Tony struggled to remember, catching glimpses of her in his mind at the pool table, at the bar, in the corner talking to someone…but who?
Or was all this his imagination, induced by a killer hangover?
Bad word choice, he realized with a grimace, climbing out of the shower. He dried off, pulled on a pair of jeans, then picked up his shirt, shoes, gun and wallet, and carried them all out to the living room.
Eve glanced at him in surprise.
“You’re driving,” he said, and walked past her out the door.
TONY FINISHED DRESSING while Eve drove them to the address Clare had given to her earlier. Eve knew the area fairly well, but she was still surprised to find that Lucy Stringer’s apartment was only a few blocks from Tony’s.
She glanced at him as she turned down the street. He looked like death warmed over, she thought, and grimaced at her word choice. He’d taken a quick shower, but he hadn’t bothered to shave, and the stubble on his lower face was dark and thick, the shadows under his eyes almost purplish. He wore jeans and a faded CPD T-shirt, as usual not exactly the image a detective should cultivate, but then, Eve suspected his manner of dress was yet another way Tony tried to keep people at a distance.
Lucy had rented a garage apartment in a nice, middle-class neighborhood. The street was lined with police cars, and a Crime Scene Unit was pulled to the curb in front of the walkway. Eve maneuvered into a space, and she and Tony got out. As they walked across the damp grass, she could hear the faint sounds of traffic a few blocks over on the freeway, almost drowned out by the static transmission of a patrol unit radio.
She clipped her shield to her waistband as they walked by the two young patrolmen manning the yellow-ribboned perimeter. At the top of the stairs, she and Tony paused and gazed around. A mail slot had been cut in the front door, and the metal plate had already been dusted for prints.
Inside the apartment, the tiny rooms spilled over with people. The decor was typical college girl—cluttered, worn, eclectic. The only items of value that Eve could immediately discern were a computer and a stereo, and neither had been touched.
Through the open doorway, she glimpsed the dead girl lying on the bed, fully clothed, her eyes open, her arms and legs sprawled in an unnatural pose. Looking on while a Crime Scene Unit tech videotaped and narrated the setting was Vic D’Angelo.
When he saw Eve and Tony in the doorway, a curtain of rage descended over his features. Head down like a charging bull, he lunged toward Tony. Eve quickly stepped between them.
“What the hell is he doing here? I don’t want him here.”
“You don’t have anything to say about it,” Tony offered unhelpfully. “And by the way, what the hell are you doing here?”
D’Angelo was clearly in a state. Lucy Stringer had been his partner’s daughter. He’d probably known her for years, maybe even since she was a little girl. Eve realized if she didn’t do something to diffuse the situation and quick, both D’Angelo and Tony might end up with suspensions.
“We’re following the lieutenant’s orders,” Eve told him, then took his arm. “Come on. Let’s walk outside for a minute.”
He looked as if he wanted to balk, then shrugged, a shudder ripping through his body. He wore the same black shirt and tight pants he’d had on earlier, and Eve wondered if he’d even been to bed, or if he’d been in someone else’s bed when he’d gotten the call.
She guided him outside, past the crime scene tape and down the street a few steps where they could talk in private.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “What am I going to tell Bill?”
“I know this is rough,” she said softly. “You and Bill Stringer have been partners for a long time, haven’t you?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I know the whole family. His wife used to have me over for Sunday dinners. Lucy was always there, helping out in the kitchen. She was a real sweet kid. Used to have a crush on me.”
He’d have liked that, Eve thought. A pretty young coed thinking of him as the studly detective.
“I don’t know what I’m going to tell Bill,” he said again.
“He probably already knows. I think Clare was going over there herself.”
“Clare?” The name seemed to register only faintly with him.
“The lieutenant.”
“Clare,” he said, and drew a long breath. “She called you and Cowboy?”
Eve nodded. “We’re catching this one.” At the belligerent look on his face, she reached out and put her hand on his arm. “Tony’s a good detective. The best. You know that as well as I do. His instincts are nothing short of phenomenal.”
For a moment, D’Angelo looked as if he might fly into a fury again, but then he gave a brief shrug. “I guess I don’t have any complaints with his investigations.”
“What do you have a complaint with?”
He glanced down at her, scowling. “He’s not the kind of man you need to get involved with, Eve.”
He’d never called her by her first name before. That alone surprised Eve. “He’s my partner. Who says we’re involved?”
“He’s dangerous. Ask Clare about him.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Eve said, although she didn’t. She didn’t like thinking that she and Tony had already become the subject of department speculation. “I can take care of myself.”
He gave her a hint of the old smirk. “Yeah. I kind of figured that out.” Glancing toward the street, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “So what am I supposed to do now?”
“Why don’t you go over to Bill’s? He could probably use a friend.”
D’Angelo’s gaze turned bleak as he stared at the flashing lights on top of the patrol cars. “I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think I can face him right now.”
Something in his tone sent a shiver coursing through Eve. “Then go home,” she said softly. “Get some rest. We’ve got a lot of hard work ahead of us.”
He nodded absently and started down the street. Eve didn’t see his car, but it had to be parked around here somewhere. He was halfway down the block before she realized she hadn’t asked him how he’d known about Lucy Stringer.
Had Clare called him, too?
WHEN EVE WALKED BACK into the room, she saw Tony glance up at her, but then he went right back to work. His face was an inscrutable mask as he bent over the dead woman, cataloging the stab wounds and the bruises marring an otherwise flawless face.
There was a lot of blood. The sheets were stained almost completely red.
A wave of nausea rolled over Eve, but she fought it back.
“Landlady found her,” Tony said, without looking up. “She’d gotten up to take her heart medication and saw lights on in the apartment. Said she was afraid Lucy might have been sick so she came over here to check.”
“Where is the landlady?” Eve asked.
“Downstairs. Roswell says she’s not in very good shape,” he said, referring to one of the uniforms. “Why don’t you go talk to her? I’ll finish up in here.”
Eve was absurdly grateful. She hated to admit how anxious she was to get out of that bedroom. She’d never thought she was cut out for homicide, and now she knew the truth of it. Turning, she strode from the room, inhaling gulps of fresh air as she clambered down the stairs.
The landlady, Betty Jarvis, was an older woman, in her late sixties or early seventies. She sat at her kitchen table, intermittently twisting a damp tissue