Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

Frowning, Eve picked up the white dress from the floor, studied the lacy underwear.

No, no, he didn’t rip or cut this off her. Made her strip, made her strip down. Made the husband watch. Wants that power, wants the husband to be helpless, enraged.

She looked over as Roarke came back. “Does he get the codes for the safes first—get that out of the way? I won’t hurt her/you. I just want what you’ve got. She didn’t have the codes.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“The safes are both in his areas, not hers. She’s the trophy—and, however he felt about her, he was in charge. Nothing around here feels like her. He’s got the entire third-floor domain. She doesn’t even have a sitting room deal, an office. His house, his money—that’s impression, speculation. The perp knocked her around pretty good, but he knocked Strazza around more. I’m talking before the kill. He didn’t have to. Give me the codes or I’ll cut up her pretty face—or I’ll mess you up.”

Messed him up anyway, Eve thought as she looked down at the body.

“Most people finding themselves in that situation give the codes. They sure as hell give them after a couple of punches in the face or with a knife to their throat or the throat of a loved one. It’s things—insured things—in the safes.”

Roarke nodded. “So you project the killer dealt with the practicalities first. Cleared out the safes, destroyed the droids and the security feed—we may get something back on that—then came back in, added some flourishes, raped the woman.”

“Multiple times, the doc said. Maybe he rapes her straight off to show the husband he means business. Threatens to rape her again, kill her. He made her strip.”

Eve gestured to the dress. “It’s got some blood, likely from where he hit her or cut her. But it’s not torn. He didn’t tear or cut it off her. Husband’s bound in the chair, and the killer stands behind him, knife to his throat. Take it off, all off, or I slit his throat. Then he ties her to the bed—no defensive wounds. You get raped, you’re probably going to fight, even a little, scratch. And she did, from the wounds on her wrists and ankles, she fought the restraints, at least at first.”

She studied the bed, imagined the war.

“After that, maybe he wanders around some, picking up a few more goodies—some things that catch his eye. Cocky bastard. Comes back, rapes her again, pounds on both of them again, rapes her again. Strazza manages to break the chair, lunges at him. Bruised knuckles—didn’t break the skin, but he got at least one or two shots in. She’s not restrained—she’s passed fighting the rapes—maybe she tries to help or just run. She gets knocked back, hits her head hard on the footboard, there at the corner. She’s out or plenty dazed. Killer grabs that vase, slaps it against Strazza’s head. He’s down, and plenty dazed. The killer finishes him.”

He hadn’t noticed the blood on the footboard. There was so much blood spilled, smeared, spattered. He wondered if she knew the dark poetry of her skill in reading a murder scene.

“But not her?” he commented. “Why not finish them both?”

“That stands out. I would have—he should have, being a vicious fuck. Maybe it’s his first kill. The kill’s sloppy, and it’s of the moment.”

She stood in the stunning dress, blood soiling the hems, gestured to the body.

“I mean, Jesus, the guy attacked him.”

“The gall of it,” Roarke added.

“Exactly. He attacked. He deserved to die. But the woman? She’s nothing now that he’s done with her, so he leaves her. It’s going on forty minutes between TOD and when we found her. She spent part of that unconscious, part

of it walking around in shock. And the killer had plenty of time to pick up his toys and go home.”

Eve stopped, hands on hips, studying the room. “That’s a basic read of the crime scene, the two vics. The order of things may be different, but I don’t think the murder was premeditated. Daphne Strazza wouldn’t be alive if so.”

“I’d agree there.”

“Or he thought she was dead. She’s lying there, out, bleeding from the head. He’s a little panicked—so he gets his toys and runs home.”

“Either way he’d be a sadistic bastard.”

“Yeah, he would. And while this may be his first kill, it’s not his first time with the rest. We’ll look there.”

When the doorbell sounded, Roarke turned away. “I’ll see to that. It’s either your change of clothes or your partner.”

“If it’s Peabody, send her straight up, and McNab can start on electronics.”

Alone, she took another slow study of the room, the positioning of the furniture, the body, the suspected murder weapon, the pile of the female vic’s discarded clothes. She started toward the male vic’s closet, heard the unmistakable clomp of Peabody’s winter boots on the stairs, then a quick, high-pitched squeal.

She had her hand on the weapon she’d set on her field kit when she heard the follow-up, and just rolled her eyes.

“The shoes! Holy sacred stilettos, the shoes!”