Neat as a virgin, Eve mused, and cold as a whore. “No surprise, given her choice of real estate.”
“Politics makes it delicate. Victim was twenty-four, Caucasian female. She bought it in bed.”
Eve only lifted a brow. “Seems poetic, since she’d been bought there. How’d she die?”
“That’s the next problem. I want you to see for yourself.”
As they crossed the room, each took out a slim container, sprayed their hands front and back to seal in oils and fingerprints. At the doorway, Eve sprayed the bottom of her boots to slicken them so that she would pick up no fibers, stray hairs, or skin.
Eve was already wary. Under normal circumstances there would have been two other investigators on a homicide scene, with recorders for sound and pictures. Forensics would have been waiting with their usual snarly impatience to sweep the scene.
The fact that only Feeney had been assigned with her meant that there were a lot of eggshells to be walked over.
“Security cameras in the lobby, elevator, and hallways,” Eve commented.
“I’ve already tagged the discs.” Feeney opened the bedroom door and let her enter first.
It wasn’t pretty. Death rarely was a peaceful, religious experience to Eve’s mind. It was the nasty end, indifferent to saint and sinner. But this was shocking, like a stage deliberately set to offend.
The bed was huge, slicked with what appeared to be genuine satin sheets the color of ripe peaches. Small, soft focused spotlights were trained on its center where the naked woman was cupped in the gentle dip of the floating mattress.
The mattress moved with obscenely graceful undulations to the rhythm of programmed music slipping through the headboard.
She was beautiful still, a cameo face with a tumbling waterfall of flaming red hair, emerald eyes that stared glassily at the mirrored ceiling, long, milk white limbs that called to mind visions of Swan Lake as the motion of the bed gently rocked them.
They weren’t artistically arranged now, but spread lewdly so that the dead woman formed a final X dead center of the bed.
There was a hole in her forehead, one in her chest, another horribly gaping between the open thighs. Blood had splattered on the glossy sheets, pooled, dripped, and stained.
There were splashes of it on the lacquered walls, like lethal paintings scrawled by an evil child.
So much blood was a rare thing, and she had seen much too much of it the night before to take the scene as calmly as she would have preferred.
She had to swallow once, hard, and force herself to block out the image of a small child.
“You got the scene on record?”
“Yep.”
“Then turn that damn thing off.” She let out a breath after Feeney located the controls that silenced the music. The bed flowed to stillness. “The wounds,” Eve murmured, stepping closer to examine them. “Too neat for a knife. Too messy for a laser.” A flash came to her—old training films, old videos, old viciousness.
“Christ, Feeney, these look like bullet wounds.”
Feeney reached into his pocket and drew out a sealed bag. “Whoever did it left a souvenir.” He passed the bag to Eve. “An antique like this has to go for eight, ten thousand for a legal collection, twice that on the black market.”
Fascinated, Eve turned the sealed revolver over in her hand. “It’s heavy,” she said half to herself. “Bulky.”
“Thirty-eight caliber,” he told her. “First one I’ve seen outside of a museum. This one’s a Smith & Wesson, Model Ten, blue steel.” He looked at it with some affection. “Real classic piece, used to be standard police issue up until the latter part of the twentieth. They stopped making them in about twenty-two, twenty-three, when the gun ban was passed.”
“You’re the history buff.” Which explained why he was with her. “Looks new.” She sniffed through the bag, caught the scent of oil and burning. “Somebody took good care of this. Steel fired into flesh,” she mused as she passed the bag back to Feeney. “Ugly way to die, and the first I’ve seen it in my ten years with the department.”
“Second for me. About fifteen years ago, Lower East Side, party got out of hand. Guy shot five people with a twenty-two before he realized it wasn’t a toy. Hell of a mess.”
“Fun and games,” Eve murmured. “We’ll scan the collectors, see how many we can locate who own one like this. Somebody might have reported a robbery.”
“Might have.”
“It’s more likely it came through the black market.” Eve glanced back at the body. “If she’s been in the business for a few years, she’d have discs, records of her clients, her trick books.” She frowned. “With Code Five, I’ll have to do the door-to-door myself. Not a simple sex crime,” she said with a sigh. “Whoever did it set it up. The antique weapon, the wounds themselves, almost ruler straight down the body, the lights, the pose. Who called it in, Feeney?”