Imitation in Death (In Death 17)

She’d completed the preliminary exam when Peabody came in. “Lieutenant, I’m sorry. We were in the Bronx.”

“What the hell were you . . .” She broke off. “What is that? What are you wearing?”

“It’s a, um, ah, it’s a sundress.” Flushing a little, Peabody brushed a hand over the poppy pink skirt. “It took us so long to get back, I thought I should come straight here instead of heading home to change into uniform.”

“Huh.” The dress also had skinny little shoulder straps and a very low bodice. It demonstrated what McNab was fond of saying: Peabody sure was built.

Peabody’s ruler-straight hair was covered by a wide-brimmed straw hat, and she was wearing lip dye that matched the sundress. “How are you supposed to work in that getup?”

“Well, I—”

“You said we? You brought McNab?”

“Yeah. Yes, sir. We were at the zoo. In the Bronx.”

“That’s something anyway. Tell him to go check the outside security, and the discs for the lobby level and elevators. This building should have them.”

“Yes, sir.”

She went out to relay the order as Eve walked into the adjoining bath.

He could’ve washed up after, she figured, but there was no sign of it. The bath was tidy, the towels looked fresh. Lois hadn’t liked fuss, Eve mused, or clutter.

Must have brought his own soap and towel, too, or took some away

with him.

“We’ll want the sweepers to check the drains. Might get lucky,” she said as Peabody came back in.

“I don’t get it. This isn’t like Wooton. Nothing like Wooton. Different type of victim, different method. There was another note?”

“Yeah. It’s sealed.”

Peabody studied the scene, tried to commit it to memory as the recorder did. She noticed, as Eve had, the little vase of flowers on the nightstand, the square catchall box on the dresser that said I LOVE GRANDMA in pink swirly letters on the top, and the framed photos and holos that stood on the dresser, the nightstand, the small desk by the window.

It was sad, she thought. It was always sad to see those bits and pieces of a life when the life was over.

But she tried to shake it off. Dallas would shake it off, she knew. Or bury it, or use it. But she wouldn’t let herself be distracted by the pity.

Peabody looked again, making the deliberate shift from woman to cop. “Do you think there’s more than one killer? A team?”

“No, there’s only one.” Eve lifted one of the victim’s hands. No polish, she noted. Short nails. No rings, but a faint pale circle where one had been, and habitually. Third finger, left hand. “He’s just showing us how versatile he is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I do. See if you can find where she kept her jewelry. I’m looking for a ring, band style.”

Peabody started on the dresser drawers. “Maybe you could explain what you understand, so I can.”

“Victim is an older woman. No sign of forced entry or struggle. She let him in because she thought he was okay. He was probably suited up as maintenance or repair. She turns her back, and he hits her over the head. She’s got a laceration on the back of the skull, and there’s some blood on the living room rug.”

“Was she an LC?”

“Doubtful.”

“Got her jewelry.” Peabody lifted out a clear-sided box with insets of varying sizes. “She liked earrings. Got a few rings, too.”

She brought the case over, holding it while Eve poked through. Exposure to Roarke, and his propensity for dumping glitters on her had taught her to spot the real stuff from the costume. Lois’s body adornments were mostly costume, but there were a few good pieces as well.