Free Indulgence in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

worked for Dudley a dozen years. He really strikes me as straight up.”
    “What’s his military?”
    “Army, communications and security.”
    She squeezed into traffic. “The PA doesn’t have an alibi, and he’s a snot. Nearly went cross-eyed looking down his nose at me. It’s an arrogant crime, to my way of thinking. He’s an arrogant little bastard. So’s Sweet.”
    “Would either of them be stupid enough to use Sweet’s name and data?”
    “Or would either of them be smart enough to do just that because it comes off stupid?” Eve countered. “Something to think about. Let’s go see Jamal.”
    She didn’t expect any surprises in the morgue, but it was a task that required checking off. In any case, sessions with Morris, the ME, often served to confirm her basic theories or open up new ones.
    She found him at work, a protective cloak over his sharp suit. The midnight blue color rather than the severe black he’d worn since his lover’s murder told her he’d gone to the next phase of grief. For the first time since spring, he’d added a bright touch with a tie of strong, vibrant red. He’d braided his hair with a cord of the same color, drawing it back from his striking face.
    He worked to music, she noted, another good sign. A low and smoky female voice wafted through the cool, sterile air like a warm, perfumed breeze.
    Morris’s long, dark eyes met Eve’s, smiled.
    “How was your holiday?”
    “Pretty damn good. Found a body.”
    “They turn up everywhere. Anyone we know?”
    “Nope. A dumped-boyfriend bash. Locals handled it.”
    “And you’ve hit the ground running at home,” he observed. “How are you, Peabody?”
    “Excellent. Had some beach time. Didn’t find a body.”
    “Ah well, better luck next time.” He shifted his attention to the body on the steel table, opened by Morris’s careful and precise V-cut.
    “And here we have Jamal Houston, a man who kept in shape, tended his appearance. His hands are really quite beautiful. His scans show several old injuries. Breaks.”
    Morris brought the scans on-screen. “The right forearm, and the shoulder there—what I see is consistent with twisting. Ribs—two broken. Left wrist as well. All injuries would have been suffered during childhood and adolescence, while the bones were still forming.”
    “Abuse.”
    “I can only speculate, but that would be first on my list. Accident or injury wouldn’t cause this damage to the shoulder.”
    “Grab the arm, twist, pull,” Eve concluded.
    “Yes. Violently. As it didn’t heal properly, I doubt it was properly treated. And I expect it troubled him still from time to time, particularly in damp weather. None of these, of course, relate to cause of death. I believe the bolt through his neck gave you a clue on that.”
    “Yeah, it got me thinking.”
    “Otherwise, he was a healthy, and very fit, man in his early forties. No trace of drugs or alcohol in his tox. Stomach contents show his last meal was about seven last evening. Whole grain pasta with mixed vegetables, a light white sauce, water, and a coffee substitute. He also ingested breath mints. The body’s clean but for the killing wound.”
    “Guy eats a nice healthy dinner, knocks back some fake coffee because it’s going to be a long night and he wants to pump in a little caffeine. He grabs a shower, puts on a fresh suit, the chauffeur’s cap. Takes his ’link, his memo book—he’s got books on the ’link, according to the wife, to read while he waits for his clients. Pops the breath mints, kisses wife good-bye. About ninety minutes later, he’s dead.”
    “But with clean, fresh breath,” Morris added. “The barb of the bolt entered here.” Gently, he turned the body to reveal the insult. “Slightly right of center, angling left and down as it pierced through.”
    “Killer’s sitting in the back, right side, shoots at that slight angle. The bolt went right through, stuck in the control pad of the wheel.”
    “He’d