Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(11)

And all because, Eve was sure of it, she’d looked just enough like someone else.

Bad Mommy.





3





Eve walked the long white tunnel of the morgue, bootsteps echoing. Her thoughts focused on the victim, and that last walk toward home. Odds were she’d been at least a little tired, and likely moving briskly.

Young, in familiar territory, heading home in the night quiet of a good neighborhood.

An easy mark for someone with a plan in place.

The questions remained: Why the plan? Why her?

She pushed through one of the doors to Morris’s domain and saw he had his sealed hands inside the chest cavity of her victim.

Music murmured, something with a lot of low-note brass and a woman singing about love lost.

He looked up, smiled. “An early start on the day for you, and a very early end for her.”

He wore a blue suit, a bold color that told her his mood hit high. He’d matched it with a shirt the color of ripe pears and a tie that blended the two tones in subtle swirls. He’d braided his long, dark hair in some complicated pattern that formed a coil at the back of his neck.

He weighed an internal organ with easy efficiency.

Eve moved closer, looked down on the body, naked and open now.

“I think her end, in a lot of ways, happened the night of May twenty-eighth.”

“The lacerations and contusions on the wrist and ankle. Some would meet that date, some are more recent. Shackled, and the cuffs would be an inch and three-quarters wide. Some other minor contusions, as you can see—the other ankle, the knees, elbows.”

“The other ankle, from banging into the shackle.”

“Yes. And the others, minor, as I said. Not consistent with violence. He didn’t beat her, and he didn’t rape her. There’s no sign of sexual assault, or consensual sex, not recent.”

Morris walked over to a sink to rinse the blood off his hands. “She’s very clean. Her hair, her body, recently and thoroughly washed—her hair styled. The makeup, as you can see, very carefully applied.”

“I think he had an image, and she was like a doll, you know?”

With a nod, Morris walked to his mini-friggie, took out a tube of Pepsi for both of them. “I do, and had the same thought. She was a form, and he used that form to create the image he wanted. Both the makeup and hairstyle are dated, as was the clothing.”

“Were they?”

Now he grinned as he opened the tubes, handed her one. “For someone who dresses so well, you have a sketchy knowledge of fashion and its history.”

“Roarke’s always putting stuff in my closet. How dated?”

“Turn of the century, I’d guess, or the first few years of it. But it shouldn’t be difficult to get a solid time frame.”

“Where’d he get them? Did he have them already, and she fit the build, the size?” Frowning, Eve circled the body. “Maybe. Mostly fit, because the shoes were too small.”

“Correct there. She’d have been closer to a size eight than the seven and a half of the shoes he put on her.”

“Tougher to gauge a shoe size than clothes, I’d think. Jeans were a little tight. You can see where they dug in.”

“Again slightly off her size.”

“So he already had them, or just needed her to be the size he wanted.”

“Possibly. I can tell you that other than being dead, she was healthy. No sign of illegals abuse, alcohol abuse. Her last meal, consumed about five hours before TOD, consisted of a few ounces of grilled chicken, some brown rice and peas.”

“So he kept her fed.”

“And hydrated. She drank tea.”

“No signs of torture.”

“None, but I’ve sent the contents to the lab, and we’ll have a tox report shortly, I hope. The tat, the belly piercings, the third ear and the ear cartilage piercings were done within the last seventy-two hours. She was alive for those. But her nails? This is a fresh mani-pedi. These nails were recently shaped. Postmortem.”

Maybe somebody who worked on the dead in funeral and memorial venues. Somebody who fixed them up like they were just sleeping for the mourners.

Maybe.

“Bad Mommy—that’s what he wrote, left on her.”

“Yes, I saw the recording.”

“She doesn’t look like the standard image of Mommy, right?”

“They come in all shapes and sizes.”

Eve drank absently, gave a flickering thought to her own. Far from standard. “I guess so. If the victim was a surrogate, we’d be looking for someone about this build, likely this coloring, with the tat, the piercings, who was in this general age range—or looked like it—around the turn of the century.”

She circled the other way.

“Or he just wanted to play with a doll, and has an old-fashioned sense of style.”

She stopped. “The neck wound and repair.”

“No hesitation marks. One quick stroke. Smooth, sharp blade. About four inches long. I’d look for a folding knife. A good, sharp pocketknife.”

Now her eyes narrowed. “A pocketknife.”

“Smooth, short, straight blade. No jags, no angles. He faced her to kill her. A left to right slice, so right-handed.”

Nodding, she ran it through her head. “Makes sense. Why would he have a knife—a sharp—sitting around anywhere near a woman he’s holding against her will? Pocketknife.”