Naked in Death (In Death, #1)(61)

She grabbed her bag and her field kit and was gone.

Eve entered the apartment alone, weapon out and ready. The living room was tidy, even homey with its thick cushions and fringed area rugs. There was a book on the sofa and a slight dip in the cushion, indicating someone had spent some time curled up and reading. Frowning over the image, she moved to a door beyond.

The small room was set up as an office, the workstation tidy as a pin, with little hints of personality in the basket of perfumed silk flowers, the bowl of colorful gumdrops, the shiny white mug decorated with a glossy red heart.

The workstation faced the window, the window faced the sheer side of another building, but no one had bothered with a privacy screen. Lining one wall was a clear shelf holding several more books, a large drop box for discs, another for E-memos, a small treasure trove of pricey graphite pencils and recycled legal pads. Cuddled between was a lopsided baked clay blob that might have been a horse, and had certainly been made by a child.

Eve turned out of the room and opened the opposing door.

She knew what to expect. Her system didn't revolt. The blood was still very fresh. With only a small sigh, she holstered her weapon, knowing she was alone with the dead.

Through the thin protective spray on her hands, she felt the body. It hadn't had time to cool.

She'd been positioned on the bed, and the weapon had been placed neatly between her legs.

Eve pegged it as a Ruger P-90, a sleek combat weapon popular as home defense during the Urban Revolt. Light, compact, and fully automatic.

No silencer this time. But she'd be willing to bet the bedroom was soundproofed – and that the killer had known it.

She moved over to the fussily female circular dresser, opened a small burlap bag that was currently a fashion rage. Inside she found the dead woman's companion's license.

Pretty woman, she mused. Nice smile, direct eyes, really stunning coffee-and-cream complexion.

" Georgie Castle," Eve recited for the record. "Female. Age fifty-three. Licensed companion. Death probably occurred between seven and seven-forty-five P.M., cause of death gunshot wounds. ME to confirm. Three visible points of violence: forehead, mid-chest, genitalia. Most likely induced with antique combat style handgun left at scene. No signs of struggle, no appearance of forced entry or robbery."

A whisper of a sound behind her had Eve whipping out her weapon. Crouched, eyes hard and cold, she stared at a fat gray cat who slid into the room.

"Jesus, where'd you come from?" She let out a long, cleansing breath as she replaced her weapon. "There's a cat," she added for the record, and when it blinked at her, flashing one gold and one green eye, she bent down to scoop it up.

The purring sounded like a small, well oiled engine.

Shifting him, she took out her communicator and called for a homicide team.

A short time later, Eve was in the kitchen, watching the cat sniff with delicate disdain at a bowl of food she'd unearthed when she heard the raised voices outside the apartment door.

When she went to investigate, she found the uniform she'd posted trying to restrain a frantic and very determined woman.

"What's the problem here, officer?"

"Lieutenant." With obvious relief, the uniform deferred to her superior. "The civilian demands entry. I was – "

"Of course I demand entry." The woman's dark red hair, cut in a perfect wedge, moved and settled around her face with each jerky movement. "This is my mother's home. I want to know what you're doing here."

"And your mother is?" Eve prompted.

"Mrs. Castle. Mrs. Georgie Castle. Was there a break-in?" Anger turned to worry as she tried to squeeze past Eve. "Is she all right? Mom?"

"Come with me." Eve took a firm hold of her arm and steered her inside and into the kitchen. "What's your name?"

"Samantha Bennett."

The cat left his bowl and walked over to curl around and through Samantha's legs. In a gesture Eve recognized as habitual and automatic, Samantha bent to give the cat one quick scratch between the ears.

"Where's my mother?" Now that the worry was heading toward fear, Samantha's voice cracked.

There was no part of the job Eve dreaded more than this, no aspect of police work that scraped at her heart with such dull blades.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Bennett. I'm very sorry. Your mother's dead."

Samantha said nothing. Her eyes, the same warm honey tone as her mother's, unfocused. Before she could fold, Eve eased her into a chair. "There's a mistake," she managed. "There has to be a mistake. We're going to the movies. The nine o'clock show. We always go to the movies on Tuesdays." She stared up at Eve with desperately hopeful eyes. "She can't be dead. She's barely fifty, and she's healthy. She's strong."

"There's no mistake. I'm sorry."

"There was an accident?" Those eyes filled now, flowed over. "She had an accident?"

"It wasn't an accident." There was no way but one to get it down. "Your mother was murdered."

"No, that's impossible." The tears kept flowing. Her voice hitched over them as she continued to shake her head in denial. "Everyone liked her. Everyone. No one would hurt her. I want to see her. I want to see her now."

"I can't let you do that."