Obsession in Death (In Death #40)(62)

“This is a night he works late in the studio,” Peabody offered. “He gave me that. Every week, he works the same two nights alone, and tonight’s strictly for the imaging – his sideline.

“But for the last couple weeks, Matilda’s been sneaking in the side door, coming up. Two or three, sometimes four nights a week if they can manage it. Maybe she does a little work upstairs, while he works in the studio. Or she’ll have brought in some carryout, and she’ll put a meal together.”

“That’s what she was doing tonight,” Eve replied. “Setting up a sexy little dinner for two. Heard all this noise. Hastings shouting, then a loud thump, which would’ve been him hitting the floor. Down she comes, carrying the bottle of wine, sees him here.”

Eve crouched by the small smear of blood. “Smacked his head good,” she commented. “Matilda sees him, sees the UNSUB.”

Eve looked over at the door. “UNSUB sees her. Both fire – the stun stream goes wide, the bottle hits the wall, explodes. You’ve got to admire her instincts, her aim. I bet the brown coat has some pinot noir stains on it. And the UNSUB’s aim? Not so good. Has to be in close to do the job. No real skills there, or whatever skills crumbled in pure panic. Coward.”

Because it was routine, Eve put a marker by the bloodstain. “You’re going to need to take a sample,” she called to the sweepers. “We need to verify it’s the wit’s blood.”

Eve circled one last time. “Figured Hastings was sewn up. Creature of habit, and one who didn’t have any personal ties, didn’t like people as a species. Then along comes Matilda.”

She studied the stained wall again, then the clean one across from her.

A good spot for the message, she thought. A good, clean, wide space. And it would be here – you’d have done it here. Where he worked was more important to him than where he lived.

What would you have written this time? Eve wondered.

She turned to Peabody. “His exterior security cams are crap, and most of them don’t work, but we’ve got good interior cams in the retail space, and a couple on the office level. So let’s get those, see if there’s anything to see. I want uniforms canvassing again in the morning, with the sketches we have. Then you take a pass with both wits tomorrow. They’ll be calmer then, and a second interview with you might shake out another detail.”

Eve glanced around again. A couple of sweepers on what would be grunt duty, and no morgue team. All in all, it had to be considered a good night.

“Until then,” she said, “we’re done here.”

In the car, Eve went over her notes, highlighted some, circled some.

“It’s a woman,” she said.

Roarke glanced at her. “Matilda seemed fairly certain it was a man.”

“She was ten feet away. The first thing she really saw was Hastings, on the floor – that’s what impacted the most. She saw the person – the bulk, the brown, the box – and the big guy she’s sleeping with – big, wild-tempered guy out cold – or dead, for all she knew for sure. So she’d see male. It doesn’t occur that a woman’s going to break in, or get in and take down Hastings. Women, most, are more afraid of men than other women.”

“And you think a man would’ve gone after Matilda?”

“Not necessarily. Gender doesn’t determine cowardice, and this one’s a coward. But Hastings was close, in close – face-to-face – and he sees female. Not a lot of face showing, but he senses female. Her skin – he said she had really nice skin.”

Eve paused a moment, thoughtful as she studied Roarke. “You’ve got really nice skin, but… it doesn’t read female.”

“Thanks for that.”

“He could be wrong – he was raging, and a stun hit rattles the brain. But I’m inclined to go with his instincts. And there’s no sexual component here. Friends, partners, my backup, so to speak. No sexual edge to any of it. So a female, a straight female, makes sense.”

“Or a gay man with good skin.”

“Shit. Yeah, yeah, that’s a factor.” Eve rubbed at her temple, annoyed she hadn’t thought of it yet. “But… such care to conceal body type as well as the face? Maybe it’s a leap, but I’m going to try this eliminating straight men, and anyone younger than thirty, older than forty. I’ll pass anyone outside those parameters on to somebody, narrow it down.”

“It’s not just Hastings’s instincts you’re going with.”

“No. She’s strong, she’s capable, she’s smart. She’s in law enforcement, in the periphery, or she’s studied it like a religion. She lives alone. She has a responsible job – she is responsible. Does what’s expected of her, doesn’t draw attention. She blends. She won’t have close friends. No children, no particular lover.”

“She won’t go back for Hastings,” Roarke said. “Not now.”

“No, not now. But she’s patient. She can wait. Once she gets over this failure, this scare, she’ll regroup. She’ll need to set Hastings aside for now. But in a couple months, three or four maybe, tops, people get comfortable again, fall back into routine again. She just has to wait for that.”

Roarke parked in front of the house, turned to her. “You got physical with Hastings – when you met – because he was about to get physical with you. Who knows that?”