Her bootsteps echoed along the tiled white tunnel that smelled of death and bleached lemons. Inside the break room, she spotted a woman in scrubs who studied Vending without joy and muttered to herself.
“Shit coffee or shit tea. Maybe shit cocoa.”
Eve continued on and pushed through the doors of Morris’s home away from home.
Like Roarke, he didn’t wear one of his sharp suits today, and again, it threw her for a moment. Instead, under his clear protective cape he wore a green T-shirt with jeans and black kicks. He’d wound his dark hair into a single thick braid.
Today’s choice of music as he stood over the dead ran to something jazzy with a lot of complicated piano.
“Sorry to pull you in on a Saturday.”
He just smiled. “The dead may, we hope, rest in peace, but the work for them never rests.”
“I hear you. His wife states he wasn’t feeling well, turned in early. Wheezy, slight fever, so she slept in the guest room.”
With a nod, Morris gestured toward Barrister’s open body cavity. “Upper respiratory infection. Not serious, but enough to make him feel, in medical terms, like crap, and warrant an early night.
“Otherwise, I’m finding a healthy male, one in good physical shape. Muscle tone indicates regular exercise. Last meal, chicken soup, eaten at about seven last night. He’d taken OTC cold meds, had some valerian tea with lemon. I’d say closer to eight last night.”
“Which is worse?” She stepped up to the slab. “Murdered when you’re feeling great, or murdered when you feel, in those medical terms, like crap? Kind of a toss-up, but I think I’d rather go out feeling great.”
“I’d have to agree. Who wants their last moments dominated by a raw throat or gastronomical distress?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Either way, you’re on a slab. No sleep meds then?”
“Nothing more than what’s in the cold tabs, but the lab will confirm with the tox report. He shows no sign of addiction, illegals, alcohol, tobacco, herbals.”
“Mild injuries to the face, knees. Hit from behind, fell forward, knees hit, face hit.”
“That’s accurate. A blow to the back of the head with a heavy object. In your prelim notes last night you indicated a rock. I didn’t see your updated report before I left this morning.”
“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t write it up until shortly before I left.”
“Understandable. Given his TOD, I imagine you didn’t get home until near to four this morning.”
“That’s about right. Big rock.” She held her hands apart. “Sort of club-shaped. Roarke ID’d it as an amethyst.”
“An amethyst.”
“Yeah, big purple rock.” She pulled out her ’link, brought up the crime scene photo as Peabody walked in.
“Sorry, sorry. Delay with the subway, so I hiked it. Whew.”
“I just read that three miles a day keeps the Reaper at bay.”
“Yeah?”
“I read it on a T-shirt, so it must be true.”
“Nothing keeps the Reaper at bay forever, but you’ll die in better shape.” Morris studied the image. “That’s a beautiful stone. A pity to use it for taking a life.”
“It’ll need to be cleansed,” Peabody said.
“Seeing as it’s got blood and brains on it, yeah, they’ll need to clean it up.”
Smiling, Morris stepped back to the body. “I believe Peabody means a spiritual cleansing. Still, if his family loved him, they won’t want it back. Your notes indicated a break-in.”
“That’s also accurate.”
