Salvation In Death Part 20

"Yeah, it's a big day for energy. Billy Crocker's a widower. His wife-only marriage-died in a vehicular accident six years ago. He has two grown offspring. One's a professional mother, living in Alabama with her husband and two minor daughters. The other is on the EL payroll, and is married to a woman employed as a publicist for EL. He's sitting more than reasonably pretty financially, even while pumping a full twenty percent of his income back into the EL coffers annually. His home back in Mississippi is virtually next door to Jenkins, while he maintains a smaller second home near the married daughter."

Eve sat back. "He's in charge of booking appearances, clearing the venues, scheduling all Jenkins's appointments, securing his transportation-or working with the transportation head. To get to Jimmy Jay, you've got to go through Billy."

"Second in command," Peabody offered.

"Absolutely. Schedules his appointments," Eve repeated. "I can all but guarantee that both Caro and Summerset know where Roarke is pretty much any given time of the day or night. I f not precisely, they know how to reach him, anywhere, anytime. I f he was ever stupid enough to cheat on me-"

"I heard that," Roarke called out.

"They'd know. One or both would know."

"So Billy knew Jenkins was ... preaching to the choir?" McNab suggested.

"According to Ulla, the side dish, she and Jenkins had been saying hallelujah for nearly five months. Regularly. I 'm betting Billy knew, just as I 'm betting Ulla wasn't Jenkins's first conversion."

"So we pin Billy on how much he knew and see what else we get," Peabody added. "And we see if we can find previous converts."

"Meanwhile, we're running the Flores investigation on parallel but potentially intersecting lines. I 've got the results of a run I started last night before the second homicide. I 've got about a half-dozen Linos baptized at St. Cristobal's during the appropriate time frame, who have not lived in that parish during the last six years. On this first pa.s.s, I eliminated those who do, or those who are currently listed as having a spouse, legal cohab, or are incarcerated. I f we don't hit on this pa.s.s, we'll do another with those eliminated. I t may be he created a trapdoor cover ID that's as bogus as he was."

"A lot more work." McNab polished off his waffles. "A lot more complicated. Just adding in the tax filing s.h.i.+t wouldn't make that real practical."

"So we hope we hit first pa.s.s. Can Feeney spare you if I want you on this?"

"I don't know how he runs EDD without me, but if you ask, he nods, I 'm yours. What about the ID search?"

"Can Callendar handle it?"

"She's almost as good as I am." He grinned. "And I 've pointed her in the right direction anyway."

"I 'll tag Feeney. Meanwhile, get down to Central and start contacting and interviewing these Linos." She tossed him a disc. "I f Feeney can't live without you, just hang onto it for now. I have a copy. Peabody, with me. And if the two of you have to lock lips before parting ways, make it fast."

Eve headed out so she didn't have to watch.But the rosy flush riding her partner's cheeks when Peabody caught up told Eve there'd been more than a quick lip b.u.mp.

"Where first?"

"Morgue."

"Waffles, corpses, and slabs. The cop's trifecta. Did you get any sleep?"

"A couple hours."

"I wish I could bounce on a couple like you do."

"I don't bounce. McNab bounces."

"Yeah." Peabody stifled a yawn as they walked out the front door. "I guess you plow, and I 'm down to a crawl." She flopped down in the pa.s.senger seat of the vehicle parked at the base of the stairs. "So, the side dish isn't on your suspect list?"

"Dumb as a cornstalk. Roarke says sweet, and I guess I see that, too. Loyal, I 'd say. She may be part of the motive, but she wasn't part of the execution."

"You said how we may intersect lines with the Flores case. But I don't see it."

"Why?"

"Well, I know it looks like they should cross, or merge. Same method, same basic victim type. Except they're not basically the same victim type.

And if it's a killer on a mission, why is he keeping the mission to himself? Maybe the vics are connected in another way, but I can't find it. I spent some time doing background on Jenkins. I just can't see where he'd have run into the guy posing as Flores, where they'd have common ground."

"You may not bounce or plow, but you're crawling pretty well on a couple hours." She made it nearly five blocks before she hit the first hideous traffic snarl. "c.r.a.p. c.r.a.p. Why do they call it rush hour when it lasts days and n.o.body can rush anywhere?"

She engaged her dash 'link to tag Feeney.

She'd barely finished securing McNab to the team when her 'link signaled an incoming.

"Dallas."

"Lieutenant." Mira's admin sniffed on-screen. "Dr. Mira's schedule is fully booked today."

"I just need-"

"However, the doctor would be happy to discuss your current cases over her lunch break. Twelve o'clock. Ernest's."

"I 'll be there."

"Be on time. The doctor doesn't have time to wait."

Before Eve could work up a scowl, the screen went blank. "Like I sit around and play mahjong all frigging day."

"What is mahjong, exactly?"

"How the h.e.l.l do I know? Am I playing it? Screw this." I f nothing else, Mira's dragon's att.i.tude annoyed Eve enough to have her slapping on the sirens and going vertical.

Peabody gritted her teeth and gripped the chicken stick as Eve skimmed over the roofs of honking Rapid Cabs and compact commuters, as she veered around the hulk of a maxibus, veered back around the dingy wedge of a delivery van.

"He's still going to be dead when we get there," Peabody pointed out in a squeak. Then huffed out a breath of relief when Eve landed the vehicle in a short span of clear road.

"Look at that." Eve pointed a finger at one of the animated billboards running news headlines.

There, looming over the circus of Times Square, was Jimmy Jay Jenkins, choking out his last breaths, falling like a huge white pine under the ax.

"They'll be running that clip for days," Peabody predicted. "And any time they do a story on him for the next forever, they'll run it. Whoever had the rights to that feed is now a really rich b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Stupid!" Eve rapped her fist on the wheel, hit vertical again to zip over another, smaller jam. "Moron. Idiot."

"Who? What?"

"Me. Who owns the f.u.c.king feed? Who gets the juice? Find out. Now."

"Hold on. Hold on." Concentrating on her PPC, Peabody stopped visualizing her own mangled body trapped in the police issue after a violentmidair collision.

"I f it's not the church, I 'm even a bigger moron. Why pa.s.s that revenue on to someone else? Even if it's a different arm, it's going to be the same body. I t has to be the same d.a.m.n body."

"I get Good Shepherd Productions."

"That's a church thing. Good Shepherd. They aren't talking sheep. T ag Roarke. He can get it faster." Eve's eyes stayed hot and hard on the road as she maneuvered. "Tag Roarke, ask if he can find out if Good Shepherd Productions is an arm of the Church of the Eternal Light."

"One second. Hi, sorry," Peabody said when Roarke's face came on, and she thought, "Gosh, pretty." "Um, Dallas wonders if you could find out if Good Shepherd Productions is part of Jenkins's church. She's currently trying to keep from killing us both in morning traffic, so she's kind of tied up."

"I f the lieutenant had managed to read the data I added to her case file, she'd find a complete list of the various arms of the Church of EL, which include Good Shepherd Productions."

"I knew it. Thanks. Later."

"Okay. Me, too." Peabody added a smile. "Have a good one."

"The church is going to make a mint from that feed alone. I f we need an estimate, Nadine could give it round numbers." Eve threaded through traffic, pus.h.i.+ng south. "So you lose your figurehead, and the main source of revenue. But you lose it in such a way that brings you an instant spike in that revenue-there is no downswing, no potential loss. But there is the potential, if you're smart enough, to capitalize on that for years. For, what was it, the next forever."

"Hey. I said that!" Peabody took a moment to preen-then another to exchange shocked stares with the glide-cart operator they skimmed by with the skin of a soy dog to spare.

"You've still got the family, and you're d.a.m.n straight you've got a replacement already in mind. Plus, your figurehead's drinking and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. That gets out, the money train's going to take a long, unscheduled stop. But this? I t's win-win more."

She rode on that, turning the different angles in her mind until she reached the morgue. Striding down the white tunnel, Eve pulled out her 'link to check one of those angles. Then stopped when she saw Morris standing in front of a vending machine. With Detective Magnolia Blossom.

The detective spotted Eve and Peabody first, and brushed back a silky lock of melted b.u.t.ter hair. "Lieutenant, Detective."

"Detective," Eve said with a nod. "You got one in?"

"No, actually, I was just on my way out. Thanks for the coffee," she said to Morris, with a gleam in her deep summer blue eyes that made it clear she was thanking Morris for a lot more than a c.r.a.ppy soy product.

"I 'll walk you out. One minute," he said to Eve, then moved with Detective Coltraine side-by-side down the echoing tunnel. His hand reached out, skimmed lightly down her back.

"Wow. They're, like, touching. Oh, and look. She's doing the head-tilt thing. That's a definite invite. I bet they're going to share a big sloppy one at the door," Peabody predicted.

"Gee, you think?" The idea of the big sloppy one made Eve want to do a quick check of Detective Amaryllis Coltraine's on-the-job record. Because the urge annoyed her, Eve put it out of her mind. "He's a big boy."

"That's what I hear." Peabody grinned at Eve's cool stare. "I can't help hearing things. Yeah, big sloppy one was had," she muttered under her breath as Morris strolled back. "He sure looks happy."

He did, Eve realized. And that would be enough. "Sorry to interrupt."

"Now, or when you red-flagged me?"

"Either or both."

"Not to worry. Let's go say good morning to Reverend Jenkins."

"Were you able to start on him?"

"Yes, indeed. Some tests still pending," Morris added as they moved down, then into an autopsy room. "COD was what I a.s.sume you'd expected.

Cyanide poisoning. He'd also ingested a tad over eight ounces of vodka and approximately thirty ounces of spring water in the last hours of his life.

He'd had fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, fried onions, collard greens, biscuits, and peach pie with vanilla ice cream about six P.M. And, if that wasn't enough, about ten ounces of deep fried pork rinds with sour cream dip at around eight."

"I 'm surprised he had room for the cyanide," Eve mumbled.

"I 'm going to guess he ate that way with some regularity as he was about thirty pounds overweight. Carried most of it in his belly, as you see."I t was hard not to as Jimmy Jay was currently splayed out naked on a slab.

"Unlike your previous entry, I 'd say this one didn't believe in regular exercise, and liked to eat, preferring his food fried, starchy, and/or full of refined sugar. Take away the cyanide, and it's still unlikely your soul saver would have made his given one-twenty."

"How much cyanide?"

"Nearly half again as was used for your priest."

"T ake him down, quick and hard. I f he'd ingested it slowly, over the course of, say, an hour? I f he'd had some laced in to his water bottles- multiple?"

"He'd have felt ill-weak, confused, short of breath."

"So not that way. All at once. The first two bottles onstage were most likely clean. I t's about timing. Third bottle is consumed right around break time.

Everything, everyone's revved up, he's in his groove. Sweating, preaching, pulls off his jacket. That's routine-the audience loves it. Can't risk it happening after the break," Eve said half to herself. "Can't risk even the slight possibility someone else might drink from that bottle, or that bottle is replaced. So it has to be before the break, when he's still by himself onstage. But for the biggest impact, at the end of that period."

"The daughter put them onstage," Peabody pointed out.

"Yeah. Yeah. What does it take?" Eve paced away from the body. "All you have to do is cross that stage. Everyone's used to seeing you, handling details, being around. Who's going to say: 'Yo, what are you doing?' n.o.body. You just check the water, that's all. Making sure the lids are loose for good old Jimmy Jay. And you tip in the cyanide."

She paced back. "The water's on the table, behind the drop," she remembered. "Smarter to do it when the singers are already out there-what do you call it-upstage. In front of the drop. Vic's in his dressing room, most everyone is except the ones onstage. I t takes a minute, if that. Sealed hands, maybe thin gloves, like a doctor's. I bet there's a medical on staff. Smart, pretty smart. Still, maybe stupid enough to toss the sealant or gloves, the empty poison container in one of the arena's recyclers. Why wouldn't you? I t's just going to prove what you want us to find out anyway.

Somebody poisoned him."

Morris smiled at her. "As Reverend Jenkins and I are now so intimately acquainted, and you appear to know who somebody is, share."

"His name's Billy Crocker. And it's time we had another chat."

CHAPTER 11

THEY TRACKED BILLY DOWN AT THE TOWN HOUSE on Park. The attractive brunette who opened the door looked pale and wrung out-and surprised. "Detective Peabody. Is there-do you have news?"

"No, ma'am. Lieutenant Dallas, this is Merna Baker, the nanny."

"Oh, h.e.l.lo. I 'm sorry, when I saw you on the security screen, I thought ... Please, come in."