Festive in Death Read Free Page B

record.
    She heard the door open, paused until she heard the clomp of her partner’s boots.
    “Back here,” Eve called out. “Seal up.”
    Detective Peabody came to the bedroom door. Pink cowboy boots, big puffy coat, a couple miles of rainbow-striped scarf and a bright blue hat with earflaps.
    She looked, Eve thought, like an Eskimo running away to the circus.
    “I saw Trina downstairs,” Peabody began, then looked at the body on the bed. “Wow, ho, ho, humbug.”
    “Yeah, he won’t be going home for Christmas.”
    “I got from Trina this was her pal’s ex-boyfriend.”
    “Who they found when they snuck in to put itching powder in his face gunk.”
    “Fun.” Peabody pulled the cap off her dark hair, stuffed it in her pocket. “You don’t think Trina had anything to do with the dead guy.”
    “I wish I did, then I could toss her in a cage.”
    “Aw.” Peabody began unwinding her scarf.
    “But according to my on-site,” Eve continued, removing the gauges, “it looks like he bought it about eighteen-thirty hours. We’ll check Trina and Sima’s alibi, but it’s going to hold up. Besides, Trina’s too cagey to kill somebody this way, and the friend doesn’t have the balls.”
    Eve replaced her gauges, pulled out microgoggles. “Check and see if there are any security cams, then go ahead and call in the ME and the sweepers. Let’s get the uniforms started on a canvass of the building. Maybe somebody heard or saw something.”
    “Oh boy, a bunch of pissed-off neighbors.”
    “Not once they find out there’s been a murder. People love finding out somebody’s dead and they’re not. Get that going, then we’ll go through the place when I’m done with the body.”
    Eve fit on the goggles, leaned over to peer at the shattered side of the skull. “So, Trey,” she murmured, “what have you got to tell me?”

Death killed any illusion of privacy. After she’d examined the body, Eve began a systematic search of the bedroom.
    As Trina stated, Trey owned an extensive wardrobe. Slick, sexy workout gear, spiffy suits, stylish club wear.
    “He coordinated his socks and underwear,” she commented when Peabody came back in. “Colors and patterns. Who does that, and why?”
    “I read this article about how what you wear under your clothes is all about what makes you feel empowered and in control. It’s the Under You.”
    “If wearing matching boxers and socks makes you feel empowered, you’re a weenie. He’s got standard over-the-counter male birth control, a few unimaginative sex toys, some porn discs in the bedside goodies drawer. Golf clubs, various golf paraphernalia in the closet with his clothes. No female clothes in here.”
    “Did you check this?” Peabody held up a ’link sealed in an evidence bag.
    “Yeah, some client checks, a couple guy conversations, some out-goings to women, not yet answered. Nobody threatening to kill him.”
    “There’s a knife block in the kitchen with one missing,” Peabody said. “The one sticking out of him looks like part of the set.”
    “Bash with the trophy, it’s handy. Then get a little creative with the kitchen knife, again handy.” Eve put her hands on her hips, then walked out to the living area.
    She scanned the room—messy, sloppy, but nothing that indicated a fight. “Okay, considering there’s no sign of break-in, no sign of struggle out here, the vic let the killer in. He knows him—or her. He’s wearing drawstring pants and a T-shirt—at-home clothes, so he’s comfortable with the killer, enough that they went back to the bedroom together.”
    “Maybe he was forced into the bedroom. Maybe the killer had a sticker.”
    “If the killer had a sticker,” Eve argued, “why bash the vic in the head with a trophy? Plus, the vic’s extremely buff, so I’ve got to figure he’d put up a fight. But the vic was taken by surprise. They go back in the bedroom. For sex? The bed’s messed up, so maybe there was sex.”
    “Red-shoes