Page 7 of Passions in Death
She waited until he’d walked away, turned her recorder on, then swiped open the door.
The victim lay on her back, brown eyes staring at the ceiling. Blood from the neck wound had run down her throat to soak the bodice of a short, shiny green dress. One of her shoes had slipped off, and one arm lay outstretched. The swipe card swam in a pool of her blood just beyond her fingers.
One of those tiny, useless handbags lay open on her other side.
“Seal up,” she told Roarke.
He’d already opened her field kit, and handed her the can of sealant. “You first.”
“No jewelry,” she noted as she coated her hands, her boots. “Somebody wanted us to say robbery. Somebody thinks we’re stupid.”
She handed him the sealant, took the field kit, then stepped around the blood to the body.
“She’s got a fresh wound on her forehead, and blood on the inside of the door—that’s going to be from that. So the killer was inside the room. Prepared to kill.”
“Because?”
“I don’t know why yet, but that’s a thin wound on her neck, and a deep one. Piano wire, maybe. Some sort of garrote. You don’t have that handy if you’re looking to mug. You’ve got a sticker maybe, a stunner, a sap. Fresh manicure,” she added as she crouched. “But two of her nails are broken, scratches on her neck where she tried to drag the wire away.”
Eve lifted one of the victim’s hands. “Skin and blood under the nails. That’s going to be hers, too. Took her from behind, that’s how you do it. Whip the wire around and pull, give her a good knock against the door to daze her. She’d have been drinking on top of it. Party time, happy time. So reflexes are slower than sober.”
She glanced up at Roarke. “I hadn’t been drinking when Casto went for me in here because, hey, getting married the next day. That was his mistake.”
“In this room?”
“Yeah. Ten bucks says Peabody’s going to talk about white saging it.”
She took a sample of the matter under Erin’s nails, sealed it, labeled it. Then pressed a finger to her Identi-pad.
“Victim is identified as Erin Albright, age twenty-seven, mixed-race female, resides on Twelfth Street—only a few blocks from here—with cohab Shauna Hunnicut.”
She bagged both hands. “Maybe she got a piece of him. Doubtful, but maybe.”
Before she reached in her kit for microgoggles, Roarke handed them to her.
Fitting them on, she leaned close to the neck wound. “Yeah, some sort of wire. Piano wire, steel guitar string, what’s it—baling wire. Victim was garroted, with force.”
She took out gauges. “Enough force the neck wound is a sixth of an inch deep at its deepest point. The forehead wound is fresh, a strike against the inside of the door, again with some force, but not a killing blow.”
As she replaced gauges, took out others, she scanned the body. “The victim is five foot five. From the angle of the wound, the killer was several inches taller, pulling back and up on the wire. ME to confirm.
“Time of death, twenty-three-forty-six.” Eve sat back on her heels. “Crack called it in at sixteen past midnight. Take a few minutes off for the one who found her to send up the alarm—and Crack’s going to come back here and check to be sure. So nobody missed her for a good twenty minutes or more. That gave her killer some room. See what’s in her purse, will you?”
He walked around the body, crouched down as Eve was. “Lip dye, breath mints, her ID, and… three swipes in a swipe case.”
“No ’link, no cash or credits.” Eve nodded. “Staging it.”
Rising, she crossed over to open a black, top-handle case on the bed.
“Okay, this is weird. Is this a grass skirt?”
Roarke straightened and turned as she held it up.
“It certainly appears to be.”
“And there’s one of those boob deals out of half coconuts, those flower necklaces—two of them. A pair of pink heels, glittery, butterflies on the straps. Wait, something else. A card.”
Eve loosened the flap, slid it out. “Got a scan of two tickets to Maui, leaving on Sunday. And the card reads: ‘I want to spend a lifetime making your dreams come true. This is just the beginning. I love you, Erin.’”
