Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(4)

She bagged it, sealed it, labeled it, set it aside. “Vic’s wearing work gloves and boots and protective goggles.”

Eve leaned in, angled her head to look through the goggles to the dark eyes—filmed now—that stared back at her. Then took out her gauges to confirm time of death.

“TOD, twenty-two-forty-eight. COD, blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. ME to confirm.”

Since the victim was about five-three and maybe a hundred pounds, Eve didn’t call Peabody to help her turn the body.

“Yeah, she tipped to the left, damage to right cheekbone where it slammed against the floor. Hard fall.” She lifted the sweatshirt. “Rammed the table first, bet we’ve got a broken rib here. Couple of strong, hard blows from behind. The victim slams forward—but this table’s bolted down so it doesn’t move. Then she goes down to the left. I’m saying that’s when the killer follows up with the next hit, and that turns her head so she hits the floor with the right side of her face. She’s dead before she hits the floor.”

Eve duckwalked back, mindful of the blood. She straightened, took out her ’link to call for a wagon and the sweepers.

Crouching again, she examined the take-out bag, used a finger to press on one of the muffins.

Still fresh, she noted, so from this morning.

She flagged the bag and contents for the sweepers.

She took a tour around the space, a dedicated work space. Tools, tarps, a mini-AutoChef, and a tiny friggie that held water and a couple of energy drinks. An easel stood in the corner holding a series of sketches.

The wood, of course, the stone. Some pieces seemed finished to her—and some delicate, some chunky and rough. Faces in the stone, a nude woman, a nude man, a couple of indeterminate sex caught in an embrace.

And in wood a dragon curled as if in sleep, a woman standing en pointe, a many-branched tree with a hint of a face in the trunk.

Most likely, Eve considered, she’d had some success. She wasn’t an expert on art, but the pieces had something that clicked with her.

Either success, she thought as she started downstairs, or somebody backing her financially. Rent in a space like this in the West Village wouldn’t come cheap.

She scanned the living area.

No sign of any disturbance.

A wall screen, and a sofa that looked comfortably saggy, covered in dark pink, bright blue, deep green stripes. A big, thick rug—probably in deference to her downstairs neighbor—covered most of the floor. An eating area defined by a square table in that same deep pink, four chairs, two in the blue and two in the green. Flowers in a stone—marble?—vase.

The flowers looked very fresh.

No clutter, she thought, unless you counted the art crammed on the walls. All kinds of art, some framed, some just tacked-up sketches.

She glanced in the kitchen. A single counter, and the bottle of red with maybe half a glass left. She marked it for the sweepers.

More wine, some cheese, some yogurt, some energy drinks in a refrigerator that looked as if it had done duty for a couple decades. An old AC—and she checked for last programmed.

No dishes in the sink.

She circled out and paused by the open door of a home office doubling as a guest room. Neat, uncluttered, colorful, Eve noted, with the bed made, the pillows plumped.

Someone—maybe the victim—had painted a mural on one wall, a street scene of sidewalk artists at their easels, cars blurring by.

She flagged the mini data and communication unit on the table under the window for EDD before continuing on.

The bathroom, clean again, simple. She opened the door of the mirrored cabinet over the sink to find some over-the-counter meds, organized by type. She took a moment to check the drawers and cabinet of the vanity before joining Peabody in the main bedroom.

Peabody stood, hands on hips, frowning at the room.

Two stands flanked the unmade bed, with a lamp and a print-dust-coated wineglass on each. The single horizontal window had a privacy screen—unengaged.

Peabody turned. “I wanted you to see it before I bagged the glasses. Prints on both. The vic’s on the one on the right of the bed. The ones on the left aren’t in the system. The lab’s going to find DNA on the glasses and these sheets.”

“Yeah, that’s not sleep mode. Did you check the drawers in the stands?”

“A tablet, her ’link, and a sketch pad and pencils in a case in the one on the right. Nothing on the left. No calls, texts, incoming or outgoing, on the ’link since mid-afternoon. Then just a text. I recorded the number, registered to a Gwendolyn Huffman.”

“What did it say?”

“Just: I’m looking forward to our sitting. The victim texted back she was, too, and the texter said she’d see her soon, and wouldn’t come empty-handed.”

“No time stated. Bag it for EDD. No condoms, no sex toys,” Eve added. “Not here, not in the bathroom. Closet?”

“Just clothes, shoes, a couple of handbags—one day, one evening. Two rolly bags, the small inside the large. She wasn’t a clotheshorse,” Peabody added as Eve walked to the closet to look herself.

“But you can see she organized what she had by type. Work clothes, street clothes, one basic black dress, a couple of what I’d call fun-night-out outfits. Shoes the same way. She’s got underwear, sleep clothes, workout gear, and that sort of thing in the dresser—organized by type again. One small drawer for jewelry—costume, arty, fun stuff. Everything’s tidy, Dallas, and nothing looks as if anyone went through it looking for anything.”