“The mind shuts down,” she murmured, “so it doesn’t go crazy.”
She stood up, breathed in, shut her eyes—shut out those memories. She couldn’t allow them to color the now. Tried instead to see how it had been in the here, in the present.
Dinner party’s over, time for bed. Did they walk up together, chatting about who’d said what? That sort of postgame commentary. They walk into the bedroom, surrounded by that illusion of safety, by that quiet fatigue of having a social event over and done.
Was he waiting for them in here? Someone they knew? One of the party staff? Caterer, valet, server? Or someone who took advantage of the comings and goings, slipped in, strolled upstairs.
Cased the house first—knew enough about the house first. Had to.
Incapacitate the biggest threat—Strazza. One way or the other. Grab the woman, knife to the throat. Or knock him down and out. Take him out—smarter—smack the woman around a little. Maybe force her to bind the husband to the chair, zip the ties around the arms of the chair. Restrain her, too. On the bed, tie her to the posts.
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.”