She looked down at her shoes—needle-thin heels attached to her feet by a bunch of glittery straps. Resigned, she took them off, sealed her bare feet, her hands, handed him the can of Seal-It. “Haven’t cleared the closets or the master bath. Why don’t you seal up and do that? I need to officially ID the vic, call it in.”
“You’ll be getting Peabody up early, I take it.”
“It’s never early when you’re a cop. I need real clothes, damn it.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
“How?” she demanded when he put the can back in her kit.
“By getting Summerset up early.”
She thought of Roarke’s majordomo, the pain in her ass. “But—”
Amused at her expected reaction, Roarke skimmed a finger over her bare shoulder before he went into the bedroom. “Your choice whether to do what you do more comfortably or in formal wear.”
“Damn it. Clothes. And boots. And my regular coat. And—”
“He knows what to send along. Another safe in the closet—his closet—open and empty.”
Eve tossed her coat behind her, walked over the soiled carpet, crouched in a sheer dress of red and silver. The skirt consisted of dozens of thin, floaty panels that swirled like ribbons when she walked and exposed a long length of leg. Straps, as narrow and sparkly as those on the discarded shoes, crisscrossed over her bare back.
She pressed dead fingers to her Identi-pad.
“Victim identity verified as Anthony Strazza of this address.” She took out a gauge. “TOD, zero-one-hundred-twenty-six. COD to be determined by ME, but by visual exam of primary, most likely the skull fracture.”
“That would do it,” Roarke said from behind her. “No safe in the wife’s closet. I’d suggest the one in his is large enough to hold her jewelry and any he might have had. And I’ll take a look at the one upstairs.”
“Check the security feed first, would you? He likely cleared it out or compromised it, but we could get lucky. And the doors and alarms.”
“As an expert consultant, I’d have to say burglary wasn’t the point here, or not the primary one.”
“No, just a really big bonus to top off rape and murder.” She started to reach for her ’link. “Damn it. My ’link’s in that shiny thing.”
“No, it’s in your field kit, and the shiny thing’s now empty in the car.”
“Oh, yeah, here it is. Thanks. Look, I’m going to tell Peabody to bring McNab, as this place is loaded with electronics. You could head home, catch some sleep.”
When he just raised his eyebrows, she shrugged. “Or not.”
“Or not. I can tell you the … intruder bashed the components in the security room. As I was clearing I didn’t look beyond that, or the droids—a trio of house droids, also smashed.”
“He likes violence—animate or inanimate. Whatever you can get.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Alone, Eve looked down at the body, thought about just what one human could do to another.
And called it in.
2
With the crime scene and the body in situ on record, Eve rolled the victim.
“Multiple facial injuries. From fist and some sort of sap, I’d say. Nicks and shallow cuts on the throat. Similar to those inflicted on the second victim. No sign Strazza was gagged during the assault. Bound to the chair, restrained at the wrist. Zip-tie restraints still on wrists.”
She angled for a close zoom on the thin plastic.
“Fought those. We’ve got deep lacerations and contusions at the wrists, what appear to be splinters from the chair both in the flesh and stuck—by blood and bits of adhesive—to the zip ties. Some tape still attached to the pant legs, the sleeves of the jacket. Vic’s knuckles are bruised, so he might’ve gotten a couple shots in.”
She eased back a little, studied the shattered chair.
“Broke the chair, broke out of the chair, went for the assailant. That’s how it reads. Assailant grabs the big-ass vase, bashes him—temple wound—frontal assault there. Puts him down. Then bam, wham, finishes him where he lays.
“What does she do?” Eve wondered as she took samples of blood from several locations, labeled, sealed them. Still crouched, she studied the blood on the footboard.
“Second vic has a head wound. Gash at back of the head. Does she try to help, get knocked back? Hits her head, passes out. Maybe. Wakes up, in shock, concussed, disoriented. Brain just shuts down so she walks out, goes downstairs, goes outside—naked.”
Eve blew out a breath. At eight years of age, she’d been beaten and raped, and had walked in that dreamy fugue state away from the dead—covered in blood not all her own—out on the street.