Visions in Death (In Death #19)(3)

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She had to ditch the shoes or risk breaking her neck. Using the can of Seal-It from the field kit Peabody handed her, she coated her hands, her bare feet. Even so, it wasn't an easy climb down in the party dress, and she imagined she looked completely ridiculous, completely uncoplike sparkling her way over rocks toward a body.

She heard something rip, and ignored it.

"Oh, man." Peabody winced. "You're going to ruin that dress, and it's totally iced."

"I'd give a month's pay for a goddamn pair of jeans and a normal shirt. A pair of f**king boots." Then she put it out of her mind, set her feet solidly, and turned to the body.

"Didn't rape her down here. There's going to be a secondary scene. Even a lunatic doesn't rape a woman on a heap of rocks when there's all this grass. Raped her somewhere else. Killed or incapacitated her somewhere else. Had to carry her down here. Had to have some muscle and bulk to manage that—unless there was more than one of them. She's what, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds anyway. Dead weight."

More to protect the scene than the dress, Eve hitched the skirt up. "Let's get an ID on her, Peabody. Find out who she is."

While Peabody used the Identi -pad, Eve studied the position of the body. "Posed her. Praying? Begging? Resting in peace? What's your message?"

She crouched to examine the body. "Visual evidence of physical and sexual assault. Facial bruises, torso, forearms—those look defensive. She's got some matter under her nails. Tried to fight, scratched at him. It's not skin. Looks like fibers."

"Her name's Elisa Maplewood," Peabody said. "Central Park West address."

"Not so far from home," Eve stated. "She doesn't look uptown. No pedicure. Hands aren't smooth and pampered. Got calluses."

"Lists employment as a domestic."

"Yeah, that's more like it."

"She's thirty-two. Divorced. Dallas, she's got a four-year-old kid. A daughter."

"Oh, hell." Eve drew it in, then set it aside. "Bruises on her thighs and the vaginal area. Red corded ribbon around her throat."

It was dug into her skin so the bruised flesh puffed around it, then the tails draped down to her br**sts.

"Time of death, Peabody?"

"Getting it." Peabody drew back the gauge, studied the readout. "Twenty-two twenty."

"About three hours ago. And the kids found her?"

"Just after midnight. First on scene responded, dealt with the kids, took a visual from above, and called it in at quarter to one."

"Okay." Steeling herself, she took the microgoggles, slipped them on, then bent over the ruined face. "Took his time here. Didn't hack at her. Neat, precise cuts. Almost surgical, like he was doing a f**king transplant. So the eyes were what he was after. They were the prize. The beating, the rape, those were just the prelude."

She eased back and took off the goggles. "Let's turn her, check the back."

There was nothing but the darkened flesh from the settling of blood, and what Eve identified as grass stains on the bu**ocks and down the thighs.

"Came at her from behind, that's what he did. But it didn't matter to him if she saw him. Knocked her down—sidewalk or pavement. No, gravelly path. See the scrapes on her elbows? Smacks her around. She tries to fight him off, tries to scream. Maybe she does scream, but he's hauling her away, somewhere he can have his fun without anyone trying to interfere. Drags her, across the grass. Beats her into submission, rapes her. Ties the cord around her neck, kills her. When that part of the job's over, it's time for the real business."

Eve replaced the goggles. "Strip off what's left of her clothes, take her shoes, anything else she was wearing. Jewelry, anything that individualizes her. Carry her down here. Pose her. Take the eyes—carefully. Check the pose, make any necessary adjustments. Wash off all that blood in the lake if you want. Clean up, take your prize, and be on your way."

"Ritual killing?"

"His ritual anyway. They can bag her," Eve said as she straightened. "Let's see if we can find the kill site."

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Roark watched her slide her feet back into the shoes. She'd have been better off barefoot, he mused, but that wasn't an option the lieutenant would consider.

Despite the heels, the glamorous dress—worse for wear now—the glitter of diamonds, she was every inch the cop. Tall, lean, steady as the rocks she'd just climbed on to view some new horror. You wouldn't see the horror in her eyes, those long, golden-brown eyes. She looked pale in the harsh lights, and the glare of them only accentuated her sharp features. Her hair, nearly the same color as those eyes, was short, choppy, and mussed now from the breeze off the water.

He watched her stop, hold a brief conversation with a uniform. Her voice would be flat, he knew, and brisk, and reveal nothing of what she felt.

He saw her gesture, and saw the stalwart and more comfortably dressed Peabody nod. Then Eve was peeling off from the group of cops, and heading back to him.