Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

Even as she cleared her weapon, Roarke did the same with his own. “Lights, on full!” she ordered. “You, stay back,” she snapped at Crabtree. “Stay back.”

She swung left first, then straight ahead. And she could see the death on the bed behind the colorful beaded curtain. “Clear it,” she ordered, moving fast through a space small enough to see almost every corner.

And behind her Crabtree let out a choked scream.

“I need you to stay back. I need you to go inside your apartment.”

“But—but—”

“Roarke.”

“Ms. Crabtree, you need to come with me now.”

She was weeping as he drew her out, and leaning against him when he closed the door behind them.

Eve holstered her weapon, moved to the curtain.

More than rage here. This was payback, too, and he had taken some time with it. Rage, revenge, a need to humiliate, to engender fear.

No, not in a vacuum, she thought. Not an LC or a pickup at a bar. He’d found just who he’d wanted to brag to, show off to.

“Victim is Caucasian female, early twenties, reddish hair, blue eyes. She’s been bound, ankles and wrists with cord, more cord wound around her torso. She’s gagged with tape. Her clothes have been removed except for shoes. They’re new—soles are unscuffed. Facial bruises, cuts indicate blows, more bruising on the abdomen, along ribs most likely from more blows. Blood around the cord evidence of struggle. Her hair’s been chopped off. A lot of hair scattered on the bed, the floor. Cord around vic’s neck evidence of strangulation. He tied it in a nice fucking bow.”

She recorded the room, the ruined clothes, waiting, knowing Roarke would bring her field kit. And waiting, contacted Peabody.

“He got to her.”

“What? Shit? What?”

“I’m standing in Nuccio’s apartment looking at her body. Get here, and call it in.”

“On my way. Damn it, Dallas.”

“Yeah.”

Clicking off, she stepped back, studied the apartment. She saw the debris of food, containers, bottles on a tiny table, more littering the kitchen counter.

No comp again, she noted. Easiest thing in the world to liquidate.

She walked back to the door, studied the locks. No sign of forced entry, as Roarke never left any. And no sign of any recent lock change she could see. They’d check on that.

Did he give back his keys? What kind of idiot didn’t demand the return of keys at a breakup. But he might’ve copied them. Had she been so trusting or naive she hadn’t considered that?

Maybe. Maybe.

Roarke came back in, handed her the field kit.

“I don’t think she let him in. I don’t see her doing that. And if he came banging on the door, or trying to wheedle his way in, Crabtree would have heard it.”

“I’ll see if the locks have been compromised.”

“Probably not. I don’t think he’s got those skills. But he could’ve had copies of her keys. He copied them when things got iffy between them—just a backup. He came in when she was out, nice and quiet. Maybe even—probably—when the neighbor was out. Maybe watched the building awhile. But he came in, and he waited for her. He had what he wanted to use. The cord, the tape. Not impulse or crazy rage, not on this.”

She opened the kit, took out the Seal-It.

“You couldn’t have stopped it.”

“You can always stop it. Go left instead of right, forward instead of back, move ten minutes sooner or later. I didn’t stop him. And I didn’t see this in him. Not this calculation, not this need. He made her suffer.”