In Death 16 - Portrait in Death

took it, moving toward the mouth of the alley.
     
     
She'd sweated through her uniform shirt, and her dark bowl of hair was damp at the temples under her cap. Her throat was raw, her voice weak, but she initiated the run. And watched Eve work.
     
     
Efficient, thorough, and some would say cold. But Peabody had seen the leap of shock and horror, and of pity, on Eve's face before her own vision had blurred. Cold wasn't the word, but driven was.
     
     
She was pale now, Peabody noted, and it wasn't just the work lights that bleached the color from her narrow face. Her brown eyes were focused and flat, and unwavering as they examined the atrocity. Her hands were steady, and her boots smeared with blood.
     
     
There was a line of sweat down the middle back of her shirt, but she wouldn't stumble away. She would stay until it was done.
     
     
When Eve straightened, Peabody saw a tall, lean woman in stained boots, worn jeans, and a gorgeous linen jacket, a fine-boned face with a wide mouth, wide eyes of gilded brown, and a short and disordered cap of hair nearly the same color.
     
     
More, she saw a cop who never turned away from death.
     
     
"Dallas-"
     
     
"Peabody, I don't care if you puke as long as you don't contaminate the scene. Give me the data."
     
     
"Parents listed as next of kin. They live in Idaho."
     
     
"The potato place, right?"
     
     
"Yeah." Peabody managed a shaky smile. "Spud central. Victim's lived in New York for twenty-two years. Previous residence on Central Park West. She's resided down here for eighteen months."
     
     
"That's quite a change of venue. What she get popped for?"
     
     
"Illegals. Three strikes. Lost her top drawer license, did six months in, rehab, counseling, and was given a probationary street license about a year ago."
     
     
"She roll on her dealer?"
     
     
"No, sir."
     
     
"We'll see what the tox screen tells us once she's in the morgue, but I don't think Jack's her dealer." Eve lifted the envelope that had been left, sealed to prevent blood stains, on the body.
     
     
LIEUTENANT EVE DALLAS, NYPSD
     
     
Computer generated, she guessed, in a fancy font on elegant cream colored paper. Thick, weighty, and expensive. The sort of thing used for high-class invites. She should know, she mused, as her husband was big on sending and receiving high-class invites.
     
     
She took out the second evidence bag and read the note again.
     
     
Hello, Lieutenant Dallas,
     
     
Hot enough for ya? I know you've had a busy summer, and I've been admiring your work. I can think of no one on the police force of our fair city I'd rather have involved with me on what I hope will be a very intimate level.
     
     
Here is a sample of my work, what do you think?
     
     
Looking forward to our continued association.
     
     
Jack.
     
     
"I'll tell you what I think, Jack. I think you're a very sick fuck. Tag and bag," she ordered with a last glance down the alley. "Homicide."
     
     
The End