Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

“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 buttocks 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.”

She bent close, sniffed the skin. “Smells like hospital. Antiseptic. Maybe the lab boys can give us more there. For what it’s worth. She bit right through her own lip,” Eve observed, then pushed to her feet.

She put her hands on her hips, studied the alley. The usual overworked recyclers, but it was clean, too, as alleys went. Some graffiti—sort of artsy—but none of the nasty debris left behind by sidewalk sleepers or junkies, even the street LCs and their clients.

She turned to the first on-scene. “What do you know about this place—this restaurant here, this business next door.”

“Actually, it’s a Free-Ager center—classes, crafts, like that. And the restaurant’s run by the group. Grow a lot of the stuff in Greenpeace Park, bring it in from some of their communes. Run a clean place, even if it is mostly health food.”

“Run a clean alleyway, too.”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. We don’t get many calls here.”

“The woman who found her, what’s her name?”

He had to consult his book. “Leah Rames.”

“Trueheart, stay here, sweepers should be on-scene momentarily.”

Eve walked into the storeroom, took a quick glance at the tidy shelves of supplies, and moved into the kitchen beyond.

Tidy was the watchword here, as well. Something was steaming on the stove, but that stove was huge and scrubbed to a gleam. Counters were simple white, covered with signs of meal prep in progress. Who knew it took so much stuff to make food? There were friggies and cold boxes, some kind of gargantuan oven, and not a civilized AutoChef in sight.

Several people, all wearing long white aprons, were seated on stools around an island counter. Some of them were chopping at things with wicked-looking knives. Others just sat. And all looked at her when she entered.

“Leah Rames?”

A woman, mid-forties, lean, long sandy hair thickly braided, lifted a hand like a schoolgirl. Her face was milk-white.

“I’m Leah. Do you know what happened to that poor woman?”

The gash in the throat should’ve been a clue, but something about the earnest question and the earnest setup of the kitchen sucked up Eve’s sarcasm.

“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with Homicide. I’m the primary on this matter.”