Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(20)

“Right. Wait. It’s Sunday.”

“So what?”

“Rental company might be closed. I’ll check.”

“If it is, find the owner, the manager, whoever can get us the names of who worked this job.”

“On that.” But first, she got two evidence bags from the field kit in the trunk. Once the buns were all secure, Peabody started on her PPC.

“Open by appointment only on Sundays. I’ll dig up the manager.”

“Do that. So, morgue first.”

“Oh, joy. Got her.” Peabody settled in for the drive. “Want me to contact her—the manager?”

“Start there. Get the names.”

As Peabody went to work, Eve let her mind play with what she’d gathered.

Daphne liked. Strazza disliked. Daphne interacted—liked her hand in, had coffee with the caterer, briefly volunteered at the hospital. Strazza was cold, arrogant. So an older, wealthier husband, a demanding and domineering one.

If Jacko was right about the flash of fear, would they add abusive to that list?

She used her in-dash to do some digging of her own while Peabody talked with the rental manager.

No reports of domestic abuse, no nine-one-ones from Daphne or from the house itself. No visits to the ER or hospital.

“Five guys,” Peabody reported. “I’ve got names and contacts.”

“Run them.”

“Running them.”

Still, he was a doctor, Eve thought. He’d know how to hurt her without letting it show, if he was the physically abusive type. And where, if so, would that play in this?

A cold, abusive, jealous husband. A young, beautiful wife. Maybe a fling there, or someone who wanted a fling. Someone she’d discarded or rejected outright. A kind of payback.

If it turned out to be a single attack, maybe.

She went back to the dash ’link.

“We have the case files from Olsen and Tredway. And a request for a sit-down asap. We’ll work it in.”

“I’ll schedule it. Got one here with some bumps. Two assault charges, a couple drunk and disorderlies, an indecent exposure. Did three months on one assault, other one charges dropped. Community service and mandatory counseling on the D and Ds. Time served on the indecent exposure.”

“No B and Es, muggings, theft, sexual assaults?”

“Nope. Got another one with vandalism, but it’s small change. Got caught tagging a building when he was eighteen. Ten years ago. Nothing shaky since.”

“Let’s pull them all in, have a chat. I need to talk to Mira.”

“I sent her the details with a request she contact Nobel for a possible consult.” Peabody yawned hugely. “Man, sugar rush, now sugar crash.”

“Okay.” Eve scanned for a spot to park. “Contact the five guys from the rental place, set up interviews at Central. If any of them balk, we’ll send uniforms to convince them. That doesn’t do it, we go to them. And see what we’ve got from the other party guests.”

As they entered the white tunnel, Eve kept walking. “Find a place to work this out. I’ll take the body.”

The tunnel echoed, smelled of harsh lemon, maybe something like vinegar. But under it lingered the smear of death. Nothing much touched that.

Bodies in, bodies out, she thought. Bodies opened, bodies closed. And somewhere in that process, the bodies talked to the ME.

No one she knew understood the language of the dead as fluently as Morris.

She pushed through the swinging doors into his work area. He had music on low, something with a lot of bass and a charging drum beat. Over his snappy midnight-blue pin-striped suit he wore a clear protective coat. No tie today, she noted, but a turtleneck the same hue as the thin gray stripes. He’d twisted his long, dark hair into some sort of complicated knot where a single thin braid spilled from the center.

His exotic, clever eyes met Eve’s. “An early morning for you.”

“Actually we’ll call it a long night. Roarke and I ran into his wife”—she gestured to the body on the slab—“almost literally, about two this morning on the way home from a fancy deal.”

“I see. As she hasn’t joined him here, she survived.”

“In the hospital. Beaten, raped, naked when we spotted her wandering the streets. Memory’s spotty, so far,” Eve added.

Eve stepped closer. Morris had Strazza opened with his precise Y-cut. She didn’t flinch at such things. Couldn’t remember if she ever had.

“The way it looks,” she continued, “somebody accessed their house during a dinner party, laid in wait in the bedroom. Party’s over, they’re attacked. Husband is restrained, she’s restrained and raped, both are knocked around. A couple of safes in the house open and empty. A few other valuables appear to be missing.”

“A straight burglary doesn’t do this.”

“Nope. Could be that part of it is more of a bonus. We’ll see.”

“I can tell you the victim fought. He struggled enough to abrade his wrists and ankles. There are, as you see, numerous cuts—none life-threatening—inflicted with a thin, sharp blade. I’d vote for a scalpel.”

“Vic’s a doctor, a surgeon. That may play.”

“Most of the blows were to the face. Fists—gloved, likely smooth leather—and a sap of some sort. I’d say leather there as well. The body blows are well placed to inflict damage and pain. Kidneys, abdomen, kneecaps.”