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“I don’t know. Anyone who wants to.”
“Garda’s coming,” Roarke told her.
“Sean, do me a solid and walk Roarke to the road you told me about. I?
??ll stay with her,” she assured him before he could object. “I want to know how long it takes to walk it.”
“Is it a clue?”
“It might be.”
When they were out of earshot, Eve said, “Fuck.”
“Aye,” Brian agreed. “She’s young, I think.”
“Early twenties. About five-five and a hundred and twenty. Mixed race female, blond with blue and red streaks, brown eyes, tats on inner left ankle—small bird—and back of right shoulder—flaming sun. Pierced eyebrow and nose, multiple ear piercings. She’s city. She’s still wearing the rings and studs, rings on three fingers.”
“Well, I can’t say I noticed all of that, but see it right enough now. How did she die?”
“Best guess, from the bruising, strangulation with some smacking around prior. She’s fully dressed, but there could have been sexual assault.”
“Poor child. A hard end to a short life.”
Eve said nothing, but thought murder was always a hard end however short or long the life. She turned as she heard Roarke and the boy come back.
“It’s no more than a two-minute walk to the road, and the path’s clear enough. Street lighting would come on at dusk, as it’s near the school.” He waited a moment. “I could put together a makeshift field kit without too much trouble.”
She itched for it. “It’s not my place, not my case.”
“We found her,” Sean argued, with considerable stubborn in his tone.
“That makes us witnesses.”
Once again she heard rustling, footsteps. A uniformed cop came into view on the path. Young, she thought, and nearly sighed. As young as the dead with the open, pink-cheeked face of innocence.
“I’d be Officer Leary,” he began. “You reported a bit of trouble? What . . .” He trailed off, turned the same pale green as the light, when he saw the body.
Eve grabbed his arm, turned him away. “Soldier up, Leary. You’ve got a DB, and don’t want to compromise the scene by booting on the vic.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You would be if you puked. Where’s your superior?”
“I—my—ah—Sergeant Duffy’s in Ballybunion with his family on holiday. He only left this morning. Who are you? Are you the Yank cop from New York City? Roarke’s cop?”
“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. Put your damn recorder on, Leary,” she muttered.
“Yes. Sorry. I’ve never . . . we don’t. I’m not quite sure what I’m about.”
“You’re about to take a witness report, secure this scene, then call in whoever it is around here who investigates homicides.”
“There really isn’t anyone—that is, not right around here. I’ll have to contact the sergeant. We just don’t have this happen here. Not here.” He looked at her. “Would you help me? I don’t want to make a mistake.”
“Names. You have mine. That’s Roarke. This is Brian Kelly, a friend from Dublin. This is Sean Lannigan.”
“Yeah, I know Sean here. How’s it all going then?”
“I found her.”
