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“Is that hot chocolate anything remotely resembling hot chocolate?” Peabody wondered.
“It may inhabit the same continent, if not country.”
“I’ll risk it. I’ve completely blown my pre–New Year’s resolution today on diet and nutrition. Might as well finish it off.”
When she started to dig in her pockets, Morris brushed her arm. “Allow me.” Morris input his code, and they all watched an anemic stream of beige pour into a biodegradable cup.
“Well.” Peabody took it out of the slot. “It’s hot, so that’s half there.”
“Good luck with that. So, Ledo.” Morris gestured again, and they started down the tunnel. “Without his untimely end, he might have had another five or six years in him if he’d remained on the same course. Considerable liver and kidney damage from substance abuse. Ocular degeneration from the same. Bones and teeth show signs of very poor nutrition, and indeed his last meal was fried noodles and brew that was more chemicals than barley.
“His tox screen,” Morris continued as they went through his double doors, “showed a cocktail of funk, go-smoke, and downs. Enough downs his killer didn’t need to stun him. He’d have been out for another six hours regardless.”
“Couldn’t know that—unless the killer witnessed him ingesting.” Eve approached the body, studied the stun marks, the deep, jagged hole left by the cue. “Even then, why change routine, why take the chance? Careful, cautious, thorough.”
“The blow to the cheekbone was hard enough to fracture it, and likely came from above. Standing, straddling him. Right to left.”
“Most likely right-handed then, as we determined in Bastwick’s case.”
“Most likely. And the killing blow, again from above. Straight down, with force. The break on the cue was fresh.”
“Yeah, saw that, confirmed at the lab.”
“I picked several splinters out of the wound. Another message, I’m told.”
When Eve only nodded, he walked over, got a tube of Pepsi from his friggie.
“Thanks. Morris, I’ve got to ask. Have any of your people—the techs, the docs, the drivers, maintenance, anybody, shown a particular interest in my cases, my DBs?”
“You’ve had some noteworthy ones, so there’s been interest. But not undue, not to my mind. And no one who’s regularly or routinely taken one.”
“But you discuss, consult, coordinate.”
“Yes, we do.” He took the tube, cracked it himself, handed it back to her. “It’s hard what we do—murder cops, death doctors, and those who work with us. So you have to consider that, consider someone who’s signed on to do good may turn, and do what puts people on my table.”
And that, Eve thought, was exactly what she feared.
“He’s smart, Morris, and he’s skilled. Trained, I think, I really do. But he’s not as smart as he thinks because he thinks he leaves nothing behind.”
“And he leaves his words.”
“That’s right, and the words are his thoughts, his feelings, his motives. So that’s a lot to leave behind. I just have to figure out how to . . . read between the lines.”
She took a long drink, felt the caffeine slide in. “Now I have to go talk to the fucking media.”
“Be brave, my child.”
That got a snort of laughter out of her. “The slick and chilly high-powered defense attorney, and the low-life chemi-head. Is there a pattern there?”
She started to pace, tried to find it.
Morris glanced at Peabody. “How’s that hot chocolate?”
“I think it’s a small, pale island off the continent of hot chocolate, but it carries a faint whiff.”
“Time wise,” Eve said out loud, “I had my first, annoying meet with Bastwick the summer of ’58, my last with Ledo around January ’59. So that’s a possible timeline. Possibly chronological. That would be organized, efficient.”
And she shoved her hands in her pockets. “Which doesn’t give me much of dick, because I’ve gone around with a hell of a lot of people between early ’59 and now. He’s got two years, basically, to pluck from.”
