“Dispatch. Voice print verified. Probable homicide, female. Report Five thirty-two Central Park South, rear of building. Code yellow.”
“Acknowledged.” Eve ended the transmission and, still trembling from the aftershocks of the dream, crawled out of bed.
It took her twenty minutes. She’d needed the comfort of a hot shower, even if it had only been for thirty seconds.
It was a trendy neighborhood, peopled by residents who patronized fashionable shops and private clubs, and who aspired to move just another notch up the social and ecomonic ladder.
The streets were quiet here, though it wasn’t quite out of the realm of public taxis and into private transpo-cars. Upper middle class all the way, she mused as she made her way around to the back of a sleek steel building with its pleasant view of the park.
Then again, murder happened everywhere.
It had certainly happened here.
The rear of the building couldn’t boast a view of the park, but the developers had made up for it with a nice plot of green. Beyond the trim trees was a security wall that separated one building from the next.
On the narrow stone path through a border of gold petunias, the body sprawled, facedown.
Female, Eve noted, flashing her badge at the waiting uniforms. Dark hair, dark skin, well dressed. She studied the stylish red-and-white-striped heel that lay point up on the path.
Death had knocked her out of her shoes.
“Pictures?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. ME on the way.”
“Who reported it?”
“Neighbor. Came out to let his dog use the facilities. We’ve got him inside.”
“Do we have a name on her?”
“Yvonne Metcalf, Lieutenant. She lives in eleven twenty-six.”
“Actress,” Eve murmured as the name struck a cord. “Up and coming.”
“Yes, sir.” One of the uniforms looked down at the body. “She won an Emmy last year. Been doing the talk show rounds. She’s pretty famous.”
“Now she’s pretty dead. Keep the camera running. I need to turn her over.”
Even before she used the protective spray to seal her hands, before she crouched down to turn the body, Eve knew. Blood was everywhere. Someone hissed sharply as the body rolled faceup, but it wasn’t Eve. She’d been braced for it.
The throat was cut, and the cut was deep. Yvonne’s lovely green eyes stared up at Eve: two blank questions.
“What the hell did you have to do with Cicely Towers?” she murmured. “Same MO: one wound to the throat, severed jugular. No robbery, no signs of sexual assault or struggle.” Gently, Eve lifted one of Yvonne’s limp hands, shone her light at the nails, under them. They were painted a sparkling scarlet with tiny white stripes. And they were perfect. No chips, no snags, no scrapes of flesh or stains of blood under them.
“All dressed up and no place to go,” Eve commented, studying the victim’s flashy red-and-white-striped bodysuit. “Let’s find out where she’d been or where she was going,” Eve began. Her head came around as she heard the sound of approaching feet.
But it wasn’t the medical examiner and his team, nor was it the sweepers. It was, she saw with disgust, C. J. Morse and a crew from Channel 75.
“Get that camera out of here.” Temper vibrating, she sprang to her feet, instinctively shielding the body. “This is a crime scene.”
“You haven’t posted it,” Morse said, smiling sweetly. “Until you do, it’s public access. Sherry, get a shot of that shoe.”
> “Post the goddamn scene,” Eve ordered a uniform. “Confiscate that camera, the recorders.”
“You can’t confiscate media equipment until the scene’s posted,” C. J. reminded her, as he tried to rubberneck around her to get a good look. “Sherry, get me a nice pan, then focus on the lieutenant’s pretty face.”
“I’m going to kick your ass, Morse.”