Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(9)

He rubbed his face dry and turned back. “What is it?”

“Did Marianna have a tattoo?”

He laughed, a short, harsh sound that seemed to scrape out of his throat. “Marianna? No. She was old-fashioned, wouldn’t even go for temporaries.”

“You’re sure of that.”

“We were lovers, Lieutenant. We were in love. I knew her body, I knew her mind and her heart.”

“Okay. Thank you.” She waited until he’d gone out, until the door clicked quietly closed behind him. “Impressions, Peabody?”

“Guy’s heart’s ripped right out of his chest.”

“Agreed. But people often kill the ones they love. Even with ‘link records, his alibi’s going to be shaky.”

“He doesn’t look a thing like Santa Claus.”

Eve smiled a little. “I guarantee the person who killed her won’t either. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so happy to pose for the camera. Padding, change the eye color, makeup, beard, and wig. Any damn body can look like Santa.”

But for now, she had to go with the gut. “It’s not him. Let’s check out where she worked, find her friends and enemies.”

Friends, Eve thought later, Marianna appeared to have in volume. Enemies, she seemed to have none.

The picture that was being painted was one of a happy, outgoing woman who liked her work, was close to her family but enjoyed the pace and excitement of the city.

She had a tightly knit group of female friends, a weakness for shopping, a deep love of theater, and according to all sources had been in an exclusive and happy relationship with Jeremy Vandoren.

She was dancing on air.

Everyone who knew her loved her.

She had an open, trusting heart.

As she drove home, Eve let the statements made by friends and associates play back in her mind. No one found fault with Marianna. Not once had she heard one of those sly, often self-congratulatory remarks the living made of the dead.

But there was someone who thought differently, someone who had killed her with calculation, with care, and, if the look in those eyes was any indication, with a kind of glee.

My True Love.

Yes, someone had loved her enough to kill her. Eve knew that kind of love existed, bred, festered. She’d been the recipient of that hot and twisted emotion. And survived it, she reminded herself and engaged her ‘link.

“Got the tox report on Hawley yet, Dickie?”

The long-suffering and homely face of the chief lab tech filled the screen. “You know how things get clogged up here during the holidays. People whacking people right and left, technicians putzing around with Christmas and Hanukkah shit instead of doing their jobs.”

“Yeah, my heart’s bleeding for you. I want the tox report.”

“I want a vacation.” But muttering, he shifted and began to call something up on his computer. “She was tranq’d. Over-the-counter stuff, pretty mild. Given her weight, the dosage wouldn’t have done much more than make her stupid for ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Long enough,” Eve murmured.

“Indications are a pressure injection, upper right arm. Likely felt like she’d just downed a half dozen Zombies. Results: dizziness, disorientation, possibly temporary loss of consciousness, and muscular weakness.”

“Okay. Any se**n?”

“Nope, not one little soldier. He condomized or her BC killed them. We still need to check on that. Body was sprayed with disinfectant. Traces of it in her vagina, too, which would have killed off some of the warriors. We got nothing off her. Oh — one more. The cosmetics used on her don’t match what she had in her place. We’re not finished with them yet, but prelim indicates they’re all natural ingredients, meaning high dollar. Odds are he brought them with him.”

“Get me brand names as soon as you can. It’s a good lead. Nice job, Dickie.”

“Yeah, yeah. Happy f**king holidays.”

“Same to you, Dickhead,” she muttered after she logged off. And rolling some of the tension out of her shoulders, she headed through the iron gates toward home.

She could see the lights in the windows beaming through the winter dark — tall windows, arched windows in towers and turrets — and the long sweep of the main floor.

Home, she thought. It had become hers because of the man who owned it. The man who loved her. The man who’d put his ring on her finger — as Jeremy had wanted to do with Marianna.

She turned her wedding band with her thumb as she parked her car in front of the main entrance.

She’d been everything, Jerry had said. Even a year before she wouldn’t have understood that. Now she did.

She sat where she was a moment, dragged both hands through her already disordered cap of hair. The man’s grief had wormed its way into her. That was a mistake; it wouldn’t help and could possibly hinder the investigation. She needed to put it aside, to block out of her mind the devastation of emotion she’d felt from him when he’d all but collapsed in her arms.

Love didn’t always win, she reminded herself. But justice could, if she was good enough.

She got out of her car, left it where it was, and started up the steps to the front door. The minute she was inside, she peeled out of her leather jacket and dropped it carelessly over the elegant newel post banking the curve of stairs.