It wasn’t. The vic sat in a crumpled heap, head resting against the side of the dumpster. Someone had put a bullet in his brain. It’d made a big mess.
She crossed to the body, studying it while she fitted on her Latex gloves. She noticed that Zach had stopped several feet behind her.
“Meet Martin Ritchie,” she said. “Also known as Marty the Smarty. Not so smart now.”
“Poor guy. What’s his story?”
“Besides that he’s dead?”
“Yeah.”
“He dealt drugs, pimped girls, and was an all-around piece of human refuse. This little weasel doesn’t deserve your pity.”
“They all deserve our pity.”
Micki snorted. “Let’s revisit that comment in six months.”
“Six months the going rate on compassion?”
She looked over her shoulder at him. His gaze was fixed on Marty; his skin pasty white. “Pretty much. What do you think happened here?”
He met her eyes. “Beyond the obvious?”
“Yup.”
He took a moment, seeming to drink in the scene, his attention darting from one thing to another. The color, she noted, had come back to his cheeks, and he started toward her.
“Drug dealer, pimp, all around weasel,” he said. “Plenty of reasons for him to be in this situation. If one of those got him killed, my money’s on the drugs. Fits the statistics.”
The Bureau, it appeared, had made him do homework.
He squatted beside her. “Shot looks clean. Bullet entered his skull here—” He indicated the wound on Marty’s left temple. “—then exited back here. And down he went. Our UNSUB’s a good shot.”
“Where was the shooter?”
He drew his eyebrows together. “No gunpowder residue or tattooing, so farther away than three feet.”
Better than she’d hoped for. He got an A for listening in class.
“Check for his cell,” she said and stood, circling around the body to get a better look at the dumpster.
“No cell in any pocket,” he said after a moment.
“It may be under him. Leave it for the techs.” Micki found what she was looking for—blood and brain matter splattered across the top of the bin.
“He was standing here,” she said, “waiting for his connection. One way in, one way out.” She turned in that direction. “Connection arrives, climbs out of vehicle, aims and shoots. There’s no time for Marty here to lift his hands, let alone run for it. Down he goes.”
“Where’s Marty’s car?”
“Good question, Hollywood. My guess is he lived here in the Quarter. It’s easier to get around on foot, even if it is hotter than hell.”
Micki backed away from the garbage bin. “Shooter was most likely here,” she said, stopping at the beginning of the drive. “Far enough in not to be seen from the street, but an easy reverse out.”
She glanced at Zach. He was staring at the mess that had been Marty, his expression strangely removed.
She snapped her fingers. “Hollywood, you getting all this?”
He nodded, and she swiveled to survey the concrete pad: cigarette butts, rotten produce, stacked cardboard boxes. And winking up at her from the pavement, an expelled bullet casing.
She crossed to it, then stooped to get a closer look. Stubby. Brass. “Forty-five-caliber shell,” she said. “My guess is the gun was unregistered, maybe stolen. It’s looking more and more like you called it. Props, Hollywood.”
She heard Zach’s quickly drawn breath and looked his way. He had his hand curved around Marty’s; he appeared to be prying something out of it.
“Whoa, Hollywood! Gloves, dude.”
The crime scene techs arrived. She’d worked with all of them before, but none more than Ben and she crossed to him. “Welcome to my party.”
“Your party stinks.”
She laughed. “Tell me about it. Vic was a small-time drug dealer. Thinking it probably got him killed. Bullet casing,” she said, pointing it out. “Bullet exited the skull. With a little luck we’ll retrieve that, too.”
They started toward the body. “No sign of his cell phone yet. Be on the lookout for it—”
Micki stopped, realizing that Zach was gone. She looked around, frowning. “Yo,” she called, “anybody see where my partner went?”
The only female on the tech team answered, pointing toward the sidewalk behind her. “The hot one? He went that way.”
Micki finished up with Ben and hurried in the direction the tech had indicated. She reached the sidewalk and stopped, scanning right then left. She caught sight of him two blocks down.
What the hell was he doing?
Micki started after him at a run. She didn’t know which was worse: leaving a scene before it was processed or letting Boy Wonder out of her sight. Either way, Major Nichols would have her head.
“Hollywood!” she shouted when she thought he could hear. “Wait!”
He stopped and turned. She reached him, sweating and out of breath. “What the hell, dude? Where do you think you’re going?”
“I can’t talk right now.”
“You can’t— The crime scene’s that way.” She jerked her thumb in the direction they’d come. “We’re not done there.”
“I’m following a lead.”
“What lead?”