Stone pocketed the key, kissed her quickly, and left the apartment. It was a block and a half to the restaurant, and he had to wait a bit for the food. It came in a large paper bag, and he paid and left, walking quickly back to the apartment house. He let himself in, went to the elevator, and pressed the button. He looked up at the lights and saw that the elevator was on the top floor. Shortly, it began to move. Elevators in short buildings moved slowly, he reflected. It stopped on the sixth floor, then began moving down again, finally reaching the ground floor. Stone pressed PH and the car crept upward.
He let himself into the apartment. Music was playing, and a loud whistling noise emanated from the kitchen. The kettle was boiling. He set the food down on the dining table, shucked off his coat, and walked toward the whistling noise. The kitchen light was off, and the single living-room lamp didn’t offer much illumination. He groped for the light switch but couldn’t find it. Blindly, he groped his way toward the stove, aiming at the gas flame. Susan must be in the john, he thought. Now that he was closer, the kettle’s whistle had become a scream.
He took another step, and, suddenly, he was slipping, falling. He hit the floor with a thump, groaning, as his elbow took most of his weight. He put a hand on the floor to help himself up, but it was slippery, and he fell again. She had apparently spilled something on the floor. The kettle screamed on.
He grabbed hold of the kitchen counter, hoisted himself to his feet, and turned off the gas jet. Slowly, the scream died. He groped his way back toward the kitchen door, holding on to the counter, and felt again for the light switch. This time he found it and turned it on.
He looked at his hands, dumbfounded. They were covered in red paint. Slowly, still holding on to keep from slipping, he turned and looked back into the kitchen. The paint was everywhere, but it wasn’t paint.
Susan Bean lay on her back next to the wall, staring at the ceiling. Her throat gaped open. He made himself move toward her, knelt at her side, and felt her wrist for a pulse. Nothing. There was no point it trying CPR, he realized. Close up, he could see that she had been very nearly decapitated.
Stone got shakily to his feet, holding on to whatever he could for support. He made it to the kitchen phone, picked it up, and started to call Dino’s cell phone, then he stopped.
“No,” he said aloud. He dialed 911.
“What is your emergency?” a woman’s voice said.
“Is the tape rolling?” he asked.
“You’re being recorded, sir; what is your emergency?”
“My name is Stone Barrington; I’m a retired police officer. I’ve got a homicide in the top-floor apartment at…” He looked around for something, found a gas bill, and gave her the address. “White female, age thirty-two, name of Susan Bean. I need homicide detectives and the coroner.”
“I’ve got it, Mr. Barrington.”
“Oh…tell the squad car that the perpetrator is probably a lone male, on foot, and that he’s probably still in the neighborhood.”
“Got it. They’re on their way.”
Stone hung up and dialed Dino’s cell phone.
“Bacchetti,” Dino’s voice said. There was party noise in the background.
“It’s Stone; I’m sitting on a homicide about three blocks from the party.” He read the address off the gas bill again.
“Have you called nine-one-one?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“I think the perp was in the building when I got here, and I’ll bet he’s still in the neighborhood.”
“I’ll keep an eye out. Don’t start working the scene, Stone; let my people do that.”
“Right.”
“I’m on my way.”
Stone hung up, sat on a chair at the dining table, and tried not to think about what was in the next room. He was badly shaken. He’d seen a lot of dead bodies in his years as a homicide detective, but never one that had just kissed him.
3
T WO DETECTIVES ARRIVED FIRST. STONE let them in and pointed at the kitchen. “She’s in there,” he said, then sat down at the dining table again. They went into the kitchen, then came right out again. One was a big guy, six-three or -four; the other was much shorter, stocky, florid-faced.
“Stand up,” the shorter one said to Stone.
“What?”