Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(5)

“Christmas is a pain in the ass. You finished here?” she demanded of the ME’s team. “Let’s turn her over before she’s bagged.”

The blood had found its lowest level, settling in the bu**ocks and turning them a sickly red. Bowel and bladder had emptied, the waste of death. Through the seal coat on her hands, Eve felt the waxy-doll texture of the skin.

“This looks fresh,” she murmured. “Peabody, get this on video before you go down.” Eve studied the bright tattoo on the right shoulder blade as Peabody moved in to document it.

“My True Love.” Peabody pursed her lips over the bright red letters that flowed in old-fashioned script over the white flesh.

“Looks like a temporary to me.” Eve bent lower until her nose all but brushed the curve of shoulder, sniffed. “Recently applied. We’ll check where she gets body work done.”

“Partridge in a pear tree.”

Eve straightened, lifted a brow at her aide. “What?”

“In her hair, the pin in her hair. On the first day of Christmas.” Because Eve continued to look blank, Peabody shook her head. “It’s an old Christmas song, Lieutenant. The Twelve Days of Christmas.’ The guy gives his true love something on every day, starting with a partridge in a pear tree on the first day.”

“What the hell is anybody supposed to do with a bird in a tree? Stupid gift.” But a sick suspicion churned in her gut. “Let’s hope this was his only true love. Get me those tapes. Bag her,” she ordered, then turned once more to the bedside ‘link.

While the body was being removed, she ordered all incoming and outgoing transmissions for the previous twenty-four hours.

The first came in at just past eighteen hundred hours — a cheerful conversation between the victim and her mother. As Eve listened, studied the mother’s laughing face, she thought of how that same face would look when she called and told the woman her daughter was dead.

The only other transmission was an outgoing. Good-looking guy, Eve mused as she studied the image on screen. Mid-thirties, quick smile, soulful brown eyes. Jerry, the victim called him. Or Jer. Lots of sexual by-play, teasing. A lover then. Maybe her true love.

Eve removed the disc, sealed it, and slipped it into her bag. She located Marianna’s daybook, porta-‘link, and address book in the desk under the window. A quick scroll through the entries netted her one Jeremy Vandoren.

Alone now, Eve turned back to the bed. Stained sheets were tangled at the foot. The clothes that had been carefully cut off the victim and tossed to the floor were bagged for evidence. The apartment was silent.

She let him in, Eve mused. Opened the door to him. Did she come in here with him voluntarily, or did he subdue her first? The tox report would tell her if there were any illegals in the bloodstream.

Once he had her in the bedroom, he tied her. Hands and feet, likely hooking the restraints’ around the short stump of post at each of the four corners, spreading her out like a banquet.

Then he’d cut off her clothes. Carefully, no hurry. It hadn’t been rage or fury or even a desperate kind of need. Calculated, planned, ordered. Then he’d raped her, sodomized her, because he could. He had the power.

She’d struggled, cried out, probably begged. He’d enjoyed that, fed on that. Rapists did, she thought, and took several deep, steadying breaths because her mind wanted to veer toward her father.

When he was done, he’d strangled her, watching, watching while her eyes bulged. Then he’d brushed her hair, painted her face, draped her in festive silver garland. Had he brought the hairpin with him, or had it belonged to her? Had she amused herself with the tattoo, or had he decorated her body himself?

She moved into the neighboring bathroom. White tile sparkled like ice, and there was a faint under-scent of disinfectant.

He cleaned up here when he was finished, Eve decided. Washing himself, even grooming, then wiping down and spraying the room to remove any evidence.

Well, she’d put the sweepers on it in any case. One lousy pubic hair could hang him.

She’d had a mother who loved her, Eve thought. One who’d laughed with her, making holiday plans, talking about sugar cookies.

“Sir? Lieutenant?”

Eve glanced over her shoulder, saw Peabody in the center of the hallway. “What?”

“I have the security discs. Two uniforms are initiating door-to-doors.”

“Okay.” Eve rubbed her hands over her face. “Let’s seal the place up, take everything to Central. I have to inform the next of kin.” She shouldered her bag, picked up her field kit. “You’re right, Peabody. It’s a heck of a way to start the day.”

CHAPTER TWO

“Did you run the ‘link number on the boyfriend?”

“Yes, sir. Jeremy Vandoren, lives on Second Avenue, he’s an account exec for Foster, Bride and Rumsey on Wall Street.” Peabody glanced at her notebook as she relayed the rest. “Divorced, currently single, thirty-six. And a very attractive specimen of the male species. Sir.”

“Hmm.” Eve slipped the security disc into her desk unit. “Let’s see if the very attractive specimen paid a call on his girlfriend last night.”

“Can I get you some coffee, Lieutenant?”

“What?”

“Can I get you some coffee?”

Eve’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the video. “If you want coffee, Peabody, just say so.”