He said, “Big production, huh? First responders got here at six twenty-seven, fourteen minutes after the 911 call. Place is vacant, used as a party house, most recent party was a rave-type deal that started eleven p.m. Friday night and stretched to Saturday around three. The cleaning service didn’t send a guy until this morning and that’s who found it. He says he phoned it in right away. After throwing up. He’s in the FD van, getting looked at. Said his chest and tummy hurt. Addict with a long sheet, so who knows what’s going on.”
“He interests you?”
“Not as the main offender but I wanna have a chat with him once he’s cleared by the EMTs.”
I said, “Criminals clean up rich people’s houses.”
“Apparently. This prince calls himself Eno, full name’s Enos Verdell Walters. For the most part, his pedigree’s not violent. Weed, meth, crack, and all the crap that finances weed, meth, and crack: shoplifting, theft, forgery, fraud. But there was a knife ADW a while back, he cut some guy up pretty viciously.”
“You researched him right away.”
“Nothing else to do while the science majors do their thing.”
I pointed to a camel-colored splotch a few feet from the limo’s right passenger door. “That Walters’s breakfast?”
“Breakfast burrito.” He grimaced. “I think I’ll be off Mexican for a while. Maybe food, period—hey, here’s the miracle diet I’ve been hoping for.”
Patting the convexity of his gut.
I thought:I’m sure you’ll recover.
I said: “When can I take a look?”
“Right now if you’re up for it.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t,” he said, “make me answer that.”
He pulled out a set of rubber gloves and handed it over like a sacramental wafer.
CHAPTER
3
The tech working the front of the limo was broad and male, the one at the rear smaller, probably female. Milo tapped the man’s shoulder softly.
The big tech looked over his shoulder and exhaled. A mask-muffled voice said, “Lieutenant.”
Milo said, “Sorry for sneaking up on you, George. This is Dr. Delaware. Can he take a brief look?”
George’s mask tented. Lips forming something that might’ve been a smile or a frown. “What you’d like is what we do, Lieutenant.” Sharp tugs at the edges of the mask. Definitely a smile. “Unless one of the pathologists comes by and contradicts you.”
“You expecting a doc?”
George stood and pulled his mask down on a face suited for a sitcom dad role: a bit soft at the corners, crinkly world-weary eyes. “I requested one but probably not. It’s psychotic at the crypt, big de-comp, stinks like you know what. Truth is, I was happy to get out of there.”
He frowned. “Even with this.”
The smaller tech stood and faced me. Female, young, bespectacled. “Knees hurt, I’m ready for a break.”
They both left the tent.
I inhaled through my nose, exhaled through my mouth, and stepped forward. Gloved but still careful not to touch anything, I began taking fast-action mental snapshots.
My brain works like that, registering images and saving them. Forever.
Snap one: in the driver’s seat an elderly black man.
