Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

“Medical term.”

“Of course. He’d go down, certainly lose consciousness.”

“The assailant gave him two more whacks for good measure.”

“Not right away.”

Eve’s eyes sharpened. “How much of a gap?”

“I’m going to tell you the initial head wound bled for at least fifteen minutes. Fifteen to twenty. The blood had time to begin to coagulate. The killing blow—and either of these to the back of the head would have done it—was delivered after the heart continued to pump blood for a good fifteen minutes. And this one? The angle suggested the victim was moving, getting to his feet. The last, he was prone.”

“Okay. Okay.” Eve closed her eyes a moment, pulled off the goggles, paced. “Vic breaks loose enough to go after the assailant. Assailant grabs the vase, bashes him from the front. Vic’s down and out, but he doesn’t finish him. Maybe he’s getting his tools and loot, maybe he rapes the wife again, maybe he starts cleaning himself up. Vic starts to come out of it, tries to get up. Then he finishes him.”

She shook her head. “Stupid. If you’re going to kill the guy, do it and get it done. If you’re not especially interested in killing him, get your stuff and get the hell out. Wouldn’t take fifteen minutes, unless you’re stupid enough to have left everything scattered around in the first place.”

“People are often stupid,” Morris pointed out.

“They sure as hell are. Smart enough to get in there, slip right in the house during a dinner party for fifty with about a dozen staff. Unless he was a guest or staff. Vicious enough to beat and rape—made the wife strip, raped her in front of the husband—but not vicious enough to kill when the husband comes at him. Stupid or cocky enough to hang around for fifteen after—and he could have thought the guy was dead or dying—then finish him off. The way it looks, almost certainly took the time to cut the wife loose before he heads out.”

“He released the wife?”

“She’s got lacerations—she struggled against the restraints. Not as hard as the dead guy here, but she struggled. The shape she was in, I don’t see her getting loose on her own, and there was no rope or tape left behind. Killer bagged it up, took it with him. Had to.”

“Not only left her alive, but cut her loose. Can she identify him?”

“The devil, she says. She’s a mess, but I figure that’s how he looked. Mask or makeup. You go to that much trouble to disguise yourself, you probably don’t intend to kill the targets. But now he has.”

Eve studied Strazza again. “And they hardly ever stop at one.”

5

When she walked out, Eve saw Peabody walking toward her.

“I managed to contact all five of the delivery guys,” Peabody began. “One of them whined a little, but they’re all coming in. Two of them are roommates anyway.”

“Good, saves times and trouble.”

“I tagged Santiago and Carmichael for the party guests. So far, they’re all checking out—times they left, arrived home. Nobody noticed anyone out of place, or felt anything off.”

Peabody bundled back into her endless scarf as they swung into the car. “Olsen of Olsen and Tredway is on her way to Central now—just wants to talk it through. Tredway’s actually in Philadelphia for a family wedding weekend. He’ll be back tomorrow, and would come in today if you think it’s necessary.”

“It’s not. If we don’t beat Olsen to Central, I need ten to sort this out, take a quick look through the files. We’ll set her up in the lounge.”

She wanted to start her book, set up her board, but that could wait until they’d had their meeting with the detective. Still, she wanted another good look at the files on the other attacks.

“We take the delivery guys one at a time, in Interview. I want a consult with Mira first thing in the morning.”

“Already set. She’ll come to you.”

“Appreciate it.” Eve pulled into the garage at Central, zipped into her designated space. “Tag Nobel again, get an update on Daphne Strazza’s condition.”

Peabody made the tag as they rode the elevator. “Got v-mail, leaving a message.”

“Try the nurse in charge.” Still running it over in her head, Eve got off the elevator, strode into the bullpen, noted Baxter at his desk instead of being off-duty, and apparently entertaining a pale-skinned blonde in shiny knee-boots and a bold blue sweater over skinny black pants.

The woman turned, met Eve’s eyes. In them, Eve saw cop.

“Detective Olsen.”