Salvation in Death (14 page)

She shouted, “Jimmy Jay! Oh, Jimmy Jay,” while the roars of the crowd turned to a wall of wails and screams and lamentations.

Seeing her husband’s staring eyes, she swooned. She fell across her dead husband, so their bodies made a white and pink cross on the stage floor.

At her desk, Eve had narrowed her list down to twelve male babies, baptized at St. Cristóbal’s in the years that jibed with the age range of her victim who had Lino as a first or middle name. She had five more that skirted the outside boundaries of those years in reserve.

“Computer, standard run on the names on the displayed list. Search and—hold,” she added, muttering a curse under her breath when her ’link signaled.

“Dallas.”

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to
Madison
Square
Garden
,

Clinton Theater. Suspected homicide by poisoning.

“Acknowledge. Has the victim been identified?”

Affirmative. The victim has been identified as Jenkins, James Jay.

Report immediately as primary. Peabody, Detective Delia, will be notified.

“On my way. How do I know that name?”

“Leader of the Church of Perpetual Light. Or no, Eternal Light. That’s it,” Roarke said from the doorway.

Eve’s eyes sharpened, narrowed. “Another priest.”

“Well, not precisely, but in the ballpark.”

“Shit. Shit.” She looked at her work, at her lists, at her files. Had she gone completely off, taken the wrong turn? “I’ve got to go.”

“Why don’t I go with you?”

She started to say no, to ask him to stay, continue his search. No point, she thought, if she was after a man-of-God killer. “Why don’t you? Computer, continue assigned run, store data.”

Acknowledged. Working . . . it announced as she headed for the door.

“You’re thinking dead priest, dead preacher, and you took the wrong line of investigation.”

“I’m thinking if it turns out this guy drank potassium cyanide, it’s no damn coincidence. Doesn’t make sense, doesn’t make any sense.”

But she shook her head, shut it down. She’d need to walk onto the scene objectively. She detoured into the bedroom, changed into street clothes, strapped on her weapon.

“It’ll have cooled off out there.” Roarke passed her a short leather jacket. “I’ll have to tell you that so far I haven’t found any major heists, nothing that fits your bill. Not with the take outstanding or the doers at large. At least,” he added, “none that I don’t know the particulars of, personally.”

She simply stared at him.

“Well now, you did ask me to go back a number of years. And a number of years back, I might have had my hand in a few interesting pies.” He smiled. “So to speak.”

“Let’s not,” she decided, “speak about those particular pies. Crap. Crap. Do me a favor and drive, okay? I want to get some background on the victim before we get there.”

As they walked out of the house, Eve pulled out her PPC and started a background run on the recently deceased Jimmy Jay.

A PLATOON OF UNIFORMS HELD A GOOD-SIZED army of gawkers behind police barricades at
Madison
Square
Garden
. The winter before last, the terrorist group Cassandra had blown a good chunk out of the building. Wreaking bloody havoc.

Apparently, the death of an evangelist elicited nearly as much hysteria and chaos.

Eve held up her badge as she muscled her way through. “He’s with me,” she told one of the uniforms, and cleared the path for Roarke.

“Let me lead you in, Lieutenant.”

Eve nodded at the uniform, a fit female with a crop of curly red hair under her cap. “What do you know?”

“First on scene’s inside, but the word is the vic was preaching up a storm to a sold-out house. Downed some water—already onstage with him—and fell down dead.”

The uniform cut through the lobby, jerked her head toward one of the posters of a portly man with a shock of hair as white as his suit. “Jimmy Jay, big-time evangelist. Scene got secured pretty quick, Lieutenant. One of the vic’s bodyguards used to be on the job. Word is he handled it. Main arena,” she added, leading Eve past two more uniforms flanking the doors. “I’ll go back to my post, if you don’t need anything.”

“I’m set.”

The houselights were on, and the stage lights burned. Despite them, the temperature was like an arctic blast and made her grateful for her jacket.

“Why is it so freaking cold in here?”

The uniform shrugged. “Packed house. Guess they had the temp bottomed out to compensate. Want me to see about getting it regulated?”

“Yeah.”

She could smell the remnants of the packed house—sweat and perfume, sweetened drinks and treats that had spilled in the rows. More uniforms and the first of the sweepers milled around those rows, the stage, the aisles.

But the body lay center stage, with an enormous screen behind him where an image of a hellacious, wrath-of-God storm was frozen in mid-lightning strike.

She hooked her badge on her waistband, took the field kit Roarke carried.

“Full house. Like Ortiz’s funeral. Smaller scale, but same idea. Priest, preacher—taken out in front of the faithful.”

“Same killer, or copycat.”

She nodded as she scanned. “There’s a question. But I won’t ask it until we determine COD. Maybe he had a stroke or a heart deal. Overweight,” she continued as they walked toward the stage. “Probably worked up, playing for a crowd this size. People still die of natural causes.”

But not Jimmy Jay Jenkins, Eve thought when she got closer to the body. She mounted the stage. “First on scene?”

“Sir.” Two uniforms stepped forward.

She held up a finger, scanned over to the grizzled-haired man in a dark suit. Once a cop, she thought. “You’re the bodyguard?”

“That’s right. Clyde Attkins.”

“You were on the job.”

“Thirty years, Atlanta.”

“Rank?”

“DS when I put my papers in.”

He had the eyes for it. “Mind giving me the roundup?”

“Nope. Jimmy Jay had the stage, heading toward halftime.”

“Halftime?”

“Well, that’s loose, but Jimmy Jay’d preach for ’round an hour, after the singing, then the singers would come back onstage, and Jimmy Jay, he’d change his shirt—’cause he’d’ve sweat right through the one he started with. Then after that break, he’d come back and fire it up again. He had maybe ten minutes to go when he went down.”

Attkins’s jaw tightened visibly. “He drank some water, and went down.”

“From one of those bottles on the table there?”

“The one that’s still open. He drank, set the bottle down, said a couple more words. Coughed, then he choked, grabbed at his collar, his tie—and down he went. His wife—Jolene—she ran out even before I could—and when she saw him, she fainted. I secured the scene as quick and solid as I could, but there was pandemonium for a few minutes.”

He looked back at the body, away again. “Some people tried to get up onstage, and we had to work some to keep them back. Others were running for the exits, or fainting.”

“Pandemonium,” Eve repeated.

“It surely was. Fact is, nobody really knew what had happened. And their daughters—Jimmy Jay and Jolene’s—came running, grabbed at their mama, their daddy. Body’s been moved some, and one of the daughters—that’d be Josie—she tried to revive him with mouth-to-mouth before I stopped her.”

“Okay. Have those water bottles been touched or moved?”

“No, sir, I made sure of that. Security had a hell of a time with the crowd, and with the crew, but I closed things off here in a hurry.”

“Appreciate that, Mr. Attkins. Can you stand by?”

“I sure can.” He looked down at the body again. “This is a terrible night. I can stand by as long as you need.”

Taking out a can of Seal-It, Eve coated her hands, her boots. Then she moved to the glossy white table and picked up the open bottle of water. Sniffed.

She frowned, sniffed again.

“There’s more in here than water. I can’t place it, but there’s something in here.”

“Mind?” Roarke stepped over. With a shrug, Eve held out the bottle so he could lean over. “I think it’s vodka.”

“Vodka?” Eve glanced back toward Clyde, and saw from his expression Roarke was right. “Can you confirm that?”

“Yes, sir, I can. Jimmy Jay liked a shot of vodka in his water bottles. Said it kept him smooth through the preaching. He was a good man, Lieutenant, and a true man of God. I’d sure hate for this to come out in a way that smeared his name.”

“If it’s not relevant, it won’t. Who spiked his bottles?”

“One of his girls, usually. His daughters. Or I would if things got busy. Or Billy, his manager.”

“Which is why all these bottles are unsealed. Where’s the vodka bottle?”

“That would be in his dressing room. One of your men locked that up.”

She went back to the body, crouched. The cheeks were deep pink, the eyes bloodshot. There were bloody grooves at the throat where he’d clawed for air. She could smell the vodka as she leaned close to his face, and the sweat. And yes, just the faintest whiff of almonds.

As she open her kit, she turned to see Peabody and her partner’s skinny, blond heartthrob hustling toward the stage.

“I didn’t call EDD.”

“We were out with Callendar and her latest hunk,” Peabody said. “That is
the
Jimmy Jay, right?”

“Apparently. Take prints to confirm, get
TOD
for the record.” Eve eyed McNab and the red and orange starburst on his purple tee. He wore slick green airskids to match the slick green belt that kept his seeringly orange pants from sliding off his bony hips.

Despite the fashion statement, and the half-dozen colorful rings weighing down his left earlobe, he was a good cop. And since he was here, she might as well put him to work.

“Got a recorder, Detective?”

“Don’t leave home without it.”

“Mr. Attkins, I’d like you to take a seat out there—” Eve gestured vaguely to the audience. “And give your statement to Detective McNab. Thanks for your help.”

She turned to first on scene. “Officer, where’s the vic’s wife?”

“In her dressing room, sir. I’ll escort you.”

“In a minute. Peabody, when you’re done, have the body bagged and tagged and flag Morris. I want COD asap. Cap and bag that open bottle separate from the rest. They’re all for the lab and they’re priority. The vic had three daughters, all here. You take them. I’m on the wife, the manager. McNab can take Security.”

“On that.”

Eve turned to Roarke. “Want to go home?”

“Whatever for?”

“Then find someplace quiet and comfortable. Dig into the vic.” She offered her PPC. “I’ve got the initial run on here.”

“I’ll use my own.”

“I’ve got the run started on mine.”

He sighed, took hers, tapped a couple buttons. “Now it’s on mine, too. Anything in particular you’d like me to find?”

“It’d be really keen if you found Jimmy Jay Jenkins had ties to some guy named Lino from Spanish Harlem. Otherwise . . .” She looked around the arena. “God’s a big business, right?”

“Biblical.”

“Ha. Find out how much in Jimmy Jay’s pockets, and who gets what. Thanks. Officer?”

They exited the stage, moved through the wings. “Where’s the vic’s dressing room?” she asked.

“Other side.” The cop jerked a thumb.

“Really?”

He shrugged. “Mrs. Dead Guy got the hysterics. Had to carry her off, call the MTs in for her. We got a female officer in with her. MT gave her a mild soother, but . . .”