Cut to the Bone(11)

“Crime of passion?”

“You tell me,” he said.

Emily stuck her hands in her jeans. She wouldn’t lose her breakfast - her stomach was far stronger than two years ago - but those three cups of French roast were bubbling more than she liked. “Part of me says yes. Knives are intimate. You have to get close to kill someone.”

“Arm’s length,” Branch said. “At the most.”

“Meaning Zee’s killer was near enough to look into her eyes,” she said. “Hear her gasp. Watch her bleed. Meaning he hated her.”

“Or loved her, or was jealous.”

“Passion’s a powerful trigger for murder.”

“Suggesting the boyfriend?”

“We already cleared him,” Emily said. “But maybe he hired a hit man.”

“Or woman,” Branch said.

She ceded him the point and looked at the waist-high reception desk. The reddish-black stickum near the back edge was enough to account for her broken nose.

But not the rest.

“Where’d all the blood go?” she asked.

Branch’s smile said, Attagirl. “Inside the body,” he said. He removed his sheath knife and laid the tip on his own chest. “He pushes straight up, under the rib cage,” he said, miming it. “The tip punctures the heart. Because of the shallow angle and thinness of the cut, the blood doesn’t drain back through the hole. It stays inside her body.”

“In the chest cavity?”

“Nature’s own Tupperware.”

“I get it,” she said, examining Zee’s swan neck. “Same with her jugular?”

“Uh-huh. But there, he angles down.” Another mime. “He sliced her esophagus, too, so the jugular blood had a place to drain.”

“Her stomach,” she said, patting hers.

“Yes. Some sprayed out of the wound, as you can see. But most stayed inside. That’s why the room’s not awash.”

Emily shook her head. “How could he possibly accomplish all that?”

“Either he’s so lucky he should be in Vegas,” Branch said, “or he’s an expert with a blade.”

“Suggesting the hit man.”

“Or an extraordinarily angry friend. Dealer, lover, rival, doctor, lawyer, Indian chief-”

“You’re giving me a headache,” she complained.

“Great cure for that,” Branch said. “Find him and ask.”

“Or her,” she shot back.

He chuckled, and waved for her to get to work.

“Come on, Ray, show yourself,” Marty said, eyeballing each side street as he worked his way west on Plank Road. “I’ve got a report to write.”

He slowed at Seager Park. Prettier place than most to fill out paperwork, he knew from his own years in patrol. Or, considering the sergeant’s abject laziness, steal forty winks.

He crunched his way up the gravel, hoping it was the latter. He’d sneak as close as he could and crank the siren. With any luck, give Ray a heart attack . . .

He skidded to a halt.

A five-foot circle of parking area wasn’t the dusty beige of the rest.

His senses sharpening in a way that warned, “Here Be Dragons,” he bailed out and hustled to the discoloration.

It was blood, all right. He couldn’t detect the telltale scent of old pennies - battery-acid fumes had long ago burned away his sense of smell - but he knew by the color, sheen, and crust.

And the hundreds of circling flies.

He glanced around. Saw four brass cylinders just outside the circle. Small, empty, and resting on their sides.

Handgun cartridges.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, turned over the closest.

“.40,” the bottom read, under the deep indent of the firing pin.

Not Luerchen’s caliber, Marty knew. The sergeant carried .45s.

Meaning there’d been a shooter.

He bent his head to the gravel to examine the blood from a flat angle. He noticed very faint drag marks pulled out of the northwest side. They pointed toward what looked like an opening mashed into the treeline.

Roughly the width of a police cruiser.

He hustled back to his car.

“Marge,” he radioed, breathing slow to control his fast-pumping heart.

“Go ahead, Marty.”

“I’m at Seager Park on Plank Road. Send backups, Code Three.”

“What’s happening?” she asked. “Did you find Luerchen?”

“No. But there’s blood and shell casings. A car-sized opening in the treeline.”

“Oh, no.”

“Round up detectives, forensics, and canines. Put SWAT on standby. Find the sheriff, tell him what’s up.” He scratched his head, trying to anticipate all possibilities. “Call Branch. His cavalry can get here faster.”