Survivor In Death (In Death #20)(103)

“I'll go with you.”

“No. She's found because he wanted her found. Takes manpower away from the Swisher case. No big if we make that connect, because it doesn't connect him with Moss and Duberry or Brenegan. So he thinks. I need you here doing that thing you do. I'll take Trueheart. It's good training for him. I'd rather have Baxter here on the kid.”

“He knows they'll pull you in on this. Primary on Swisher, she's the caseworker on Nixie. He could be waiting for you.”

She walked to the closet, pulled out a vest. She stripped off her shirt, put it on. “I hope so. I won't be going in blind,” she added as she tugged the shirt back in place.

She moved to her desk, took out her clutch piece and strapped on her ankle holster. “I know he's hoping to get a shot at me.”

“Then make sure he doesn't get one.” He walked over, buttoned her shirt himself. “And make sure you come home.”

“I'll be back.” She hitched on her weapon harness, motioned toward her desk. “Your bad luck. You're stuck with the dishes.”

You've got good eyes,” Eve said to Trueheart. “Use them. Suspects may be observing the scene. They may be mixed with the lookieloos, or based farther away using long-range. You spot anything that gives you a tingle, I hear about it.”

She stepped out of her vehicle, looked at him over the roof. “At this point, Baxter would add, 'Especially if the tingle comes from seeing a hot skirt loitering in the vicinity who looks like she'd put out for a couple of overworked cops.”

She waited a beat while Trueheart's face reddened.

“I, however, am not interested in that kind of tingle.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

She saw the scene was secured with police barricades. And that, as expected, the usual gang of gawkers had gathered. It was the sort of area, she thought as she scanned street, sidewalk, windows, roofs, where a good percentage of the gawkers would be pickpockets, and another good percentage would go home with those pockets handily emptied.

Their problem.

She hooked her badge to her waistband, headed in.

“Suit's here,” one of the uniforms called out, and she stopped in her tracks.

She turned, very slowly, caught him in the crosshairs of her cold gaze. “Don't ever call me a suit.”

She left him, withered, and moved toward the crumpled body of Meredith Newman. “First on scene?” she asked the uniform standing by.

“Yes, sir. My partner and I responded to a call from this location, reporting a body in the alley between the buildings. One of the owners of the restaurant stepped out in the alley on her break, and observed what appeared to be a body. Upon responding, we--”

“I got it. Have you secured the witness?”

“Yes, sir, along with other kitchen staff who also entered the scene in response to the first witness's screams.”

Eve puffed out her cheeks as she looked around the alley. “How many people have tromped around on my scene?”

“At least six, Lieutenant. I'm sorry, they'd already come out, looked around--and moved the body--by the time we arrived. We moved the civilians back into the restaurant and secured the scene.”

“All right.” She did another study of the alley. Short and narrow, dead-ending into the graffiti-laced wall of another. Confidence, arrogance again, she decided. They could have dumped her anywhere, or simply destroyed the body.

Still, there was no security here. No cams on any of the exit doors. Pull in, dump, pull out. And wait for somebody to trip over what's left of her.

“Seal up, Trueheart,” she ordered, and continued to examine the body as she drew out her own can of Seal-It. “Record on. What do you see?”

“Female, early thirties, clothes removed.”

“You can say naked, Trueheart. You're of age.”

“Yes, sir. Ligature marks, wrists, ankles. What appear to be burn marks on shoulders, torso, arms, legs, indicate torture. The throat's been deeply cut. There's no blood. She wasn't cut here, but killed elsewhere and put here.”

Eve crouched, turned one of the dead hands at the wrist. “She's cold. Like meat you put in a friggie to keep it fresh. They had her stowed. She's been dead since the day they grabbed her.”

But she got out her gauge to estimate the time of death and confirmed. “Burn marks on her back and bu**ocks as well. Bruising might be from the grab. Abrasions are consistent with the body hitting the pavement, rolling. Way postmortem.”

She fit on her goggles, examined the area around the mouth and eyes. “It looks like they taped her up. Skin's reddened here, shows a pattern that would match tape, but there's no residue.”

She sat back on her heels.

“What else do you see, Trueheart?”

“The location--”

“No, the body. Focus on her. She's been dead for days now. There's evidence of considerable torture. She had her throat cut, and going with previous pattern, she was alive when the knife went in. What do you see ?”

Concentration settled over his face. Then he shook his head. “I'm sorry, sir.”

“She's clean, Trueheart. What do you do when somebody inflicts burns on your body strong enough to singe flesh? You don't just scream your lungs out and beg for mercy. You piss yourself, you soil yourself, you puke. Your body erupts, and it voids. But she's clean. Somebody washed her down, even to removing the residue from whatever they used to blindfold and gag her. We won't find any trace on her.”