“Don’t need to. He and his roommate just signed in.”
“Luca first. Slim chance they helped this guy gain access, but it’s there.”
Luca DiNozzo wasn’t a skinny black guy, but a ridiculously attractive Italian with a flirtatious smile and a gym-buff body in a snug black sweater and tight jeans.
Eve could all but hear Peabody’s hormones humming.
He sat relaxed in the box, but then he’d been there before. Minor bumps, Eve thought, but minor often served as a gateway to more.
“What can I do for you ladies?”
“Lieutenant,” Eve said. “Detective.”
He just smiled his flirty smile.
“Tell us about the Strazza job.”
“They’re regulars. Dinner party last night.”
He ran through the particulars just as Quint had done, matching the delivery, the timing, the break down. But he shifted as he finished up, and his jaw went tight. “They got a complaint? I supervised that job.”
“A lot to supervise with your people moving in and out, a lot of pretty little things out in plain sight. Easy grab and go. You’ve had some bumps along the way, Luca.”
Now his shoulders shot back, his jaw forward. “If anything’s missing from that house, one of the guests pocketed it. Nobody who works for Carmine steals—and I know those guys. I know Jacko’s crew, too. So if Dr. Strazza’s making a stink, he should look to his own.”
“About those bumps,” Eve added.
“That was then, this is now. I did the stupid when I was drinking. Got into a program, stopped drinking and doing the stupid. And I never stole so much as a freaking gumball even when I was drinking. Carmine took a chance on me, and I don’t forget it. I wouldn’t do anything to mess him up, mess myself up. Like I said, the Strazzas are regulars. If we weren’t trustworthy, they wouldn’t use us, so if Dr. Strazza’s got some bug up his butt, it’s his problem.”
“Strazza’s dead.”
Eve saw the shock—instant and violent. Luca’s chiseled jaw literally dropped.
“What? What the hell? Dead?”
“Murdered. Take me through your night, Luca.”
“I— Wait.” He closed his eyes, breathed for a minute. “Let me think. We had another pickup after the Strazzas’. Jesus. But that wasn’t until eleven. We took the pickup back to the warehouse, stowed it, logged it, went out to get something to eat. Except Charlie went on home—didn’t need him for the last job, and he’s got a new baby, so I cut him loose. The rest of us did the pickup—way the hell down in SoHo. We hauled it back, logged that in—I know that was about twelve-thirty. We all went out for a beer—well, that’s club soda for me. I guess Ollie took off about one, then Stizzle and Mac and me had another drink, got some bar food, just to hang. Stizzle and I went home—we’re roommates—about two. Mac, he was making some progress with this brunette, so he stayed back.
“Jesus, we didn’t kill anybody. You can check the pickups, the log-ins. Carmine’s got security cams and the feed’s time-stamped. I can vouch for every one of the guys. I can guarantee you Charlie went straight home to his girl and their baby. The baby’s just two weeks old, man. We didn’t hurt anybody.”
“Okay. Tell me about the latecomer. Tell me about the person who walked into the Strazzas’ residence while you were breaking down the job.”
“The weird guy? Musician or something, right? Performance artist. I don’t get that. Look, can I have some water or something? Jesus, somebody got murdered.”
“I’ll get it.” Peabody rose, slipped out.
“Performance artist,” Eve prompted.
“Something like that, I figured. He’s all wrapped up in this coat, hat, shades—only assholes and entertainer types wear shades at night, right? He’s carrying a case—I figure like a musical instrument or something.”
“What did he look like—his face?”
“Couldn’t really see it, but he was wearing like stage makeup. I could smell it. My cousin’s an actor—done plenty of gigs off-Broadway. Well, an off-off, and one more off-Broadway. I could smell, like, the greasepaint. Just a weird artist type, I figured, and…”
Eve saw it hit, saw the horror come into the dreamy bedroom eyes. “That guy? He killed Strazza? But … he walked right by me. I let him walk right by me. I let him … He went right up the stairs in the house. Like he was supposed to. I let him in the house.”
“Did you open the door for him?”
“I…” Breathing fast, he dragged a hand through his fairly magnificent mane of hair. “No, not exactly. I was by the door, I was holding it open—can’t use a stop on the door when it’s that freaking cold. The clients don’t like it. So I was holding it open—Mac and Charlie had just carried out chairs and … Ah, yeah, Ollie and Stizzle were coming with a table, so I held the door. This guy, I saw him coming up the steps toward the door, talking on his ’link. And he walked right by me, and walked to the stairs, went up.”