Immortal in Death (In Death #3)(15)

“Stay where you are. Don’t touch anything. You understand me? Don’t touch anything, and don’t let anyone in but me. Mavis?”

“Yes, yes. I will. I won’t. Hurry. It’s so awful.”

“I’m on my way.” When she turned, Roarke was already up and pulling on his trousers.

“I’ll go with you.”

She didn’t argue. In five minutes flat they were on the road and speeding through the deepest slice of night. Empty streets gave way to the constant swarm of tourists in midtown, the flash of video billboards offering every pleasure and purchase known to man, then to the trendy insomniacs of the Village who loitered over minuscule cups of flavored coffee and lofty discussions in outdoor cafes, and finally, to the sleepy habitats of the artists.

Other than to find out their destination, Roarke didn’t ask questions, and she was grateful for it. She could see Mavis’s face in her mind, white and terrified. Worse, much worse, she saw Mavis’s hand, trembling. And the smear that had darkened it had been blood.

A high wind that hinted of a brewing storm whipped through the city canyons. It slapped at Eve as she leaped from Roarke’s car before he’d stopped completely at the curb. She took the thirty yards of sidewalk in a dead run, smacked the security camera.

“Mavis. It’s Dallas. Mavis, damn it.” Such was her state of mind that it took her ten frustrated seconds to realize the unit was smashed.

Roarke went through the unsecured door and into the elevator beside her.

When it opened, she knew it was as bad as she’d feared. On her earlier visit, Leonardo’s loft had been cheerfully cluttered, colorfully disorganized. Now it was viciously tumbled. Long trails of material shredded, tables overturned with their contents strewn and broken.

There was blood, a great deal of it, splattered on walls and silks like a bad-tempered child’s angry finger-paints.

“Don’t touch anything,” she snapped at Roarke, out of reflex. “Mavis?” She took two steps forward, then stopped as one of the billowing curtains of shimmery cloth rippled. Mavis moved passed it, stood swaying.

“Dallas. Dallas. Thank God.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” The minute Eve caught her close, the relief poured. The blood wasn’t Mavis’s, though it was spotted on her clothes, on her hands. “You’re hurt. How bad?”

“I’m dizzy, sick. My head.”

“Let her sit down, Eve.” Taking Mavis’s arm, Roarke led her to a chair. “Come on, darling, sit down. That’s the way. She’s in shock, Eve. Get her a blanket. Put your head back, Mavis. That’s a girl. Close your eyes and just breathe for a while.”

“It’s cold.”

“I know.” He reached down, flipped up a ragged piece of glistening satin, and draped it over her. “Deep breaths, Mavis. Slow, deep breaths.” He flicked a glance up at Eve. “She needs attention.”

“I can’t call the MTs before I know what the situation is. Do what you can for her.” All too aware of what she was likely to find, Eve moved past the curtain.

She’d died badly. It was the hair that confirmed to Eve who the woman had once been. The glorious curling flame of it. Her face, with its stunning, almost eerie perfection, was all but gone, mashed and mangled under cruel, repeated blows.

The weapon was still there, carelessly tossed aside. Eve supposed it was intended to be some sort of fancy cane or walking stick, a fashionable affectation. Under the blood and gore it was a glossy silver, perhaps an inch thick with an ornate handle in the shape of a grinning wolf.

She’d seen it, tipped into a corner of Leonardo’s work space, only two days before.

It was not necessary to check Pandora’s pulse, but Eve did so. Then she stepped back carefully so as not to contaminate the scene any further.

“Christ,” Roarke murmured from behind her, then laid both hands on her shoulders. “What are you going to do?”

“Whatever I have to. Mavis wouldn’t have done this.”

He turned her to face him. “You don’t have to tell me that. She needs you, Eve. She needs a friend, and she’s going to need a good cop.”

“I know.”

“It’s not going to be easy on you being both.”

“I’d better get started.” She walked back to where Mavis sat. Her face was like softened wax, the bruise and the scratches livid against the bone-white skin. Eve crouched down and took Mavis’s icy hands in hers. “I need you to tell me everything. Take your time, but tell it all.”

“She wasn’t moving. There was all the blood, and the way her face looked. And — and she wasn’t moving.”

“Mavis.” Eve gave the hands one quick, hard squeeze. “Look at me. Tell me exactly what happened from the time you got here.”

“I came… I wanted… I thought I should talk to Leonardo.” She shivered, plucked at the scrap of material covering her with hands still stained with blood. “He was upset when he went to the club the last time looking for me. He even threatened the bouncer, and that’s not like him. I didn’t want him to ruin his career, so I thought I could talk to him. I came, and someone had broken the security unit, so I just came on up. The door wasn’t locked. Sometimes he forgets,” she murmured and trailed off.