In Death 17 - Imitation in Death

hands slick with blood as he tidied up.
     
     
"I bet he cleaned his tools, too, but he certainly cleans his hands. Takes the note he's written, sets it, neatly on her breasts. He had to change his shirt, or put a jacket on. Something, because of the blood. What then?"
     
     
Peabody blinked. "Ah, walks away, figuring job well done. He goes home."
     
     
"How?"
     
     
"Um, walks if he lives close enough." She took a breath, pushing herself out of the alley and into her lieutenant's mind. Into the killer's mind. "He's on top of the world, so he's not worried about being hassled by a mugger. If he doesn't live close by, he's probably got his, own ride because, even changing, or covering up, there's too much blood on him, and there'd be a smell. It'd be a stupid risk to take a cab' or the subway."
     
     
"Good. We'll check the cab companies for pickups around the crime scene during our time frame, but I don't think we'll find anything. Let's seal this place up, canvass the building."
     
     
Neighbors, as was expected from neighbors in such places, knew nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing. The landlord operated out of a storefront in Chinatown, between a market that was running a special on ducks' feet and an alternative medicine joint that promised health, well-being, and spiritual balance or your money back.
     
     
Eve recognized Piers Chan's type, the beefy arms in shirt sleeves, the pencil mustache over thin lips. The humble surroundings and diamond pinky ring.
     
     
He was mixed-race, with enough Asian to have him set up in the business bustle of Chinatown, though she imagined his last ancestor to see Peking might have been at his prime during the Boxer Rebellion.
     
     
Just as she imagined Chan kept his home and family in some upscale suburb in New Jersey while he played slumlord of the Lower East Side.
     
     
"Wooton, Wooton. While two silent clerks busied themselves in the back, Chan flipped through his tenant book. "Yes, she's got a deluxe single on Doyers. "
     
     
"Deluxe?" Eve repeated. "And what makes it deluxe?"
     
     
"Got a kitchen area with built-in friggie and AutoChef. Comes with the package. She's behind. Rent was due a week ago. She got the standard reminder call a couple days ago. She'll get another today, then an automatic evict notice next week."
     
     
"That won't be necessary as she's changed her address to the city morgue. She was murdered early this morning."
     
     
"Murdered." His eyebrows lowered into an expression Eve interpreted as irritation rather than sympathy or shock. "Goddamn it. You seal the placer'
     
     
Eve cocked her head. "And you ask because?"
     
     
"Look, I own six buildings, got seventy-two units. You got that many tenants, some of them are going to croak one way or another. You get your unattended death, your suspicious death, your misadventure, and your self-termination." He ticked them off on his fat fingers. "And your homicide." For that he used his thumb. "Then you guys come along, seal the place up, notify next of kin. Before I can blink some uncle or other is clearing the place out before I can put in a claim and get my back rent."
     
     
He spread, his hands now, and sent Eve an aggrieved look. "I'm just trying to make a living here."
     
     
"So was she, when somebody decided to carve her up."
     
     
He puffed out his cheeks. "Person's in that kind of work, they're going to take some lumps."
     
     
"You know, this outpouring of humanitarianism is choking me up, so let's stick to the point. Did-you know Jacie Wooton?"
     
     
"I knew her application, her references, and her rent payment. Never set eyes on her myself. I don't have time to make friends with the tenants. I've got too many."
     
     
"Uh-huh. And if somebody falls behind on the rent, wiggles around the evict, do you pay them a little visit, try to appeal to their sense of fair play?"
     
     
He rubbed a fingertip over his mustache. "I run by the book here. Costs me plenty in court fees annually to move the deadbeats out, but that's part of the operating expenses. That's part of the business. I wouldn't know this Wooton woman if she stopped in to give me a handjob. And I was home, in Bloomfield, last night with my wife and kids. I was there for breakfast this morning, and came into the city on the seven-fifteen, just like I do every day. You need more than that, you talk to my lawyers."
     
     
"Creep," Peabody stated out on the sidewalk.,
     
     
"Oh yeah, and I'd make book he takes