In Death 31 - Indulgence in Death

chuckled. “Client’s king.”
    “Last transmission,” Eve said.
    Jamal relayed his arrival, said good night to Michael.
    “Within five minutes, he’s dead. There’s no worry, no tension in his voice. Just the opposite. No sense of threat from the passenger, no worries. The killer’s not nervous, not if Houston’s read him right, and somebody who does what he did for a living should have a good sense. His passenger’s excited, happy, he’s anticipating the kill.”
    “ He —which lets out Iris Quill—the bolt buyer.”
    “She could’ve provided the weapon, been the ‘wife.’ We’ll look at her. The transmissions tell me Houston didn’t recognize the client. Could be wearing a disguise, could be somebody he hasn’t seen in a long time. But a stranger says something else.”
    “Random again,” noted Peabody.
    “Even random has a pattern. We find the pattern. Get me this Quill woman’s address. I’ll take her on the way home. I’m going to work there. Do a secondary on everyone who bought that make of bolt, and on the owners and employees of the outlets.”
    “Jeez.”
    “Send me the list, and I’ll take half.”
    “Yay.”
    “Do a standard on Mitchell’s financials, copy me. Add Sweet’s to that. We’ll see if money takes us anywhere.”

    I ris Quill lived in a sturdy townhome in Tribeca. The exterior spoke of no nonsense, no fuss. She hadn’t troubled to deck it out with flowers or plants in a neighborhood that seemed to love them. She hadn’t stinted on security, however, and Eve went through the routine with the palm plate, the scanner, the computer’s demand for her name, her badge, her business.
    The woman who opened the door hit about five foot two, weighed in at maybe a hundred pounds with a short straight skullcap of shining silver hair and sharp blue eyes. She wore brown shorts that showed off short but exceptionally toned legs and a skin tank that showcased strong, defined arms.
    Eve judged her to clock in at about seventy-five.
    “Ms. Quill.”
    “That’s right, and what can I do for you, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve? Last thing I killed was a black bear, and that was up in Canada.”
    “Did you use a crossbow?”
    “A Trident 450 long-barrel.” She cocked her head. “Crossbow?”
    “Can I come in?”
    “Why not? I recognized your name with the badge scan. I keep up with city crime, mostly watch Furst on Seventy-five.”
    In a tidy foyer, sparsely furnished with what looked like quality antiques, Iris gestured to a small, equally tidy living area. “Have a seat.”
    “I’m investigating a homicide. A crossbow bolt is the murder weapon.”
    “Hard way to go.”
    “Do you own a crossbow, Ms. Quill?”
    “I own two. Both properly licensed and registered,” she added with a gleam in her eye that told Eve the woman understood that information was already confirmed. “I like to hunt. I travel, and indulge my hobby. I enjoy testing myself against the prey with a variety of weapons. A crossbow takes skill and steady hands.”
    “Records show you purchased six Firestrike bolts last May.”
    “I imagine I did. They’re the best, in my opinion. Excellent penetration. I don’t want the prey to suffer, so that’s an important factor in a bolt or an arrow. And they’re designed for reasonably easy extraction. I also don’t want to waste my ammo. Have to replace the barbs, of course, but the shafts are durable.”
    “Have you sold, given, or lent any of your bolts to anyone?”
    “Why the hell would I do that? First, I expect you know as well as I do it’s illegal, unless it’s a gift or a documented loan to another licensed individual. Second, I don’t trust anybody with my equipment. And last, those suckers ran me ninety-six-fifty each.”
    “I thought they ran a hundred.”
    Quill’s eyebrow cocked up with her smile. “I bought a half-dozen bolts and a dozen extra barbs and I know how to bargain.”
    “Can you tell me where you were last night, between nine and midnight.”
    “Sure I can. I was right here. I got back from a two-week safari in Kenya day before yesterday. I’m still a little turned around with my internal clock. I stayed home, wrote—I’m writing a book on my experiences—and was in bed by eleven. I’m a suspect.” She smiled a little. “That’s so interesting. Who am I suspected of killing?”
    Since the media would be running with the story, Eve relayed the basics. “Jamal Houston. He was forty-three. He had a wife and two