Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(11)

“I give you it’s a long time,” Peabody said as Eve nipped through a yellow light and pushed south again. “The line’s going to be shock, and how different people experience it. That’s not really wrong.”

“She took a shower, changed her clothes, dried her hair, put on very careful makeup. Given the time it took her to get back, she did at least some of that after calling it in. Preparing. No way she went out this morning without doing her face up a lot more than what we saw, her hair up a lot fancier. And she was wearing white—a symbol of innocence. No splatter of coffee on her. And in all that, she contacted the lawyer-fiancé. She had the DND to give her more time to prep, to talk to him first, to make sure she had him with her when we interviewed her.”

“She’s calculating,” Peabody agreed. “That sounded loud and clear—especially with the slow, perfect tears. But why go back this morning? Why go back, buy coffee and muffins first, and put yourself in the murder scene?”

“Some people like attention, and I’m betting she qualifies. More, we’re going to find her prints on scene, too. Either way, liar, liar, fancy pants on fire.”





3


Eve hit the morgue first and started down the long white tunnel. Two techs stood at Vending, slurping up bad coffee and replaying the previous night’s baseball game.

She aimed for the chief medical examiner’s domain.

His sealed hands smeared with blood, Morris stood over Ariel Byrd’s body. He wore a clear protective cape over a suit that made her think of ripe peaches. Obviously in a springtime frame of mind, he’d paired it with a shirt of the palest green and a tie precisely matching the suit. He’d wound his long, dark hair into braids, all tied back with pale green cord.

It always amazed her, would always amaze her, how anyone managed to coordinate a look so perfectly.

He lowered his microgoggles. “Young, healthy, and dead on a lovely day in May.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d have gotten this far on her yet.”

“Not only your name on her tag, but I recognized hers.”

Instantly alert, Eve looked into Morris’s dark eyes. “You knew her.”

“Not personally, not really. I admired her work, and spoke to her at last month’s Art in the Park festival. Garnet, her daughter, and I went for a couple of hours.”

Garnet DeWinter, Eve thought, bone doctor, fashion plate, and Morris’s pal—platonic.

“Garnet took her card, and visited her home studio.”

“Is that right?”

“She bought a gargoyle for her garden wall. It’s charming.”

“Did you go with her, to the studio?”

“No.” Morris shifted his gaze back to the body. “This is my second time meeting the artist. A talented woman.”

Eve moved closer to study the talented woman who lay on the slab with her chest open. “What else can you tell me about her?”

“Healthy, as I said. Good weight for her height and frame, and good muscle tone. A greenstick fracture, left wrist, from childhood. A common injury, and well healed. No signs of alcohol or illegals abuse. Peabody.” He smiled at her. “Why don’t you get something cold for yourself and Dallas from my box?”

“Thanks. Pepsi?” she asked Eve.

“That’ll work.” And occupy her, as Peabody disliked open body exams.

“No defensive wounds, no injuries other than the laceration and contusion on the face, from the fall, a cracked rib from an impact injury.”

“Worktable.”

“Yes, in studying your crime-scene recording, I agree. And of course the killing blows.”

“More than one.”

“Three, though the first would have done the job without quick medical attention, the second would have completely sealed the deal. Forceful blows, from slightly above and to the right, which knocked her forward and to the left, sharply into the table. She’s only five-three, small stature, slight build. The impact with the table—a solid table bolted down—cracked her lower right rib. She wouldn’t have been conscious for the second blow, delivered as she bounced back from the impact with the table, pitched to her left. The third struck her as she fell.”

“She had a lot of tools—organized. Hammers, chisels, files. It looks to me like the killer picked up the murder weapon from another worktable behind the victim, to the right side of the steps going up. Big hunk of rock on it, and a chisel. No mallet.”

Absently, she cracked the tube of Pepsi Peabody handed her.

“She had company, either the killer or someone earlier. Someone she shared wine and sex with.”

“Yes. She had about twelve ounces of red wine, a Shiraz, in her stomach contents. Consumed over a period of three hours to one hour prior to death. She had chicken, rice, brussels sprouts about four to four and a half hours prior to death.”

“No wine with dinner. Saved the wine to drink with the bedmate. And the sex? Possible DNA?”

“The lab has the fluids to identify DNA. There was no semen in or on her.”

“Condomized, but she didn’t have any condoms in her apartment.” Eve shrugged as she circled the body again. “Not all women do. No sex toys, no condoms. No oral birth control. Internal?”

“Not that I’ve found, as yet. She never gave birth to a child.”