“If you want to talk about it, you know I’m here.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Eve came out of the kitchen and headed straight for the door. “Let’s move, Peabody. Get me a name, Charles, soon as you can.”
“Dallas?” With a quick, apologetic glance at Charles, Peabody ran to catch up. “What is it?”
“We’ve got another one.”
Chapter 6
He’d left her on the bed, her legs obscenely spread, her eyes gaping. Some of the pink petals stuck to her skin. Candlewax had spilled and hardened into cold pools over the holders onto the table, the little dresser, the floor, and the cheap, colorful rug.
It was a tiny efficiency apartment that the young woman named Grace Lutz had tried to make cheerful and cozy with frilled curtains and inexpensive prints in inexpensive frames.
Now it stank of death, stale sex, and scented candles.
There was a wine bottle, this time a cabernet. And this time nearly empty. The music came from a cheap audio unit beside the convertible sofa that served as a bed.
There was no mood screen, no video screen, and only a single ’link. But there were books, carefully tended and set proudly on the painted shelf along one wall. There were photographs of Grace with a man and woman Eve took t
o be her parents. There was a small glass vase filled with spring daisies that were shedding their petals on the dresser top.
The kitchen was no more than a corner with a two-burner stove, a stingy sink, and a minifridge. Inside the fridge were a carton of egg substitute, a quart of milk, and a small jar of strawberry jam.
There were no bottles of wine but the one that had killed her.
Grace hadn’t spent money on things, Eve mused. Nor on fashion if the contents of her closet were any indication. But, though she’d worked in a library, she’d spent it on books.
And on what looked to be a new dress, now carelessly heaped on the floor.
“He knew what he was doing this time. There’s no panic here. What there is, is deliberation.”
“Physically they’re very different types,” Peabody pointed out. “This girl’s white bread, sort of tiny. Nails are short and neat and unpolished. Nothing slick or flashy about her.”
“Yeah, economically they’re from different brackets. Socially, too. This one was a stay-at-home.” She looked at the dried blood on the sheets, the smears of it on the victim’s inner thighs. “The ME’s going to confirm she was a virgin.” She bent down. “She’s got bruising, thighs, hips, breasts. He was rough with this one. Check the security, Peabody, see what we’ve got to work with.”
“Yes, sir.”
Why did he hurt you? Eve wondered as she studied the body. Why did he want to?
Crouched there beside the dead, she saw herself huddled in the corner. Broken, bruised, bloody.
Because I can.
She shoved the image away as she got to her feet. Pain could be sexual, it could be a kind of seduction. But it wasn’t romantic. Yet he’d still set the stage with rose petals and candlelight, with wine and music.
Why did this stage seem to be a mockery of romance rather than a clichéd attempt at it? Too much wine had been drunk, and some of it spilled on the table and rug. The candles had been allowed to spread into messy drips and pools. The sleeve of her new dress had been torn.
There was a violence here, an underlying meanness that had been absent from the first murder. Was he losing control? Had he found the killing more exciting than the sex?
Peabody came back in. “Security at the front entrance only. I’ve got the disc from last night. No cams in corridors or elevators.”
“Okay. Let’s talk to the neighbor.”
Notifying next of kin never got easier. It never became routine. Eve stood with Peabody on the small square stoop outside the small square duplex. There were red and white geraniums arranged in a cheerful chorus line on either side of the entrance and a frill of white curtains framing the front window.
Behind them, the neighborhood was quiet as a church with its green-leafed trees and little gardens and narrow, tidy streets.