Salvation in Death

  “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 hell do I know? Am I playing it? Screw this.” If nothing else, Mira’s dragon’s attitude 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 bastard.”

  “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 fucking 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 violent midair collision.

  “If it’s not the church, I’m even a bigger moron. Why pass that revenue on to someone else? Even if it’s a different arm, it’s going to be the same body. It has to be the same damn body.”

  “I get Good Shepherd Productions.”

  “That’s a church thing. Good Shepherd. They aren’t talking sheep. Tag 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.”

  “If 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. If we need an estimate, Nadine could give it round numbers.” Eve threaded through traffic, pushing 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 damn straight you’ve got a replacement already in mind. Plus, your figurehead’s drinking and screwing around. That gets out, the money train’s going to take a long, unscheduled stop. But this? It’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 butter 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 crappy 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 assume 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.”

  It 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.”

  “Take him down, quick and hard. If he’d ingested it slowly, over the course of, say, an hour? If 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. It’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?’ Nobody. 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 al
ready 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. It 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? It’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.”

  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, hello. I’m sorry, when I saw you on the security screen, I thought . . . Please, come in.”

  The foyer was short and wide, narrowing to a hallway Eve noted bisected the house. Merna stood, puffy-eyed, in her calf-skimming dark skirt and blue blouse. Her short hair curled around a face that showed no signs of enhancements.

  Wouldn’t have been Jenkins’s type, Eve thought.

  “We were told Mr. Crocker was here,” Eve began. “We’d like to speak with him.”

  “Oh. Yes, he’s here. He’s back with Jolene and some of the family. We’re . . . It’s such a hard day.”

  “We’ll try not to make it any harder.”

  “Yes, of course. If you’d just wait here a moment.”

  She walked down the hall, knocked on a door. When it opened, she spoke in a voice so quiet it didn’t carry. But Eve heard Jolene’s voice spike up inside the room.

  “The police? Do they know what happened to my Jimmy? Do they—”

  She came out fast, pushing her way through. She wore a long pink robe, and her hair bounced like tangled springs on her shoulders. Both her feet and face were bare, and Eve had a moment to think how much prettier she was without the layers of glop she painted on.

  “Jimmy Jay.” She gripped Eve’s arms, long, pink nails biting in, as several people poured out of the room, into the hall. “You’re here about Jimmy Jay. You found out what happened.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we did.”

  “It was his heart, wasn’t it?” The words hitched on sobs. “That’s what I’ve been telling everybody. His heart, it was just so big, so big and so full. It just gave out, that’s all. It gave out, and God called him home.”

  There was a plea on her face, a terrible need in her eyes.

  What was worse than telling someone their loved one was dead? Eve thought. Telling them their loved one was murdered.

  “No, I’m sorry. Mr. Jenkins died of cyanide poisoning.”

  Her eyes rolled back. Even as the small army of people rushed forward, Eve caught her, held her upright. And Jolene’s eyes blinked, went clear. Went cold. She slapped back at the hands reaching for her, kept those cold, clear eyes on Eve.

  She went from zero to sixty, Eve thought. From fragile matron to avenger.

  “You stand here, and you look me in the face, and tell me you know—absolutely, without a single doubt—that someone poisoned my husband. You look me in the eye and tell me that’s God’s own truth. Can you do that?”

  “Yes. Someone poisoned your husband.”

  Around them, family broke into sobs, into calls for Mama, or Mama Jo. When they pressed in, reached for her, Jolene spun around.

  “Y’all hush! You hush now, every one of you.”

  The noise shut off as if she’d slapped a switch. When she turned back to Eve and her lips trembled, she firmed them. When her eyes filled, she blinked back the tears. “How do you know, without a single doubt.”

  “It’s my job to know. I’ve just spoken to the medical examiner—the Chief Medical Examiner of this city, ma’am—and the cause of death is confirmed. Lab results will confirm that the cyanide was added to his stage water. Unless you can stand here, look me in the face, and tell me you have any reason to believe your husband killed himself by cyanide poisoning, then I’m telling you he was murdered.”

  “He would never have taken his own life. Life is a gift from God. He would never have left me, his family, his church by his own hand.”

  She stepped back, drew herself up. All trace of the cotton candy fluff vanished. “You find who did this. You find who took that gift from God away from my husband, from the father of my children. You do your job.”

  “I will.”

  “Luke.”

  “Mama Jo.” One of the men came forward, put his arm around her, gently.

  “You’re head of the family now. I expect you to do whatever needs to be done.”

  “You know I will. Let Jackie take you upstairs now, Mama Jo. You go on upstairs and get a little rest. We’ll make sure everything’s done the way Jimmy Jay would have wanted. The way you want. I promise you.”

  She nodded, rubbed his shoulder. “Thank you for coming to tell me, Lieutenant. I want to go upstairs now.”

  “Come on with me, Mama.” The daughter, Jackie, enfolded her mother, led her to the stairs. Jolene stopped, looked back.

  “Billy, you help guide them now, like you guided their daddy.”

  “I will. Don’t worry, Jolene. I don’t want you to worry.” His face was a study of misery as he watched her climb the stairs.

  “Lieutenant, I’m Luke Goodwin—Jackie’s husband.” Though he offered a firm handshake, his eyes showed a dragging fatigue. “I wonder if you could tell me, ah, when we might be able to take my father-in-law home. We’re making arrangements for his lying-in-state and memorial, his burial. We want to get the family home as soon as we can.”

  “I hope it won’t be much longer. I’ll have someone contact you directly when we’re cleared.”

  “Excuse me.” Another man nudged forward. Not quite as tall as the first, he had sharp cheekbones and a mouth set in hard lines. “Unless my mother-in-law is a suspect, I’m going to insist she be allowed to return home. She’s given her statement, and you have no legal reason to detain her.”

  “And you are?”

  “Samuel Wright, Jimmy Jay’s son-in-law. I’m a lawyer.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed. I’m not detaining Mrs. Jenkins, but am requesting she, and anyone involved in last night’s production, remain in New York and available while this investigation is ongoing. And I didn’t hear Mrs. Jenkins request permission to return to her home residence.”

  “We’re making arrangements for that. She needs to—”

  “Then she can talk to me about it herself. In the meantime, I have some follow-up questions. I’d like to speak with you, Mr. Crocker.”

  “Yes, of course. Could we make an appointment?” He actually reached for his memo book. “We still have so much to do—arrangements, and cancellations.”

  “It won’t take long. And it should be now.”

  “But—”

  “Unless Billy’s a suspect,” the lawyer began.

  “Let’s make this easy then. You’re all suspects. As far as I can ascertain, every one of you, along with the other members onstage, and behind it, had the opportunity to lace the water with cyanide. Means? Cyanide’s not something you pick up at the local pharmacy, but it’s easy to obtain through black and gray markets. Motive—lots and lots of money.”

  “That’s both insulting and inappropriate.”

  “Sue me. Meanwhile, I can follow up with Mr. Crocker here, or we can go downtown.”

  “That’s not necessary, of course that’s not necessary. Sam.” Billy tapped a calming hand on Sam’s arm. “We all want to do whatever we can to help the police.”

  “You’re not talking to her without me being present as your representative.”

  “Works for me,” Eve said cheerfully. “Want to do this he
re in the hall?”

  “Let’s just take a moment.” Luke lifted his hands. Though his voice was soft, Eve recognized the command under it. “We’re all on edge. Lieutenant, would you and the other officer like to use the parlor? Could we get you anything? Tea? Water?” He stopped, shut his eyes a moment. “Will I ever be able to pour a glass of water again and not think of it?”

  “The parlor’s fine,” Peabody told him. “We don’t need anything, thanks.”

  “There’s an office on the second floor. I’ll be working there, if you need me for anything. Billy, Sam, I’ll continue with the arrangements until you’re done. Lieutenant.” Luke offered his hand again. “Mama Jo has put her faith in you. So will I.”

  Not just head of the family, Eve thought as he left them. She’d lay odds she’d just shaken hands with the new head of the Church of Eternal Light.

  Furniture, statuary, memorabilia, and photographs fought for position in a parlor of deep colors. Privacy screens shielded the window that afforded twin shafts of morning light.

  A number of cups, glasses, and memo cubes scattered over tables.

  “Please excuse the mess,” Billy began. “We’d been making plans and arrangements, discussing the memorial when you arrived.” He cleared his throat. “The media hasn’t as yet learned the address or the direct number for this house. We hope to keep it that way.”

  “They won’t get it from me, or any member of my investigative team.”

  “Reporters have managed to unearth my ’link number. I haven’t given any comments. I thought that best, for now. But I will have to make a statement. Or rather, Luke will. Very soon. As soon as possible.”

  “If Mr. Goodwin wants or requires any cleared data from my department for a statement, I’ll be happy to discuss it with him. Meanwhile.” Eve took out her recorder. “Since your representative wants to keep this formal, I’m informing you that I’m recording this interview. You have the right to remain silent.”

  As she recited the Revised Miranda, Billy lost another two tones of color.

  “Is that necessary?”