Immortal in Death

CHAPTER FIVE

Leonardo was sprawled in the middle of Mavis's living room floor, where he had fallen hours before in a drunken stupor brought on by a full bottle of synthetic whiskey and a boatload of self-pity.

He was surfacing groggily and feared he'd lost half of his face sometime during the miserable night. When he lifted a cautious hand to it, he was relieved to find his entire face in the usual place, only numbed from being mashed into Mavis's floor.

He couldn't remember much. It was one of the reasons he rarely drank and never permitted himself to overindulge. He was prone to blackouts and blank spaces whenever he chugged down a few too many.

He thought he remembered staggering into Mavis's apartment building, using the key code she'd given him when they realized they were not just lovers but in love.

But she hadn't been there. He was almost sure of that. He had a vague picture of himself lurching across town, glugging from the bottle he'd bought – stolen? Hell. Blearily he tried to sit up and pry his pasty eyes open. All he knew for certain was that he'd had the damn bottle in his hand and the whiskey in his gut.

He must have passed out. Which disgusted him. How could he expect to make Mavis see reason if he came weaving into her apartment, babbling drunk?

He could only be grateful she hadn't been there.

Now, of course, he had a raging hangover that made him want to curl into a ball and weep for mercy. But she might come back, and he didn't want her to see him in such a mortifying state. He made himself get up, hunted down some painkillers before programming her AutoChef for coffee, strong and black.

Then he noticed the blood.

It was dried, streaking down his arm, onto his hand. There was a gash on his forearm, long, fairly deep, that had crusted over. Blood, he thought again, stomach jittery as he noted that it stained his shirt, his pants.

Breathing shallowly, he backed away from the counter, staring down at himself. Had he been in a fight? Had he hurt anyone?

Nausea rose in his throat as his mind skipped over huge voids and blurry memories.

Oh sweet Jesus, had he killed someone?

Eve was staring grimly at the medical examiner's preliminary report as she heard a quick, sharp rap on the door of her office. It opened before she acknowledged it.

"Lieutenant Dallas?" The man had the look of a sun-bleached cowboy, from his shit-eating grin to his worn-heeled boots. "Goddamn, it's good to see the legend in the flesh. Seen your picture, but you're a long sight prettier."

"I'm all a-flutter." Eyes narrowing, she leaned back. He was plenty pretty himself, with wheat-colored hair curling around a tan, lived-in face that creased appealingly around bottle-green eyes. A long, straight nose, the quick wink of a sly dimple at the corner of a gri

"Casto, Jake T." He tugged a shield from the snug front pocket of his faded Levi's. "Illegals. Heard you were tracking me."

Eve sca

"Our mutual weasel." He stepped all the way in and planted a hip companionably on her desk. That brought him close enough for her to catch the scent of his skin. Soap and leather. "Goddamn shame about old Boomer. Harmless little prick."

"If you knew Boomer was mine, what's taken you so long to come see me?"

"I've been tied up on something else. And to tell the truth, I didn't think there was much to say or do. Then I heard Feeney from HDD was poking around." Those eyes smiled again, with just a touch of sarcasm. "Feeney's pretty much yours, too, isn't he?"

"Feeney's his own. What were you working Boomer on?"

"Usual." Casto picked up an amethyst egg from her desk, admired the inclusions, passed it from hand to hand. "Information on illegals. Small shit. Boomer liked to think he was big time, but it was always little bits and pieces."

"Little bits and pieces can build the big picture."

"That's why I used him, honey. He was pretty reliable for a bust here and there. Couple of times I tagged a middle level dealer on his data." He gri

"Yeah. So who beat him into putty?"

The grin faded. Casto set the egg back down and shook his head. "Can't say as I have a clue. Boomer wasn't your lovable sort, but I don't know anybody who hated him enough, or was pissed enough, to whack him that way."

Eve studied her man. He looked solid, and there had been a tone in his voice when he'd spoken of Boomer that reminded her of her own cautious affection. Still, she believed in holding her cards close. "Was he working on anything in particular? Something different? Something bigger?"

Casto's sandy brow lifted. "Such as?"

"I'm asking you. Illegals aren't my game."

"There wasn't anything I knew of. Last I talked to him, hell, maybe two weeks before he went floating, he talked about sniffing out something outrageous. You know how he talked, Eve."

"Yeah, I know how he talked." It was time to lay one of her cards down. "I also know I copped some unidentified substance hidden in his apartment. It's in the lab now, and they're analyzing. So far, all they tell me is it's a new blend, and it's more potent than anything currently on the street."

"New blend." Casto's brow creased. "Why the hell didn't he tip me to that? If he tried to play both sides…" Casto hissed a breath between his teeth. "You think he got whacked over it?"

"That's my best theory."

"Yeah. Dumb shit. Probably tried to shake down the maker or the distributor. Listen, I'll talk to the lab, and I'll see if there's any buzz on the street about something new coming in."

"Appreciate it."

"It'll be a pleasure working with you." He shifted, let his gaze linger on her mouth for a beat, with a kind of talent that missed insulting by miles and bull's-eyed on flattering. "Maybe you'd like to catch a bite to eat, discuss strategy. Or whatever comes to mind."

"No, thanks."

"Is that no because you're not hungry, or because you're getting married?"

"Both."

"Well, then." He rose, and being human, she had to appreciate the way the denim snugged over long, lanky legs. "If you change your mind about either, you know where to find me now. I'll be in touch." He sauntered toward the door, paused, and turned. "You know, Eve, you've got eyes like good, aged whiskey. Sure brings out a powerful thirst in a man."

She frowned at the door he closed behind him, a

She hadn't needed to be told how Pandora had died, but it was interesting to see that the ME believed the first three head blows had been fatal. Anything after that had just been indulgence on the killer's part.

She'd put up a fight before the head blows, Eve noted. Lacerations and abrasions on other parts of the body were concordant with a struggle.

The time of death was listed at oh two fifty, and stomach contents indicated the victim had enjoyed an elegant last meal, at about twenty-one hundred, of lobster, escarole, Bavarian cream, and vintage champagne.

There had also been heavy traces of chemicals in her bloodstream which had yet to be analyzed.

So, Mavis had probably been right. It looked as though Pandora was jazzed on something, possibly on the illegals list. In the grand scheme of things, that might or might not make a difference.

But the traces of skin under the victim's nails were going to make a difference. Eve was terrifyingly sure when the lab finished its work, it was going to prove to be Mavis's skin. Just as the strands of hair the sweepers had bagged near the body were going to be Mavis's hair. And most damning, she was afraid, the prints on the murder weapon could be Mavis's.