In Death 28 - Promises in Death

short, chopped-up brown hair flying.
    Egg pockets and sludge coffee emanated from the glide-carts, stone dust kicked up from the crew that attacked a wide chunk of sidewalk with airjacks. The sound of them, the symphony of horns as she hit another snarl, the clatter of feet on pavement as pedestrians surged over a crosswalk, created the urban music she understood.
    She watched street vendors, who may or may not hold licenses, pop their tables up in hopes of catching the early commuters or tourists up and about for breakfast. Ball caps and T-shirts replaced the winter’s heavy scarves and gloves. Markets, open for business, displayed crates of fruit or flowers, colorful arrays to feed body and soul.
    A transvestite, who easily topped six and a half feet, toddled along on skinny blue heels. She shook back her golden waterfall of hair as she delicately tested a melon for ripeness. As she waited out the light, Eve watched a tiny woman, well past her century mark, bump up in her seated scooter. The tranny and centurian seemed to chat amiably while they selected fruit.
    You had to love New York, Eve thought when the light changed. Or stay the hell out of it.
    She shoved her way into Chelsea, absolutely in tune with her city.
    At 525, she double-parked and, flipping on her On Duty light, ignored the bitter curses and rude gestures tossed at her by her fellow New Yorkers. Life and death in the city, she thought, was rarely a smooth ride.
    She hooked her badge on her jacket, grabbed her field kit out of the trunk, then approached the uniform at the main door.
    “What’ve we got?”
    “DB in the basement, female, round about thirty. No ID, no jewelry, no purse or nothing. Still dressed, so it doesn’t look like a sex crime.” He led her in as he spoke. “Tenant and his kid found her when they came down to get the kid’s bike outta the storage locker. Kid’s been grounded or something. Anyway, they called it in. Guy thinks maybe she lives here, or around. Maybe he’s seen her before, but he ain’t sure. He got the kid out pretty quick and didn’t take a good look.”
    They headed down a stairway, boots and cop shoes clanging on metal. “Didn’t see a weapon, but she’s got burns here.” He tapped fingers on his carotid. “Looks like she got zapped.”
    “I want two officers knocking on doors. Who saw what when. See the tenant and his boy are secured. Names?”
    “Burnbaum, Terrance. Kid’s Jay. We’re sitting on them in six-oh-two.”
    She nodded at the two officers securing the scene, engaged her recorder. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, on scene at five twenty-five West Twenty-third. My partner’s on her way. Find out if the building’s got a super or manager on-site. If so, I want to see him.”
    She scanned the area first. Concrete floor, caged lockers, pipes, spiderwebs. No windows, no doors. No security cameras.
    “I’m going to want any security discs from the entrances, and from the stairwells. Find the super.”
    Lured her down here, Eve thought as she opened her kit for her can of Seal-It. Or forced her down. Maybe she came down for something and got jumped. No way out.
    She studied the body from where she stood, coating her hands and boots with sealant. Slim build, but didn’t look soft. The head was turned away, with long blond hair curtaining the face. The hair had a shine to it, and the clothes were good quality.
    Not from the streets, she thought. Not with that hair, those clothes, the nicely manicured fingers on the hand she could see.
    “The victim is lying on her left side, back to the stairs. No visible prints on the concrete floor. It looks clean. Did Burnbaum move the body?”
    “He says no. Says he went over, took her wrist. Said it was cold, got no pulse, and he knew. He just got his kid out.”
    Eve circled the body, crouched. Something set off a low alarm in her brain, a kind of sick dread in her gut. She lifted the curtain of hair.
    For an instant, one sharp instant, everything in her went cold. “Goddamn it. Goddamn it. She’s one of us.”
    The cop who’d stayed with her stepped forward. “She’s a cop?”
    “Yeah. Coltraine, Amaryllis. Run it, run it now. Get me an address. Detective Coltraine. Son of a bitch.”
    Morris, she thought. Oh, fucking hell.
    “This is her place, Lieutenant. She’s got four-oh-five, this building.”
    She ran the prints because it had to be done, had to be official. The sick dread rose to a cold rage. “Victim is identified as Coltraine,