Calculated in Death

Smarter to have a third party meet them or just walk the hell out and hail a damn cab. It tells me the one giving the orders doesn’t have a freaking clue how things work on the street—or under them. It’s all about privilege.”
    She sealed up as she spoke, then boosted herself into the back of the ambulance. “Let’s get the sweepers on their way, and have EDD go over to the hospital, see what we can get from security on when and how that ambulance was taken.”
    Though she knew his identity, certainly knew the approximate time of death, Eve used her tools and gauges to confirm. With her recorder on she studied the lockdown straps, wrists and ankles, the broken blood vessels in the eyes, the bruising around the nose and mouth.
    Like his live associate, he’d been pale and banged up. From the older bruising, the signs of medical treatment, the portable IV, she’d say considerably more banged up than Arnold.
    Lifting the top lip, she studied where the teeth had ground into the soft flesh, the smears of blood.
    She’d miscalculated, she thought. She’d planted seeds, wanting to tangle the money manager in some vines. Give him something to sweat.
    But she hadn’t considered anyone would be stupid enough to hand her yet another link in the chain, would order murder rather than bribery or a bonus. Would so quickly discard a well-honed tool.
    “Bruising and lacerations on the wrists and ankles,” she stated. “Looks like he twisted, strained, twisted.”
    Rising, she bypassed a secured locker with her master. The drugs inside would have been worth a nice chunk on the street, as would the medical equipment, some of it very portable.
    No time, or no inclination to make some extra, to take a nice little bonus. Do the job, move on.
    She moved into the cab of the vehicle, using a penlight to search under the seats, under the dash, hoping for some little mistake. A candy wrapper, a go-cup, a scrap of anything.
    Finding nothing, she sat back on her heels, studied the dash. She checked the log, ran the last outgoings.
    Base, this is Mormon with Drumbowski, Unit Seven,
confirming pickup at East Side Metro Transportation Center of Parzarri,
Chaz. Sheet shows private shuttle from LVI, tail number Bravo-Echo-Niner-Six-Three-Niner.
    This is base, confirming. Advise when you’re loaded and en route for return.
    Roger that Unit Seven out.
    As she listened, Eve tapped her fingers on her knee.
    Base, Unit Seven, loaded and running.
    Copy that. Condition of patient?
    Stable
. He ran through what Eve assumed was an acceptable range of blood pressure, pulse, other vital signs, then signed off.
    Peabody opened the side door. “McNab’s looking now. Sweepers and the meat wagon on the way.”
    “Has to be the hacker,” Eve said, as much to herself as Peabody. “The driver. He’d have to know who was on, the unit number assigned to the pickup, the basic give and flow of how they communicate. Hack into the hospital system, get the log, listen to a few runs. Hospital dispatch isn’t expecting a hijacking. They’ve got no reason to push the communication. It’s all A-fucking-OK.”
    She marked the communication center for EDD. “And now we have his voice print. Stupid asshole. I want to see if EDD can enhance as well as print. See if they pick up any chatter from the back.”
    Peabody nodded as she texted the instructions. “Do you have a line on COD?”
    “Smothered him. Strapped him down, covered his mouth, pinched his nose. The bruising’s like a signpost for it. Face-to-face this time,” she considered. “They knew each other. It’s more personal. Still business, just doing the job, but it’s like firing a coworker. It’s got that personal element. I want this area secured. We need to find Jake Ingersol.”
    “You don’t think—”
    “I didn’t think they’d kill the accountant.” She shoved at her hair. “Listen, I’ll find out where Ingersol is. You contact Gibbons. He should know Parzarri’s dead. And we’re going to have the media hum this time, as soon as they put together that two accountants from the same firm were murdered within days of each other.”
    “Not much we can do about that.”
    Maybe a preemptive strike, she thought. And wondered if she could squeeze in enough time into coaxing, maneuvering, or bribing Nadine into spinning the story as she needed it spun.
    She contacted the WIN offices as she drove. “This is Lieutenant Dallas. Is Jake Ingersol in?”
    “All three partners are