"I'm only trying to get a picture. Did she do illegals?"
Though tears were still glistening in them, CeeCee's eyes went hard. "I don't like your questions, Lieutenant."
"They have to be asked. Look at me. Look at me," Eve repeated. "I don't want to hurt her, or you. I have to know who she was, to do right by her."
"No, she didn't do illegals," CeeCee snapped. "She took good care of herself, inside and out. That's the way she was. She was smart and she was fun and she was decent. And she didnot get crazy on illegals and fall off her goddamn balcony. She didn't jump either, so don't even think about trying to pass this off as suicide. If she went off that balcony, it's because somebody pushed her off. It's because…"
As her own words sank in, CeeCee's anger flared. "Someone killed her. Someone killed Bry. That – that Dante. He, he followed her home after their date. And he got into her apartment somehow, and he killed her. He killed her," she repeated and dug her fingers into Eve's wrist. "You find him."
"I'll find him," Eve promised. "CeeCee, I don't know all the facts yet, but I will. Tell me what you can about this man she knew as Dante. Everything you remember Bryna told you."
"I can't take it in. I'm sorry, I just can't." She rose, walked slowly to the pitcher of ice water on the dressing room table. When the pitcher shook and sloshed, Eve went over, poured the glass.
"Thanks."
"Take a minute. Sit down, drink your water, and take a minute."
"I'm okay. I'll be okay." But she had to hold the glass with both hands to drink. "He was supposed to own his own business. He was rich. She said he didn't brag about it, but she could tell from the little things he said. Places he'd been, like Paris and Moscow, the Olympus Resort, Bimini, I don't know."
"What kind of business?"
"They didn't get into specifics about that. Just like he wasn't supposed to know she worked here. But he did."
Eve's gaze sharpened. "How do you know that?"
"Because he sent her pink roses here last week."
Pink roses,Eve thought.Pink rose petals.
"What else?"
"He spoke Italian, and um, French and Spanish. Romance languages," she added, smearing tears and mascara with the backs of her hands. "Bry was all caught up in the romance of it. She said he had the most romantic soul. And I'd say, well great, but what about his face? She'd just laugh and say that appearances didn't matter when hearts spoke to each other. But it wouldn't hurt her feelings any if he looked as good as he sounded."
Steadier, she turned the glass in her hands. "Lieutenant… Did he rape her?"
"I don't know." Eve drew out a picture she'd printed off disc. "Do you recognize this man?"
CeeCee studied Dante's face. "No," she said, wearily now. "I've never seen him before. This is him, isn't it? Well. Well. I guess he looked as good as he sounded. The son of a bitch. The vicious son of a bitch." She began shredding the photo, and Eve did nothing to stop her.
"Where were they meeting for drinks last night?"
"The goddamn Rainbow Room. Bry picked it out because she thought it was romantic."
When Eve came out of the dressing area, she found Peabody staring, a bit wistfully, at a display of lacy bodysuits.
"Those wouldn't be comfortable for more than five minutes," Eve pointed out.
"If it works, you wouldn't have it on over five minutes. Droid said you were back in the dressing area with Plunkett."
"Yeah. Dude goes by the name of Dante, heavy on the poetry and pink rosebuds. I'll fill you in."
"Where are we going?"
"The morgue, by way of the Rainbow Room."
"That sounds so… weird."
It was, if you compared the chrome and marble temple of one with the dingy white box of the other. But the best Eve could get from the landmark lounge was the names and addresses of the waitstaff on duty the night before.
She had more immediate luck at the dead house.
"Ah, my favorite cop come to scold me." Morris, Chief Medical Examiner, switched off his laser scalpel and beamed. He wore his long, dark hair in a half dozen braids, covered now with a clear surgical cap. A natty plum-colored shirt and slacks were protected from distressing splashes of body fluids by a transparent lab coat.
"That's not my case you're slicing up there, Morris."
"No, more's the pity." He glanced down at the body of a young black man. "This unfortunate fellow appears to have backed into – numerous times – a sharp, long-bladed instrument. You'd think he'd have stopped after the first, but no. He just continued to ram himself back into the knife until he keeled over dead."
"Slow learner." She pursed her lips as she studied the corpse's very impressive hard-on. "From the looks of that boner he's carrying, I'd make an educated guess that he'd popped some Exotica laced with Zeus. The combo can make a guy's tool stay in use long after he's gone flat otherwise."
"I tend to agree, particularly since your associate Detective Baxter reports that our recently deceased was employing that tool enthusiastically on his brother's wife."
"Oh yeah? And I guess he just decided to stop fucking and dance into a knife as a change of pace."
"According to his brother, and the wife who is still among the living and recovering from a nasty fall that broke her jaw."
"Takes all kinds. If Baxter's got the brother in custody, and you've got cause of death, why aren't you working on my case?"
"Come with me." Morris crooked a finger and walked through a set of swinging doors into another autopsy room. What was left of Bryna Bankhead was the single occupant. She was laid on a stainless steel slab with a thin green sheet covering her to the neck.
That would have been Morris's touch, Eve thought. He could be very respectful with the dead.
"I imagine she was an attractive young woman once."
Eve stared down at the ruined face. She thought of the bathroom mirror, the ruthlessly organized drawer of enhancements. "Yeah. Tell me how she died, Morris."
"I think you know. Your time of death measurement was accurate. She was spared the fear of falling, the insult of the pavement, even the knowledge that she was dying." He touched sealed fingertips, very gently, to her hair. "She'd ingested, over a period of two and a half to three hours, more than two ounces of the synthetic hormonibital-six, an expensive and very difficult to acquire controlled substance."
"Street name Whore. An inhibition blocker," Eve murmured. "Commonly used in date rape once upon a time."
"Not commonly," Morris corrected. "Its derivatives are more common, and much less potent and effective. What she had in her was pure. Two ounces, Dallas, would have a street value of more than a quarter million. If you could find it on the street, which you can't. I haven't come across traces of it in a body for more than fifteen years."
"I heard about it when I was in school. Mostly urban legend shit."
"And most of it was urban legend shit."
"Did it kill her? An OD?"
"Not by itself. The combination with alcohol was dangerous, but not fatal. But our hero went overboard. Half the amount he slipped her would've been enough to ensure her full cooperation. What she had in her would, most likely, have kept her under for eight, maybe ten hours. And she'd wake up with the mother of all hangovers. Headache, vomiting, the shakes, blackouts, lost time. It would take up to seventy-two hours to purge her system."
It made Eve sick to think it. "She was spared that, too. How?"
"He gave her too much. It would make her lethargic. I'm assuming he wanted a more active fuck because he doctored the last glass of wine with a little cocktail of aneminiphine-colax-B. Wild Rabbit."
"Covered his bases, didn't he?" she said quietly.
"It bombards the nervous and respiratory systems, and hers was already compromised. The combination overtaxed her heart. It gave out on her within twenty minutes of ingestion. She'd have been too doped by the earlier doses of Whore to know what was happening."
"Could she have taken it willingly at that point?"
Gently, Morris lifted the sheet over Bryna's face. "After the first ounce of inhibition blocker, nothing this girl did was willing."
"He drugged her, he raped her, and the combination killed her," Eve said. "Then he tossed her out the window like a used doll in an attempt to cover up what happened."
"In my esteemed and renowned medical opinion, that's the scenario."
"Now make my day, Morris, and tell me he left sperm in her. Tell me you got his DNA."
Morris's face went bright as a boy's. "Oh yeah, I got it. You bring him in, Dallas, and I'll help you lock the cage."