clung to skinny legs.
She put them both just shy of thirty.
She motioned to the uniform to step aside, then tapped her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Dallas. Tell me what happened.”
“He was in the water. I pulled him out. He was dead. I feel sick.”
“I know this is difficult.” She imagined he did feel sick, not only from the experience but from the crash from whatever party favors they’d been imbibing earlier in the evening. “How did you find him?”
