Taken in Death (In Death #37.5)(2)

At time stamp twenty-three fifty-four, she saw the late-model, black, four-door sedan slide to the curb.

“Freeze image, enhance. Run that plate,” she snapped to the uniform. “Continue, standard speed.”

She watched the woman—tall, curvy, blonde, late thirties, long black coat, high boots—get out of the car, cross the sidewalk to the entrance door.

She flicked a glance up, toward the camera, smiled—slyly. And rang the bell.

“Lieutenant—”

Eve held up a finger to silence the uniform, watched the woman speak. A lip reader might get the words, even though the woman turned her face. Then she smiled again, stepped forward out of range.

“Scanning speed.”

In her mind, Eve saw what happened inside, away from the camera. A strike out with the knife, catching the throat. A step or stumble back, a hand thrown up. Another strike with the knife, cutting the hand, the arm, the shoulder, driving the victim back. Two hacks into the chest, and the coup de grace, the second, killing slice of the throat.

And using the tip of the knife, after death, to mark the dead.

She slowed the run again when the woman—red coat now, a large travel tote over each arm—led two absurdly pretty redheaded kids with glazed eyes out of the house.

They went without protest, swaying toward each other like miniature drunks, and climbed in the backseat. After stowing the totes in the trunk, the woman slid behind the wheel.

Eve clearly saw the woman throw back her head and laugh before she pulled away.

“Vehicle data, Officer.”

“Yes, sir, that’s the thing. The car is registered to Ross and Tosha MacDermit. And that woman, sir? That’s Tosha MacDermit.” She held out his PPC, showing Eve the woman’s photo and ID data.

“I recognized her from when we accessed the data to try to contact. That’s the vic’s employer, Lieutenant. That’s the mother.”

“Why didn’t she let herself in? Why kill the nanny instead of telling her to get out? Does the wit know where she and the husband are?”

“Not exactly. A second honeymoon deal. An island, maybe South Seas. She wasn’t sure. She was pretty hysterical.”

Employers, Eve thought, and brought up the data on her own PPC, began to scan.

The wife was employed by the UN as an interpreter, held dual citizenship, and that would require some untangling of red tape. Husband, a self-employed artist.

“Start a canvass, Officer. Knock on doors. Find out where the MacDermits are supposed to be, when they left, when they’re due back. Find out if anyone saw her come home last night. If they keep their car on the street or in a garage. Get some answers.”

“No sign of the kids,” Peabody said as she started downstairs. “No sign of burglary—a lot of visible valuables up there. I found this.” She held up a long black coat. “In the master closet. It looks like bloodstains. Smells like blood.”

“It would. The killer wore it while stabbing the nanny. Left that behind, traded coats. Bag and tag. The security disc shows the mother arriving about six minutes before TOD, ringing the bell.”

Peabody, bending over to pull an evidence bag from her kit, jerked back up. “The mother, but—”

Eve gestured to the screen, backtracked, zoomed in on Tosha MacDermit’s face.

“That’s the mother. And here . . .” Zipping forward, she ran the section showing her leading the two children out.

“Why kill the nanny?” Peabody wondered. “An affair with the husband?”

“An always popular theme.” Thumbs tucked in her belt loops, Eve took another hard scan of the room, the blood patterns, the body. “She may have done him, too, elsewhere. Kill the cheaters, take the kids, and leave. But she doesn’t take any valuables?”

“Done with them,” Peabody suggested, “done with the cheaters? She could hit, or have already hit their financials. At least it’s really unlikely the kids are in any danger. She’s their mother.”

“Look at them.” Eve zoomed in again on each pretty face. “That’s not just getting-woken-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night groggy. Look at the pupils, at the way they walk.”

“Drugged?”

“They had to walk out the front door, which means walking right by the nanny’s dead and bloody body. I’d think that might cause a little bit of upset. Instead, they look . . . slack, empty.”

“Maybe she gave them something so they wouldn’t get upset, give her any trouble—maybe not even really understand the body and blood.”

“Maybe. She’s an interpreter for the UN. We need to start pushing there. He’s a freelance artist.”

“Sculptor primarily, if the third-floor studio’s any indication. A good one, too. Fairy-tale stuff with an edge.”

“We need to find out where they went, where they are, and if the husband’s still alive. Let’s take the wit outside. Grab the disc, log and seal.”

She stepped outside into the stiff breeze that tugged at her coat. It skimmed back through her hair and chilled her hands. She never remembered gloves until it was too late.

Bystanders gathered just outside the sidewalk barricades. She scanned them with eyes the color of good Irish whiskey, and cop flat. And spotted the witness in the back of a black-and-white.

“If she’s hysterical,” she told her partner, “you take the lead.”