“Hmm?” She took the gauge. She heard it now, the muted voices traveling from below up the stairs and through the open door. “Okay. I’m almost done in here. An hour,” she said in disgust when she read the gauge. “We didn’t miss him by more than an hour.”
She climbed back out of the tub as Peabody strode into the room. ?
?Lieutenant.”
“Record on. See that he’s bagged and transport’s arranged, Peabody. Get some sweepers started in here. Did you bring EDD?”
“Feeney and McNab are right behind me.”
“When they get here, have them start on the security, then the ’links. For what it’s worth. Thank you, Sheriff.” She held out a hand for her recorder. “This is my aide, Officer Peabody. She’ll handle the scene, if you have no objection.”
“None at all.”
“I want to go through the house. Bayliss had files with him. I need to find them.”
“First-level office,” Roarke put in, bringing her eyes to his. “I can show you where it is.”
Something in his tone told her he didn’t want to show her with company. She blocked off the automatic annoyance that he’d gone through the house without her and turned to Reese. “I’d like you to check with your men doing the door-to-doors. Also, if you could contact your patrols, inquire as to whether anyone noticed a strange vehicle in this area tonight.”
“I’ll get right on it. Outside, if it’s all the same to you. I’d like some air.”
“Thanks.” She started out with Roarke, waited until the first wave of the crime scene unit passed them on the stairs. “What’s the idea of poking around the house on your own? We’re on official business. I can’t have civilians making themselves at home.”
“I was acting in my capacity as temporary aide,” he said smoothly. “All of the other doors and windows were secured, by the way. The alarm system’s one of mine, and top of its line. It wasn’t tampered with. Whoever bypassed it had a code. And I located the security control,” he continued. “Feeney’s going to find that system was also bypassed. There won’t be a recording of tonight’s activities, in or out of the house, after seven o’clock.”
“Busy boy.”
“Me or your killer?”
“Ha ha. He doesn’t panic, he doesn’t rush, he covers his tracks. And he does all that with rage working through him. Must be a damn good cop.”
She moved through the door Roarke indicated, into a large office space with views of the sea through the glass wall in the rear.
Here there were signs of hurry. Here there were things out of place. A glass turned over on the desk, its contents spilled out on the brushed chrome surface. A jumble of discs, a disordered pile of clothes heaped on the floor. She recognized the suit Bayliss had been wearing at the meeting.
“He took him out here, from the front,” she began. “Surprised him at work. Bayliss had fixed himself a drink.” She lifted the glass, sniffed. “Smells like scotch. Settled himself down to go through his files. He hears something, looks up, sees someone in the doorway. Jumps to his feet, spills his drink. Maybe he even has time to say a name, then he’s out.”
She walked around the room, around the desk. “The killer undresses him here. He’s already got the plan. He came in upstairs, checked the place out. Hell, maybe he’s been to parties here before and knew the setup. He went out, disarmed the security cam, took the discs that recorded him. Did he bring the packing tape with him?”
She began opening compartments, drawers. “No, look. Here’s a roll of the same stuff, unopened. He got what he needed right here in Bayliss’s office. He’ll dispose of the rest of the roll and what he used to cut the tape. We won’t find it.”
“Lieutenant,” Roarke said quietly. “Look at the discs.”
“I’m getting to them. Then he carried Bayliss upstairs. He’s strong. I didn’t notice any signs the victim was dragged, no bruising or scrapes on the heels. Laid him in the tub. Didn’t toss him in. No bruising again. Laid him out, strapped him down. Took his shoes off to do it, but not his clothes. No scuff marks in the tub, and too much water outside of it for him to have dried off.”
Yes, she could see it that way. Patience, while the rage ate inside you. Meticulous patience coated over murderous fury.
“Then he waited for Bayliss to come around. When he did, a little conversation. This is why you’re going to die. This is why you deserve to die. To suffer fear and humiliation. And he starts the water, a hot gush, and listens to Bayliss plead for his life. As the water rises, and the motor kicks in churning into a hot froth, he stays cold. Ice cold. That’s how it is when you stand over death. You stay cold so it can’t get inside you. He stands there, right over it, and watches it come.
“It doesn’t thrill him, doesn’t make him sad. It’s just a job that needs to be done, and done well. Done with purpose. When water fills Bayliss’s lungs, when he stops struggling and his eyes are fixed and staring, he takes the coins and throws them in the water, over the body. The Judas coins.
“Then he gets out of the tub, dripping, picks up his shoes, and leaves the way he came in. He leaves the door open because he doesn’t want the murder to go undiscovered for long. He wants it known. Announced. Discussed. The job isn’t done until the department knows another cop is dead.”
“I can’t re-create the way you can,” Roarke said. “It’s admirable.”
“It’s basic.”
“Not the way you do it,” he murmured. How many scenes such as she’d described had a place in her memory? How many victims lived there with how many killers?