Her Last Word(3)

Three months ago, Adler and his rookie partner, Greg Logan, had been investigating an arsonist who’d set seven fires in the Richmond area and killed three people. Working off an informant’s tip, they’d approached what they thought was one of the arsonist’s former residences.

Adler had entered first. Logan had been ten feet behind him when Adler flipped on a kitchen light switch, which instantly triggered an incendiary device. The blast blew behind Adler and seared the skin on his back as its force threw him forward. His ears ringing and fire roaring around him, he’d pushed up on his hands and knees and staggered toward his partner, who had been near the explosion. Logan had been thrown across the room and was lying in a heap.

He’d pulled his partner from the burning house and called for help. They’d both survived, but Adler had spent a couple of weeks in the burn unit. Logan had lost his left leg.

The uniform shifted and, lifting the tape, grinned. “Detective Adler. Good to have you back, sir.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re a hero.”

Though he didn’t mind the humorous nicknames, Adler hated the designation of hero, a title he didn’t want or deserve. “Is Detective Quinn inside?”

“Yes, sir.”

The crime scene tape was looped over the wrought iron railing of the townhome in the historic Church Hill district. Spring was teasing the city with a warm spell and had lulled them into thinking winter had passed. But he knew Mother Nature wasn’t ready to dismiss winter.

This section of town was picturesque and loaded with charm. Finished with the buzz of nightlife and the lure of laughing crowds, he’d opted to move out of the city to the country two months ago. He liked the idea of not locking his doors, but he had been a homicide cop too long not to.

He climbed the steep stone steps and strode across the porch past an oval brass plaque that read RICHMOND, VIRGINIA, 1903. This house, like the city, had deep roots. Church Hill was the original location of the city, and then like most urban areas suffered when the population fled to the suburbs. Now the tide had changed, and after decades of neglect and decay, Church Hill was enjoying a renaissance. Young professionals seeking a trendy address were willing to ignore poverty and crime. They snapped up these forgotten homes and undertook major renovations while keeping the architectural charm of the period. The drug dealers, pimps, and prostitutes would have to live somewhere else.

Adler fished out black latex gloves from his coat pocket as he paused in the entryway. This house had the typical floor plan of its era. It was built long and narrow with high ceilings. To the right, a parlor connected to a dining room via huge wooden pocket doors. The occupant had done what many did and flipped the parlor and dining rooms. When the pocket doors were closed, expensive home-entertainment and computer equipment were hidden from view and hopefully safe from theft.

The center hallway shot straight to a kitchen, and he caught a glimpse of the standard white marble countertops and stainless steel appliances, the favorite of current remodelers. To his left was a long staircase with an ornate hand railing rising to the second floor. The flash of a camera above told him he’d find his latest case upstairs.

The 911 call had come from the victim’s sister. They’d planned a night out, which included a lecture and then drinks. When the sister couldn’t get the victim to answer the door, she’d used her key. She found her sister stabbed in the shower.

Adler threaded his fingers together, working the gloves deeper onto his hands as he paused by the stairs and looked toward a side table where a woman’s oversize black purse sat. Next to it were keys attached to a brass key ring shaped like the letter C. Several steps from the table were black pumps. One stood upright, and the other tilted gently against it like an old friend. It didn’t appear she had been hurried or forcibly rushed when she came in the door.

He walked toward the kitchen, where an open bottle of wine sat on the marble counter. He moved to the back door in the kitchen. The dead bolt was unlocked. He twisted the knob, and as he pulled the heavy door open, he heard a chime. The security system appeared to be in working order.

A brick patio covered most of the backyard. There was a strip of grass and then a garage. An alley was just over the fence. It would’ve been easy enough to walk up the alley after dark and slip into the yard without being noticed.

He stepped back into the house, then moved toward the stairs leading to the second floor. More flashes and the buzz of conversation drew him to the front bedroom overlooking part of the side alley between this house and the neighboring one, as well as East Broad Street.

He saw a skirted four-poster bed, and beside it, discarded undergarments as well as a forensic technician’s yellow evidence marker. The undergarments weren’t ripped or torn. It appeared as if the victim had removed them while undressing. Slip off shoes downstairs, pour wine, strip.

His attention shifted to the bathroom, where a forensic technician snapped pictures of a nude female’s body sitting upright in the shower. Her legs were spread, and her hands lay on the inside of each thigh. She appeared to have been posed.

He pushed aside the disgust he felt in the face of such sadistic violence and focused on what this evidence told him about the killer. It had not been enough to murder her. She had to be humiliated. Whoever had done this had been angry.

She’d been stabbed multiple times in the abdomen, arm, and neck. One of the cuts had hit her jugular and left arterial spray on the glass door and tile walls. She had soap in her hair. Shampoo bottles lined a niche, but one lay outside the shower.