Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(7)

“Did she scream?”

Eve imagined it, brought the picture into her mind of Mars standing in front of the mirror.

The door opens, she thought, and Mars sees the killer in the mirror.

Turns, certainly turns, according to the pattern of the spatter.

“If she screamed, she didn’t scream loud enough for us to hear her upstairs. The attacker … if he or she avoided getting any blood on his or her person, that’s not luck, either. Knew where to stand to avoid the spray. Or covered any spray with a coat. Might have washed any blood on the hands in the damn sink right here. Might have worn gloves, then taken them off.”

She closed her eyes a moment, tried to bring back the goings, the comings upstairs while she sat having a damn drink.

Shaking her head, she studied the room again.

“Four stalls. All swank. No signs of struggle, no signs of an altercation. Everything neat and clean and ordered—except for the blood.”

An argument, maybe, she thought. Her drinks companion, someone else. Someone else having drinks. Someone who trailed her into the bar.

A lot of possibilities.

She took a sample of the blood for her own kit. The sweepers, she thought, would deal with the rest.

And now she dealt with something she’d put off. She tagged Roarke.

His face came on her ’link screen. Those impossibly blue eyes. That slow smile just for her, curving that beautifully sculpted mouth.

“Lieutenant. And how’s Garnet?”

“DeWinter’s upstairs in your place. Du Vin.”

“Ah, so you went for a touch of France.” His voice held that lyrical touch of Ireland. “How do you like it?”

“I liked it okay, until I caught a case.”

“Ah, well. I’m sorry for the dead, and for myself, as I expect you won’t be starting for home for a while yet.”

“Yeah, not for a while. I mean I literally caught a case. As in: I caught her as she went down, and before she died on the really nice floor of your French bar.”

The smile vanished; those bold blue eyes turned cool. “There’s been a murder in my place?”

“I’m down in the women’s bathroom. You’re going to have to repaint the walls.”

“I’m on my way.”

“I’m going to say, for form, there’s no need for you to come here. But you don’t need to say, for form, why there is. I’ll see you when you get here. Sorry.”

“So am I.”

He clicked off.

As she dropped her ’link back into her pocket, Peabody opened the door.

Brown eyes scanned the room. “Well, we know where it went down.”

“We do.”

“Shields are here and in place. It’s helped calm people down, but we’ve got a lot of nerves up there. Do you want me to take the body or statements?”

“Statements, for now. I told the droids to cull out people who sat nearest her booth. Take those. She was having a drink with someone. Male, mixed race, late thirties, wavy brown hair, blue eyes. Rich—expensive dark gray suit, ah … blue shirt, blue-and-gray patterned tie with some red in it. Pricey-looking wrist unit. Silver or white gold.”

“How close were you?”

“Not close enough, apparently, but I got a decent enough look at him. They didn’t seem to be having a happy talk from his expression.”

“You know who the DB is, right?”

“Yeah. Larinda Mars, scandal queen. I’ll verify that officially. The manager should have the companion’s name by now. Take the statements. I’ll get that and run it.”

“Sweepers?”

“Yeah, call them in, and the morgue team.”

Eve took a last look around, walked over to bag the purse. “Too damn big for an evidence bag, even the jumbo.” To solve it, she dumped the contents in a bag, marked and sealed, stuffed the purse in another.

She carted it all up, went directly to Emily. “Have you got any sort of a box, with a lid?”

“In my office. I’ll get you one. Lieutenant, the man who had drinks with Ms. Mars is Fabio Bellami. I have his contact information. I made a copy of the readout.”

Eve took it. “Thanks, that’s very helpful.”

“I’ll get the box.”

Eve slipped the paper into her pocket. It was past time to give the victim some attention.

DeWinter slipped off the stool where she’d waited.

“Is there something I can do?”

Eve glanced at the white curtain. “I don’t think this is a job for a forensic anthropologist.”

“I was here. I had her blood on my hands. Can I help?”

Eve glanced at the people still bunched together on the north side. “Sterling’s still here.”

“He’s been cleared to go, along with his wife, but he stayed to help someone through a full-blown panic attack—and another fainting spell. I think he must be a very good doctor. And I think if we’d gotten to the victim even five minutes sooner, we might have saved her. That’s pure conjecture, of course.”

“Conjecture can be useful.” She held out a can of Seal-It. “Seal up.”

“Sorry, what?”

“If you want to help, seal up. You’ve already got some blood on your boots.”